It is one town and not three contiguous villages as its name might suggest. Three blast-furnaces stood on the bank of the river below the town. These Colonel Hornberger had named for his daughters, Martha, Sarah, and Henrietta. So the town that grew up near them came to be known as Three-Sisters, and was often spoken of as Three-Girls.
On all sides of it mountains, through which there were three gaps, rise precipitously. Through one of the gaps Boomer Creek, a clear and rapid stream, given to sudden rises, runs into the river, which is picturesque and famous, and almost encircles the town. Through another gap the river glides to the village, and by still another pursues its journey towards the sea.
Beginning above the town, and running parallel to the river, the race conducts the water to the huge wheels in the bellows-house and at the saw-mill.
The railroad runs to the left of the village, crossing the flat on which it is built, while the river flows to the right.
A long wooden covered bridge spans the river and race, and the island between them, and connects Three-Sisters with Boomer Creek Valley, in which are many farms that are gradually encroaching on the forests.
Many of the streets and alleys in the town were given high-sounding titles, but nearly all have their nicknames. The street on which the proprietor dwells is called Big-bug Avenue. There are Goose Street and Backbiter's Alley. Harmony Lane is where the worst wranglers in the village live. And there is the Block-of-Blazes, standing at the head of Big-bug Avenue, yet giving it the cold shoulder, for not a door of the Block opens, not a window looks, except askance, upon the Avenue.
The people of Three-Sisters, in the days of this story, were laborious, frugal, and patient; they had few grievances. Strikes were unheard of, and no trouble was fermented, except by the tavern whiskey, which flowed freely on Saturday nights, when there were frequent fights among the men.
The women were given to gossip, but were honest. Scandal was rare among them, and they prided themselves on being good cooks and tidy housewives.
"Weddin's-day."
Lizzī's happy thoughts would play upon the word Wednesday, and the gentle breeze in the pines above her made sweet accompaniment to the tuneful repetition.
She sat where Gill had said he would meet her, in the pine-grove at the edge of which stood the church. She had dressed and left home early,apparently for a walk, but now when the church-bell rung the call for prayer she was at the trysting-place.
"My wedding-bell," she murmured as the mellow solemn tones fell quivering on the air. When they ceased the echo floated to her, a far-away sound almost silence. Clasping her hands, she bowed her head in thankfulness.
"The angels up in heaven ring my weddin'-bell too, and that means John and I will be happy."
There was in this muscular daughter of the forest (she was born in a cabin in the woods) a gentle womanliness that was charming. As the hour drew near when she would give up her maiden name and freedom, she thought Time surely ought to go more slowly. He had taken his ease from Sunday until now, though she, running ahead, had pulled him along; but now, when only one short hour of her maidenhood was left, the contrary old fellow would run.
She blushed when, all too soon, she saw her promised husband enter the grove; and when he took her hand it trembled.
"What, Lizzī, not scared by the dark?"
The pressure he gave her hand and the light laugh that followed his words corrected their impression, and the sharp pain they caused was soothed by the knowledge that he really understood.
"What if it had been some other man going through the grove?" he asked.
"Then my hand wouldn't have shook."
It was the coming of the bridegroom that made her heart beat more quickly and her hand unsteady.
Gill repaid her for the pretty compliment with a kiss. Then they approached the church, which was wrapped in darkness.
Jim Harker, sexton and squire, had put out the lights after prayer-meeting was dismissed, and closed the shutters. Inside the church he was waiting.
Lizzī hesitated when, in answer to Gill's knock, the door was thrown open and she saw that the church was dark.
"Go in, Lizzī," said Gill. "We'll have a light as soon as the door is shut. If the church was lit up, somebody would see us go in, and come to peep to see what we was doin'."
She stepped into the close darkness. Gill followed, and Jim shut the door. Lizzī gave a little start when she heard the click of the latch, and a shiver ran over her. She was not frightened, only realizing that the door of her maiden life was closed behind her.
Squire Harker lighted two candles, and Lizzī's eyes blinked in the yellow light but soon they were able to pierce the semi-darkness, and to her surprise she could discover no preacher. She had thought him part of the romance. To no plan of Gill's had she objected after consenting to a secret marriage, but she had never dreamed otherwise than that the ceremony would be performed by a clergyman. When she saw Squire Harker, she supposed, because he was sexton, Gill had taken him into confidence and he was present because of his duties at the church, putting out the lights and locking it up.
Gill seemed as much astounded as she that there was no preacher present, and asked rather sharply why he had gone. Squire Harker replied that the preacher had been detained at the other end of the circuit by quarterly meeting.
"It's too confounded bad!" said Gill, angrily.
"It's bad luck to put off a weddin'," said Lizzī, disappointed.
"I think so, too," Gill remarked, and then asked, as if the idea had just struck him:
"Why not be married by the Squire?"
Lizzī, dressed in her best, demurred. She thought a church-wedding should be conducted by a preacher.
"A marriage ceremony performed by a Justice of the Peace is as binding and respectable as any churchman's," Gill urged.
"It's common-like, though," Lizzī replied; "but I'd be married by a squire rather than put it off."
"You will have to do it then," Gill said, in a tone that did not conceal his chagrin at having to be wedded by a Justice of the Peace.
While Squire Harker was gone for his books, pen, ink, and paper, which were concealed in a thorn-bush near the church, Lizzī sat silent in a pew and wondered if the angels would make merry over a church-wedding conducted by a squire.
When Squire Harker thought he had allowed himself time enough to get to his office and back, he tapped at the church door. Gill shaded the candles and called to him to enter. He closed the door and made a hat-peg of the key, the black slouch effectually preventing any peeping through the keyhole.
