He laughed.
“I will get through,” he told me.
“You’re in haste.”
“I want to see that boy of mine,” said Hazen Kinch. “A fine boy, man! A
fine boy!”
“I’m ready,” I said.
When we took the road the mare was limping. But she seemed to work out
the stiffness in her knees and after a mile or so of the hard going she
was moving smoothly enough. We made good time.
The day, as often happens after a storm, was full of blinding sunlight.
The glare of the sun upon the snow was almost unbearable. I kept my eyes
all but closed, but there was so much beauty abroad in the land that I
could not bear to close them altogether. The snow clung to twigs and to
fences and to wires, and a thousand flames glinted from every crystal
when the sun struck down upon the drifts. The pine wood upon the eastern
slope of Rayborn Hill was a checkerboard of rich color. Green and blue
and black and white, indescribably brilliant. When we crossed the bridge
at the foot of the hill we could hear the brook playing beneath the ice
that sheathed it. On the white pages of the snow wild things had writ
here and there the fine-traced tale of their morning’s adventuring. We
saw once where a fox had pinned a big snowshoe rabbit in a drift.
Hazen talked much of that child of his on the homeward way. I said
little. From the top of the Rayborn Hill we sighted his house and he
laid the whip along the mare and we went down that last long descent at
a speed that left me breathless. I shut my eyes and huddled low in the
robes for protection against the bitter wind, and I did not open them
again till we turned into Hazen’s barnyard, plowing through the unpacked
snow.
When we stopped Hazen laughed.
“Ha!” he said. “Now, come in, man, and warm yourself and see the baby! A
fine boy!”
He was ahead of me at the door; I went in upon his heels. We came into
the kitchen together.
Hazen’s kitchen was also living room and bedroom in the cold of winter.
The arrangement saved firewood. There was a bed against the wall
opposite the door. As we came in a woman got up stiffly from this bed
and I saw that this woman was Hazen’s wife. But there was a change in
her. She was bleak as cold iron and she was somehow strong.
Hazen rasped at this woman impatiently: “Well, I’m home! Where is the
boy?”
She looked at him and her lips moved soundlessly. She closed them,
opened them again. This time she was able to speak.
“The boy?” she said to Hazen. “The boy is dead!”
The dim-lit kitchen was very quiet for a little time. I felt myself
breathe deeply, almost with relief. The thing for which I had waited--it
had come. And I looked at Hazen Kinch.
He had always been a little thin man. He was shrunken now and very white
and very still. Only his face twitched. A muscle in one cheek jerked and
jerked and jerked at his mouth. It was as though he controlled a desire
to smile. That jerking, suppressed smile upon his white and tortured
countenance was terrible. I could see the blood drain down from his
forehead, down from his cheeks. He became white as death itself.
After a little he tried to speak. I do not know what he meant to say.
But what he did was to repeat--as though he had not heard her
words--the question which he had flung at her in the beginning. He said
huskily: “Where is the boy?”
She looked toward the bed and Hazen looked that way; and then he went
across to the bed with uncertain little steps. I followed him. I saw the
little twisted body there. The woman had been keeping it warm, with her
own body. It must have been in her arms when we came in. The tumbled
coverings, the crushed pillows spoke mutely of a ferocious intensity of
grief.
Hazen looked down at the little body. He made no move to touch it, but I
heard him whisper to himself: “Fine boy.”
After a while he looked at the woman. She seemed to feel an accusation
in his eyes. She said: “I did all I could.”
He asked: “What was it?”
I had it in me--though I had reason enough to despise the little man--to
pity Hazen Kinch.
“He coughed,” said the woman. “I knew it was croup. You know I asked you
to get the medicine--ipecac. You said no matter--no need--and you had
gone.”
She looked out of the window.
“I went for help--to Anne Marshey. Her babies had had it. Her husband
was going to town and she said he would get the medicine for me. She did
not tell him it was for me. He would not have done it for you. He did
not know. So I gave her a dollar to give him--to bring it out to me.
“He came home in the snow last night. Baby was bad by that time, so I
was watching for Doan. I stopped him in the road and I asked for the
medicine. When he understood, he told me. He had not brought it.”
The woman was speaking dully, without emotion.
“It would have been in time, even then,” she said. “But after a while,
after that, baby died.”
I understood in that moment the working of the mills. And when I looked
at Hazen Kinch I saw that he, too, was beginning to understand. There is
a just mercilessness in an aroused God. Hazen Kinch was driven to
questions.
“Why--didn’t Marshey fetch it?” he asked.
She said slowly: “They would not trust him--at the store.”
His mouth twitched, he raised his hands.
“The money!” he cried. “The money! What did he do with that?”
“He said,” the woman answered, “that he lost it--in your office; lost
the money there.”
After a little the old money-lender leaned far back like a man wrenched
with agony. His body was contorted, his face was terrible. His dry mouth
opened wide.
He screamed!