He took a position behind the table on which he had placed the candles, and Gill and Lizzī stood before it. The candles threw their weird shadows on the walls and ceiling of the low lecture-room. The shadows deepened and faded, advanced and retreated, nodded and bowed in the uncertain light from the candles which seemed to struggle against their own consumption, yet were never quite able to master the eating fire that at intervals flashed greedily.
The Squire took up the church book and began to read the ceremony, but Lizzī stopped him.
"Not the preacher's way by a squire; take your own book."
So he opened a volume of legal forms and asked the question, "Are both parties of contracting age?"
Gill responded "Yes," and Lizzī said she was old enough to know her own mind.
The shadows stood still.
"Is there any person here present who knows any good reason why these two parties shall not be united in marriage? If so, let him speak now, or forever after hold his peace."
The candles spluttered, the flames leaped and flashed, and the shadows nodded and bowed and nodded.
"Join your right hands."
Gill took Lizzī's hand in his, and the Squire continued the ceremony, reading the form slowly, stumbling over the big words, but at last he pronounced them man and wife.
Then the shadows stood solemnly still, while Gill kissed Lizzī.
After congratulating the bride and groom, the Squire sat down to write the marriage certificate. Gill and Lizzī retired to a window and conversed in low tones. Presently, after a long while it seemed to the flustered Squire, he handed Lizzī her marriage certificate. It was written on legal-cap and tied with red tape. She received it joyfully and placed it in her bosom. There it lay, the legal testimonial of her purity, the proof of her honesty, should that ever be questioned.
The Squire gathered up the things he had brought with him, blew out the candles and left the church, going his way, while Gill and Lizzī went to her home.
Languid Indian Summer loitered among the great mountains. Her veil, caught on the peaks, draped gracefully in the ravines and hid the valleys beneath a gray sheen. Every evening the sun set in red wrath at this persistent half concealment of her beauty, and the big hand he reached out above the horizon, the broad fingers stretching to the zenith, freed the winds that they might tear off the gauze. But they yielded to her charm and became her lovers, fanning her cheek so gently that her gossamer veil was scarcely rustled. One morning she was gone, vanished with the night, and the winds dashed in furious pursuit of her. Ah, the jilt! She will come again next year, and the silly winds will forget her fickleness, paying court to her, while she dreamily crosses the mountains.
On a Sunday afternoon in this sweet after-thought summer-time, two weeks after Lizzī's wedding, Blind Benner and Hunch were half-sitting, half-lying on a pile of leaves on the top of Bald Mountain. Hunch was greatly distressed at not being able to quiet his friend's discontent, which was very evident as he turned his sightless eyes to the sky at one moment, and at the next rolled over and buried his face in the leaves.
"'Tain't no use in carryin' on thet way. Lizzī ain't here, an' thet's all there is 'bout it."
"There ain't no comfert in her bein' away," Blind Benner groaned.
"It's the first time she's missed comin'; an' yer know, Benner, she's mortil fond uv yer, an' she hed good reason fer stayin' er she'd ben here."
"Thet's more comfertin' talk, Hunch."
If the blind man could have seen the smile that broke out on his friend's face at this remark, he would have been amply repaid for it. There was moisture, too, in the dwarf's eyes. He was grateful to the friend who had said he comforted him. For a long time Blind Benner lay face downwards in the leaves, and Hunch sat beside him in silence, his untutored intelligence having caught the great secret of sympathy—unobtrusiveness.
Until this time Lizzī had always been their companion on these Sunday jaunts, but on this day she could not be found, and the two friends had gone off in a desperate sort of way, resisting the old habit, yet unable to break it.
Hunch openly declared that he loved no one but Blind Benner. The dwarf was unseemly, disagreeable. He felt that he was pitied by those who saw his deformity, and he loathed their compassion. In this list he did not include Lizzī, who said a kind thing about his back, and Bill Kellar, who was always making fun of it.
Lizzī once said:
"Hunch, don't mind about your back. You're so good to Blind Benner, that I know you're an angel, and the hump on your back is only your wings folded up."
He ever afterwards remembered her fondly, but he had no love for anyone except Blind Benner, who did not know how hideous among men the dwarf was.
Blind Benner's affection for Lizzī was the love of a mature man for the woman who alone has been able to work upon his heart the spell that enthralls it forever, yet it had no hope, and his only longing was to be near her, to hear her voice, sometimes to have her hand in his. A new element, one of pain, had entered into his life, and he groaned, for he was jealous and helpless. He had some way divined Lizzī's love for Gill, and the knowledge had revealed to him the nature of his own affection for the woman whom he never dared tell that he, the blind man, loved her with the love that would make her his wife. He lay fighting the new pain, and Haunch sat near him, ready with help such as he could give if it was asked for.
At last Blind Benner said:
"Hunch, do yer mind the time Lizzī told me what she looked like?"
"Mind ev'ry bit she said."
"Tell me it all over."
"She sed she wuz taller'n yer, Benner; and yer know'd thet. She told yer she hed a good figger; and there ain't no better in the mountins."
"Jist tell whatshesed, Hunch."
"All right. She sed she wuz strong, an' could carry yer easy as a baby, an' could chop wood like a man; her daddy learned her how ter handle the axe, an' Levi learned her spellin' an' grammer."
"She talks mighty pretty, don't she, Hunch?" Blind Benner interrupted.
"Ain't no better talker, nowheres. An' her hands wuz perfect, she sed, on'y they wuz red from soapsuds, an'theydidn't wear off in a week. Her hands wuz whitest Sundays."
"Oh! I mind how she laid one on my head when she sed thet," Benner again interrupted, "an' I sed it wuz yeller in feelin'; an' she wanted ter know why, an' I sed 'cause it felt warm an' soft like the sunlight, an' they say thet's yeller."
"Yes, an' I sed the furnace fire was red; but yer got techy an' sed thet wuz hot. Do yer mind thet, Benner—hot and scorchin', not soft an' warm? An' then when yer thought yer bed spoke too sharp ter me, yer made up fer it by sayin' colors wuz hard fer yer ter make out, jist as if a little thing like thet'd make me mad at yer, Benner."
"I ain't got no business speakin' sharp ter yer, Hunch, what's so kind ter me allers," and Blind Benner laid his head on his friend's knee. "Thet wuzn't all she sed."
"Nuh! she sed her feet wuz big."
"An' yer sed thet didn't make no diff'rence, fer her skirts hid 'em," and Blind Benner laughed. "But tell me what she sed 'bout her face."
"She sed it wuzn't very purty, an' wuz big an' round, an' almost filled up the lookin'-glass; thet Levi sed it wuz allers full moon at their house, fer her face wuz allers shinin' with good-natur'."
"An' I mind I sed it must be allers, fer her voice wuz allers glad an' sweet, sweeter'n a fiddle when Bill Kellar plays it."
"An' yer mind she sed her eyes wuz black, Benner, an' yer asked if they wuz purty, an' I sed 'mighty'; an' yer sed the 'dark is black, an' it wuzn't so bad ter live in the dark after all'?"
"Yes, I mind it, Hunch; but her eyes don't shine inter this dark;" and the blind man struck his chest, while a scowl passed over his face.
Hunch did not reply, and there was a moment of silence, broken by Benner, who said fiercely:
"Ef I hed the use uv my eyes, Gill wouldn't git her; I'd cut him out."
"Ef it would help yer, Benner, I'd cut his eyes out, an' take the chances uv gittin' away," Hunch said in a low, determined tone.
Blind Benner smiled and replied:
"No, thet wouldn't do no good. It would on'y put the light out uv Lizzī's heart an' make her blinder'n me. No, there ain't no hope fer me. Gill's goin' ter git her because I can't ask fer her. But he'll never love her no more'n I do."
"Benner," said Hunch, cheerfully, "mebbe yer kin hev yer eyes fixed. I've got some money, saved it, an' I'll give it ter yer, ev'ry cent: an' when yer well, yer kin pay me back."
"Yer mighty kind, Hunch," Blind Benner said, putting his arm around the dwarf's neck, "but there ain't no cure fer me. I've jist got to go 'long gropin' an' wishin' I'd hed eyes like Gill's."
"There ain't no tellin'. Do yer know, Benner, I wuz layin' in bed th'other night, an' I thought the wall wuz lookin' at me, with a great big eye. I ain't easy skeered, yer know, an' I set up ter git a better look, an' what do you think it wuz? The lookin'-glass hangin' there; an' thinks I, mebbe ef Benner hed lookin'-glasses in his eyes, he could see too. Let's try to get them put in, Benner. Twon't cost much." The dwarf spoke very earnestly, and a moisture filled his friend's eyes.
"'Tain't no use, Hunch; there wuz a doctor in the city where Bill Kellar come from, thet sed I wuz stone-blind; an' couldn't never see. My daddy took me ter him long 'fore I knowed yer. Anyhow, Hunch, how yer goin' ter git lookin'-glasses inter a feller's head."
"Well, I think yer kin, an' I'm goin' ter ask Bill Kellar. What he don't know's hard ter find out."
"Come, Hunch, let's go ter the Block, mebbe Lizzī'll be there. 'Tain't nice up here without her, an' I ain't comin' no more, 'less she's along."
"Ain't yer tired, Benner?"
"Yes, I am, Hunch. Tireder then I've ever ben in my life."
"Git on my back an' I'll carry yer."
"I ain't tired in my legs, Hunch. I kin walk."
Taking Blind Benner's hand, Hunch led him down into the deepening shadow of the valley.
"He is coaxing again, that violin-loving devil."
New Year's Eve had come, and Bill Kellar sat before a log-fire in his sitting-room, glad that he had given his violin into Lizzī's charge the night of her birthday ball. Since then he had not seen it, though his fingers had often itched for the strings, and his arm longed for the bow.
"He is there, the red salamander; and already his tempting has ceased. Now he commands. Soon he will threaten. Well, let him; I will not give up this time."
Bill looked resolutely into the fire, as if resolved to stare the tempter out of countenance. He ran his thin hand through his long hair, and seemed quite satisfied with his powers of resistance.
"Lord! what is that?" he cried suddenly, and started to his feet. Fora while he was motionless, gazing at the flames leaping up the chimney. Presently he muttered, "Sure as I live, the devil wears a mask, and a queer one. The eyes are curiously long with curving corners, and set up and down in his face. The nose is long, with a high bridge. The chin is turned up, and has fiddle-screws through it. The devil holds a violin-bow in one hand, and in the other a scourge of fiddle-strings. Something has happened to my fiddle, my dear old violin."
He covered his face with his hands, and wept convulsively.
"I thought my fiddle would be as safe in Lizzī's keeping as her honor."
His clock struck ten.
"I will have to go." The resolution formed, he removed his hands from his face, and dried his tears on a bandanna handkerchief. Then he continued the soliloquy.
"I meant to fight it out this time, and let Satan go without his New Year's dance. I could have sat here until morning and shaken with chills-and-fever until my teeth dropped out; but I can't stand this uncertainty about the fate of my violin. This suspense would make me mad—madder far than the noises of the city would have done; madder than crazy Lear; crazier far than that lunatic Bill Kellar has ever been."
"Yes, you soul-thief, redder than the flames around you. I will go to see the waif, my child that I abandoned for fear of you and your shivers; and if it is well with the darling, you know you will get your annual Harvest dance. For I must needs caress the baby, and to the music of its glad laugh you will kick your cloven hoof, you superannuated old fiend. What have I done that you must select me for your soloist on the violin?"
As he talked, Bill looked steadily at the flames as if at the face of a person. When he had thus relieved his mind he took down his heavy coat, and nervously buttoned it round him. Snatching his hat, he jammed it over his eyes and opened the door. With one hand on the latch, he turned and glanced over his shoulder. The apparition had vanished.
"The devil is mighty eager for a dance, else my old eyes have been making a fool of me."
Leaving the door wide open, he returned to the fireplace. He waited a while, but did not see the face in the fire.
With a glad shout he suddenly ran to the door, and slammed it shut.
"I'm free, free!" he cried, clapping his hands gleefully.
Hanging his coat and hat on their pegs, he sat down before the fire, and congratulated himself on his liberty. But his cheerful mood did not last long. Soon he began to shiver, and in the fire beheld the devil return.
"Oh, Lord! he is back. I am still his slave. He has not removed the violin-mask. Yes, yes, I go to my child."
Bareheaded he plunged into the cold, which he did not mind, and the darkness, which he did not heed, for his way was marked by the light of the Three-Sister furnaces, reflected by the clouds.
Lizzī was at the window, listening to the gunshots—the farewell volleys to the old year, the welcoming salute to the new—when a cold, nervous hand was laid on her shoulder. She had not heard the door open, but as it was like any one of the boys to steal up behind her and say something humorous in her ear she sat still, and continued to watch for the flashes of the guns.
"Lizzī, what has happened to my fiddle?"
Recognizing Bill Kellar's voice, harsh as it was, she caught his hand in a hard grip and turned, not knowing whether she would face a lunatic or a drunken man, but afraid of neither.
He was not intoxicated nor seemingly crazy, only intensely eager. His eyes were not wild, but pathetically pleading as they met hers.
"Nothin', Bill," she replied gently. "It's just as you left it. I keep it in the cupboard, and Blind Benner dusts it often."
His fast walk, which had been a sort of run over the frozen road, had worn Bill out, and he almost swooned with joy when he heard the good news. As he gasped for breath his body swayed, and he would have fallen had she not supported him with her free hand—he still clung to the other—and helped him to a chair. While she stood beside him he kissed her hand frequently as he silently wept. She did not take it away nor forbid him to caress it. Understanding his emotion, she allowed it to express itself in the way it chose.
Presently he became less demonstrative and said:
"Now please give me the fiddle, Lizzī."
She opened the cupboard, and handed him the box. He was so nervous that he could not fit the key in the lock, and Lizzī did it for him. When the lock sprung open he eagerly raised the lid, and there lay, bright and unharmed, the violin that he loved as his life.
"The red devil wore that lying mask and forced me to come. He knew chills-and-fever had about lost their terrors for me, so instead of trying to force me that way, he threw me into an agony of suspense that drove me here. Very well, King of Liars, your dance this time will be short. Bill Kellar's nerves are too shaky and his brain too tired to fiddle long for you to-night."
While he talked he tuned the violin. When it was in chord he began playing a slow improvisation that calmed and rested him, but must have made Satan angry, judging from the sarcastic smile that settled on the fiddler's face.
He had not played longer than ten minutes when Blind Benner entered, and sat down at Lizzī's feet.
Soon the spirit of the violin began to gain the mastery, and Bill's playing became more rapid, his execution more emphatic. Then Blind Benner knew that the demon of the music had woven its spell over his master.
Rising, Blind Benner groped his way to the door and went out. Lizzī was rather lethargic, not fully sympathizing with the violinist, yet gradually yielding to the fascination of the music. Soon Benner came back, with Hunch, who had his cornet. Bill's gleaming eyes caught sight of it, and he rose, stamping his foot and shaking his head. Hunch gave him a look of inquiry, and held up the horn.
"Yes; don't blow it to-night, for I've got Old Nick in my power, and he must dance until I fall senseless, unable to play longer."
Hunch laid the horn on the table, and settled himself to see the end of the violinist's madness. Blind Benner stood reverently near his maestro, while Lizzī tried to hear the devil's hoof on the snow-covered roof.
Furiously Bill played out the old year, and in the new. Guns were popping all around in the semi-darkness. The horn and the goblin were silent. They had the power to break the spell of the music.
Suddenly the music ceased. Hunch caught the violin, and Lizzī seized in her strong arms the falling player, who otherwise would have struck his head on the bare floor as he sank into unconsciousness.
The snow was deep in the forest. It upholstered the gaunt branches of the giant trees; it clung tenaciously to the leafless twigs; it encrusted the millions of pine needles; it covered the rough mountain-sides: it piled up its crystals in the deep ravines, where the deer hid; it lay like a warm blanket over the wheat; it spread all over the land, a great white silence, through which the river and creek, spellbound, flowed without a murmur.
Thus it had lain for three months—December, January, February. The clouds, jealous of the sun and proud of their artistic skill in softening the face of Nature, grim and gaunt in her winter's sleep, came almost daily and sifted fresh snow upon that already fallen, which the winds and sun were in alliance to disfigure and soil.
March had just come. Each day the sun rose more confident of victory. Ere long he would succeed in making Nature look like an old wanton, her powdered face tear-streaked and unsightly.
On the last night of February the clock in Lizzī's room made one quick guess at the time, and brought her back from a flight of fancy. She was startled to see that it was one o'clock, and resumed the sewing that had lain neglected in her lap, while her thoughts roved.
She was sewing in secret, with the blind of the window down and her candle shaded. The garment she was fashioning was one of those almost shapeless infant robes that the inventive skill of dawning motherhood makes so diversely pretty and daintily ungraceful. She had begun to fold a plait in it, and paused to debate with herself on the size of the fold.
"If I was sure it would be a boy I'd make these pleats wider," she murmured.
From that her thoughts had wandered until she was recalled to her work by the striking of the clock. For another hour she worked diligently, then arose and put the sewing away where her mother would not be likely to find it. After that she blew out the candle and raised the blind for a last look that night at the store. The moonlight streamed into the window, dazzling her eyes accustomed to the candle-light. She shut them quickly in pain, and when she opened them a thrill of terror passed over her.
She saw a great column of smoke rising from the roof of the store, and a little flame leaping up through it.
The next moment, an axe in her hand, she was on the street.
"Fire! Fire! The store's on fire!"
Her clear voice rang wild and sharp on the still night air. The echoes mocked her.
"Colonel Hornberger, get up!"
With her axe's handle she rattled fierce blows on the front door of the proprietor's house.
"Help! Help!"
The echoes hurled back her voice mockingly:
"Help! ha, ha!"
"He is dead," she thought, "and the echoes are making fun of me."
Cry after cry she uttered in her anguish, fierce alarm-notes that aroused the heavy sleepers and brought them to the windows, only to hastily throw on some clothes and rush to the rescue, for they all knew that Gill slept in the store and even then might be dead.
Oh! Lizzī's strength! No longer screaming in terror, no more exhausting her breath by calling for help, she dealt mighty blows with the axe against the door of the office, above which her husband slept. Giant strokes, rapid, unerring, concentrated, made effective by the skill of a woodman, the strength of despair and the agony of love. Against them the door could not stand. It fell in, cut off its hinges. A great volume of smoke rolled out and beat her back.
A closed door separated the office from the store and was a barrier to the flames which were raging in the store-room.
Drawing a full breath and bowing low, Lizzī plunged into the office and reached the stair door. Well she knew the way. The door was closed, and she was so unnerved with joy that for a moment she clung to the latch and listened to the flames roaring in the store. She could see them through the window which give light from the office to the rear of the store, and they fascinated her. The heat cracked the glass in the window, and a tongue of flame leaped towards the opening made by a falling pane.
This recalled Lizzī to a sense of the danger and the need for urgent action. She jerked the door open, breaking the latch, and sped up the stairs, chased by a volume of smoke. To her horror it filled the room, else it was in her eyes. Thank God! she had brought the axe. Staggering to the windows, she smashed them both and knocked the shutters open, giving vent to the smoke.
She could not see Gill, but she knew just where he lay. With an effort she reached the bed. Her mouth was firmly closed, but her strength was almost gone Her trembling hands touched him. He was motionless.
Then when her heart had almost stopped and she was falling in a swoon, the flames burst into the room, lighting up Gill's face upturned and white. Uttering a scream, she caught him up in her arms, became strong again in desperation, and leaped recklessly down the stairs. Tottering with her burden into the street; she sank unconscious at the feet of Cassi, who, hearing her cries, had come running, the first to answer her call.
There had not been so much smoke in Gill's room as Lizzī had imagined, and he soon recovered consciousness in the cold air.
There was no hope for the store, and no one remembered the office books. A little presence of mind and prompt action on the part of first-comers might have saved them, but every one was so excited over Lizzī's daring and remarkable strength in saving Gill from a horrible death that all else was forgotten. Some ran for the doctor and others tried to restore her to consciousness, Colonel Hornberger encouraging them.
"Never mind the store," he exclaimed. "The fire is only making away with the old stock and giving Gill and me an excuse for a trip to the city. But save that brave girl if possible."
He tore off his coat and threw it over Lizzī, who lay on an improvised couch of store boxes, hastily placed together by willing hands.
"Heavens, what a woman!"
He uttered the words impulsively as he gazed admiringly upon her.
Other men followed his example, and they stood shivering, while their coats covered Lizzī.
She lay still. The weird red light of the roaring flames could not even tint her face, so white and cold it was.
Over her bent the man whose life she had saved. His face was firm, his eyes were dry, his pulse was steady. His only speech, a question spoken in a low tone, sent a thrill through the crowd, in which were now a number of women.
"Will the doctor never come?" he asked.
Coatless and inefficient, the men stood at a respectful distance from Lizzī, over whom Cassi bent, speaking to her in fond tones, and their stern silence checked the gabble of the women, who knew not what to do to restore her to life, but had suggested many things that night avail.
A shriek, the quavering cry of old age, nor piercing, but heart-rending, broke from the lips of Lizzī's mother, as half clad, she pushed feebly her way through the yielding crowd and fell across her daughter's body.
Colonel Hornberger put his arm around her and lifted her away from the boxes.
"Here, Gret Reed, you take charge of Mrs. McAnay. Go with her to my house."
Gret obeyed the excited proprietor, and as she supported the moaning woman along the street they met Hunch leading Blind Benner.
"She's dead!" Mrs. McAnay exclaimed. "My Lizzī's dead! my Lizzī's dead! Oh! oh!"
Blind Benner heard her and stopped. "Take me away, Hunch," he pleaded, "take me away."
Hunch turned towards the Block. Tears streamed from the blind man's eyes, and sobs choked him. After going a few steps he halted and faced the fire. Hunch, obedient to his every wish, let go the hand he shook as if to free it. They were near the fire, and its heat burned Blind Benner's face. Hunch stood with his back to it, watching its light on the snow-covered mountain.
A quick movement on the part of Bind Benner attracted his attention. He turned around and saw the blind man running straight to the fire. Shouting to him to stop, Hunch started after him, but he was running swiftly without stumbling, and there seemed small hope of catching him.
Gret looked over her shoulder on hearing Hunch's cries, and saw that Blind Benner meant to commit suicide. Clear as a bell her voice rang out in the only lie she ever told.
"Benner, you have passed the fire; turn back."
The doubt she raised checked him for only a moment, but long enough to bring Hunch upon him. In a twinkling his feet were knocked from under him and Hunch sat upon his prostrate form.
The messenger who had been sent for the doctor brought back word that he had not returned from a late call up Boomer Creek.
"My God, she will die!" Gill groaned, "and for me!"
His words scored sympathizing hearts and indented faithful memories.
The store building was dry as tinder and burned very rapidly. The roof had fallen in before Gill recovered consciousness, and soon after the walls toppled into the cellar.
The news of the doctor's absence sent a pang to the hearts of all, and hope for Lizzī was abandoned, she being beyond the restorative power of the water which had been dashed in her face.
A hastily constructed stretcher, made of two benches from the tavern fastened together, was brought, and Lizzī's limp form was laid upon it. Coats were her mattress, and coats her covering. Four strong men lifted the stretcher and headed the procession, which filed silently around the rapidly lessening blare. Gill and Cassi came next, walking arm in arm, the former wearing a coat that a brawny man had thrown over his shivering shoulders.
When the column came to where the front entrance of the store had been, Hunch and Blind Benner were struggling in the water made by the snowmelting in the heat of the fire. "What's this?" sternly demanded Colonel Hornberger, who broke into a laugh before he received an answer. The fire excitement was still working in him.
"He tried ter burn hisself an' I wouldn't let him," Hunch replied.
"What did he want to do that for?" asked the Colonel.
"Cause Lizzī's dead."
Thus was told in simple words to the people of Three Sisters what Lizzī herself had not known, that Blind Benner loved her.
Simultaneously with this disclosure came the sound of a horse galloping over the Boomer Creek bridge. The horse came rapidly nearer, and soon his hoofs resounded from the long bridge that spanned the river.
It was a wild gallop, yet the horse ran as if some one sat him urging him on.
"The doctor," surmised every one, and the procession halted. Hunch voiced the general guess to Blind Benner, whom he yet held on the ground.
"The doctor's comin'. He'll bring Lizzī back ter life, see if he don't, Benner."
The blind man ceased struggling, and Hunch let him get on his feet, but watched him warily.
A shout of glad welcome greeted the familiar roan that "saddle-bags," as the Three-Sisters folk would call their physician, always rode when visiting distant patients or in response to urgent calls. The men who bore the stretcher set it down, in readiness for Dr. Barnes, as he reined his horse in the midst of the crowd of men and women who pressed dangerously near the excited animal. Strong hands seized the bridle and muscular arms almost pulled the physician from the saddle, while Colonel Hornberger graphically narrated the story of Gill's rescue and told of Lizzī's swoon which was like death.
"She's choked with the smoke, Lizzī is, and don't come to," said Cassi, piteously.
Garrulous women pushed forward to furnish the doctor with details of the rescue and praise Lizzī, but he would not listen to them. He pressed his ear to Lizzī's bosom and silence fell on the spectators. He raised his head, and they, eager, expectant, saw no encouragement in his face. From his pocket he produced a small mirror and wiped it dry with a silk handkerchief. He held it a moment over Lizzī's mouth and smiled.
The air quivered with shouts, the boisterous hurrahs of the men, the shrill huzzas of the women.
Lizzī recovered soon after she was placed in her bed. Gret Reed had aided the physician, and was the first person Lizzī saw when her eyes dreamily opened. They closed again at once, for from downstairs Gill's voice reached her ears, and she knew he was safe. She was ill (she would laugh at the word) but a day.
When the excitement over her had subsided, wondering inquiries as to the origin of the fire began to be voiced. Gill was called to account for going to bed with his clothes on.
"I was working late at the books," he said, "it being the end of the month, and I got so sleepy and tired that I just pulled off my coat and threw myself on the bed and fell asleep."
Colonel Hornberger believed him, and no one had reason to suspect him.
The origin of the fire remained a mystery, but the loss occasioned by the destruction of the store was severe upon the Three Sisters people. Colonel Hornberger set out at once for the city to buy a new stock, first making arrangements with the proprietors of the nearest store to supply his employés with necessities. The Colonel took Gill with him.
Before departing, the latter called upon Lizzī and, in the presence of her family, feelingly expressed his gratitude for the heroic rescue of his unworthy life. He depreciated himself modestly, and the McAnays thought him very unassuming. Lizzī put up her hand in glad protest as she heard his graceful sentences, conveying to her a deeper meaning than thankfulness.
"When I come back," was their promise, "then," they said to her, "I shall acknowledge you as my wife, Lizzī."
The Colonel was expeditious, and soon returned with a large stock of goods, some of which were stored in the warehouse at the station; the balance was placed upon the shelves of the temporary building that had been erected in his absence. For a few days Gill was very busy, and his visits to Lizzī were only short calls.
One evening he came early, evidently with the intention of making a visit. Soon he and Lizzī were left alone together.
"I have had a letter from mother, Lizzī," Gill said eagerly, but his tone was not loud. "Such a letter about you and the fire, and I am sure all I have to do is to go and see her, and she will be only too glad to receive you as her daughter."
Lizzī stood still. Her heart beat so hard she thought it would burst, and the color deepened on her cheek. She had few tricks. Her honest nature expressed itself simply. She was glad, and her face and posture were the manifestations of her joy. She was one of the few persons with whom words at times have too deep meaning to be uttered, and whose actions are the sole exponents of their feeling.
Gill said quietly:
"Sit down, dear, and I will read you the letter."
But she could not do so without giving vent to her feelings, which she did in the very undramatic act of poking the fire. She did it vigorously, and the click of the metal stove doors as she closed them was a "There now" to her mood. Then she sat down ready to listen. He began at once.
"'My dear son, doubly precious to me because of your nearness to a horrible death, give my love to the brave girl who saved you to me. Some day she may know from the anguish of her own heart over a child's peril how much I mean when I say I am grateful to her. Words cannot be stronger than that. If she is ever a mother, she will learn that it is the parent's love alone that endures in all its sensitiveness.
"'But I am jealous, weakly, selfishly jealous of the grand girl of whom you write so admiringly. It seems to me I detect in your sentences the evidence that she has dethroned me in your heart, where until now I flatter myself I have been first.
"'You say she is beautiful, womanly; that her great physical strength does not detract from her femininity; that she is always a modest, gentle woman. I am glad to know it, and if you love her I cannot be so cruel as to execute the threat I wrote so fiercely some time ago, when I guessed you were losing your heart. I guess again, John: Lizzī is the woman you wrote of then. But come home; come and tell me about her who has saved your life, and against whom I have not the heart to hurl my former threat.Your fond Mother.'"
"'You say she is beautiful, womanly; that her great physical strength does not detract from her femininity; that she is always a modest, gentle woman. I am glad to know it, and if you love her I cannot be so cruel as to execute the threat I wrote so fiercely some time ago, when I guessed you were losing your heart. I guess again, John: Lizzī is the woman you wrote of then. But come home; come and tell me about her who has saved your life, and against whom I have not the heart to hurl my former threat.
Your fond Mother.'"
Lizzī took the letter and looked at it. The beautiful, clear writing was the same as that of the other letter, which had led to her secret marriage. Now the obstacles to the acknowledgment of that ceremony were, or soon would be, removed. She clasped her hands, enfolding in them the letter, and sat still, listening to her heart beating a reveillé for the sunrise of certainty. She had been living in the night of doubt. She had been afraid of this formidable mother, who wrote so beautifully and coldly, but now this fear was banished, and love, reciprocally grateful, took its place. Her heart went out to the fond, yet jealous, mother who had written so yieldingly of her. This mother had clung so determinedly to her son, but now she loosed her grasp on him that he might tend whither he would, because his way led to her, Lizzī.
She was flattered by the manner in which Gill had written to his mother of her. "For," she reasoned, "a man will be honest with his mother."
"Go, John," she said simply. "Your mother should know before the world does."
"I think it best, Lizzī. I shall come back in two weeks unless something happens to me."
"Don't say that, John, or you can't go. If anything should happen to you, death would happen to me."
She kissed him. Her kiss was fire to his blood. He caught her in a passionate embrace. His lack of reverence wounded her. She shrank from his touch, which for the first time seemed coarse. Instinctively he understood and released her.
The next day he departed for his mother's residence.
The two weeks of Gill's absence ran into six and he had not come back. Lizzī wrote to the address he gave, and the letter was returned to her. Gossip said he had deserted her, but she said to her broken heart, "John is dead."
She recalled his fond good-by and his promise to return, with or without his mother's approval of his marriage, at the end of two weeks. She remembered his cavalier appearance as he rode by the Block and waved her a farewell. She heard still the sound of his horse's hoofs in the long bridge. She knew he had considerable money on his person, and supposed some one had murdered him for it. She was left a widow, indeed.
Yet she held her peace and bore herself proudly as ever. Her eyes did not quail before the cold stare of the matrons. Her honest heart sustained her. It did not cry out, "Shame! shame!" So she did not seclude herself, nor was she forward. When necessity called her into the streets, she courageously faced her old acquaintances and bore with patience their scorn. Two women were kind to her and sad for her, but were not oppressive in their attentions. These were Mrs. Hornberger and Gret Reed. Yet she did not seek the comfort of their sympathy, nor once become weak enough to ask them to believe in her. Appearances were against her, but she never intimated that she could produce legal proof of her innocence. Her heart cried out in woe, "I am bereft," and there wasno solace for her, grieving for her dead husband. She could not weep, because the tears would be misconstrued.
Her father's kind words had been a great support to her.
"Ye may have gone wrong, Lizzī, but I'll ne'er believe it till ye tell it me."
The deep tenderness of his tones had touched her where the tears lay, and they rose, overflowing the obstruction her will had built against their flood. She fell at his feet. It was Saturday night, and he sat in his split-bottomed chair, resting. She laid her head on his knee, and sobbed and wept convulsively. His shaking hand stroked caressingly her soft black hair, and he murmured low lullaby words as if soothing a child. His conviction had been unhesitatingly expressed, but his sympathy could not find suitable language except in a song that was used to hush a crying infant.
He was seventy years old. His hair and beard were pure white. His broad chest and square shoulders told the story of his vigorous age. It was not to frown that he contracted his eyebrows, but to narrow his vision, while he fixed a gentle look on his daughter, for whom his heart ached, but in whom he believed. No, he did not frown on her. He never did shadow her babyhood, her childhood, her dawning womanhood, nor now would he her approaching motherhood, by scowl of his. He sat bowing above his daughter, not casting a stone at her, but quivering over her head a blessing of trust.
His wife tottered down the stairs, and Lizzī made a movement as if to arise, but he kept her at his knee.
Mrs. McAnay was not a hard woman, but she had to the full measure her sex's vindictiveness against the woman who is weak and it was difficult for her not to relieve her mind of what she considered its just sentiments towards her daughter. Yet she pitied Lizzī. She stopped at the foot of the stairs and gazed wonderingly at the father and daughter. Peter did not speak and Lizzī remained on her knees. Mrs. McAnay slowly approached her child and bent over her.
"I am glad yer confessin', girl," she said in a weak, quavering voice.
Lizzī shivered. Her mother's hand resting on her head was not cold, but the knowledge that she yet withheld from her parents what they should know sent a chill to her heart.
"Tain't that yet, mother," said Peter, "for I'm thinkin' she ain't got anything to confess that's wrong. I was sayin' something to her that made her cry, that's all."
The door opened, and Levi and Matthi entered. Lizzī had not yet risen, and her mother stood over her.
The boys stopped at the door, and would have gone out again had not their father bade them stay. They knew no law higher than obedience to their venerable father. So they remained, awkwardly seating themselves, while Lizzī rose to her feet and buried her tear-stained face in her hands. An embarrassing silence fell on the group. It was broken by the entrance of Cassi and Blind Benner. Cassi saw at a glance that a family scene was in progress, and he started to escort Blind Benner to the door, but Peter said he was welcome. Cassi seated Benner, and then leaned against the wall.
"Boys!"
Peter had risen, and at the sound of his voice addressing them Levi and Matthi stood up, and Cassi took a step from the wall. "Boys, I'vebeen tellin' yer sister that I don't believe she has gone wrong, and I want to know if you think as I do."
"Yes."
A volley of affirmation, a single unflagging response, which Lizzī echoed by a sob, and their mother heard with pride, but still she doubted. She went from one son to the other, kissing each in turn, yet she doubted her daughter.
Blind Benner had groped his way to Lizzī, and caught her right hand just as it was going to produce her marriage certificate.
"Listen!" he said as he held her hand in both of his. "Listen an' I'll tell yer all 'bout Lizzī."
An expectant hush fell upon the group, and even Lizzī's thumping heart beat more softly as she awaited her blind friend's story.
"My eyes are only a joke." He spoke like a wise cynic. "They don't see. Hunch says they look like good eyes an' move an' wink like other people's. 'Tain't no use their winkin', 'cause the light don't hurt them."
Very bitterly he spoke the last sentence as he winked his eyes sarcastically.
"But my ears, they're good; they know." His tone became more cheerful, but no less earnest. "They hear well, better than you folks see. They know when the birds laugh and when they cry, when they're glad and when they're sad. They know when the fiddle's in tune. They know a right sound. No, I've no eyes to see the white snow, er the blue sky, er the green grass; but my ears hears the wind in the trees, and it never lies ter me. I know when it's mad, when it's sad, when it's glad. So is Lizzī's voice ter me, like the wind among the trees that never lies ter me. I hev never seen Lizzī's face, but I hev heard her voice. I know when she's glad, when she's mad, when she's sad. I hev heard her sing her baby songs when she thought nobody was listenin', an' she sings 'em like my mother did, an' my mother wasn't false; no more is Lizzī."
The men clamored their approval of Blind Benner's tribute to Lizzī, but Mrs. McAnay remained silent, still doubting, and Lizzī, though her heart hungered for her mother's trust, would not ask for it.
Saturday evening was a money-making time for the landlord of the "Three-Girls" Tavern, as the inn was familiarly called. On that evening old scores were wiped off the slate and new ones opened, to be lengthened during the coming week until on the next Saturday they followed their predecessors into Nowhere. Into Nowhere? Perhaps. But Memory hides in Nowhere, and Memory is terrifying when she catches one in a lonely way and brings him up with hair on end, as he gazes at the dog Conscience, whose leash she seems ready to let slip that he may rend the poor wayfarer. Yet, the score is erased from the landlord's slate and, it may be, from memory's tablet—for the nonce.
The usual Saturday night crowd had gathered in the bar-room, and tongues had been loosened by drink. Words flew thick and fast. Language was not choice. At short intervals there was a demand for an apology, or a fight. The McAnay brothers were there and all drinking, though notvery deeply. Cassi, who was standing treat, was the centre of a group of muscular men, some of whom were intoxicated. The glasses had been filled with pure rye whiskey. They were held high in the air, then they were clinked, while the landlord bowed and smirked as he waited for the toast.
Henry Myers gave it.
"Here's ter yer and the rest uv yer family, and ter the rightin' uv yer sister's fair name."
Cassi's face flushed. Levi and Matthi scowled, but the others drank off the toast with a smack. Levi, Matthi, and Cassi did not drink, but the latter pretended to do so, holding the glass to his lips. When the others were done and the glasses rattled on the bar, he removed the glass from his lips. The whiskey was untouched. Before a question arose as to why he had not drank, he spit into the liquid and threw it into Henry's face.
"Thet's the way I drink such a toast, Hen Myers."
Henry, pale with rage and goaded by the challenge and the loud laugh that greeted Cassi's act, leaped at the latter, but was met with a blow that staggered, but did not fell him.
"Yer hed no bizness ter drag my sister's name inter this bar-room," yelled Cassi, following up his advantage and striking Henry fairly between the eyes, knocking him against the bar.
"She's dragged her own name in the mud," shouted Tom Myers, Henry's brother.
"Yer a liar!" Matthi replied.
They began to fight. Levi stood by, a smile of admiration playing around his mouth, while he urged his brothers to do their best. The crowd cleared a space. The landlord implored the fighters to cease, but their blood was hot. The spectators knew they would behold a rare struggle, with the odds against Cassi and Matthi, for the Myers brothers were notorious fighters and older men. Man to man was the rule of the Three-Sisters code of honor, and Levi stood by, ready to continue the fight in the place of the first vanquished brother.
Henry Myers rushed on Cassi again and, seizing him in his powerful arms, threw him with great force on the floor. There he lay senseless; his head had struck against the bar.
Immediately Levi, the queer, leering smile hovering around his mouth, leaped into the fray and dealt Henry a blow that shut one eye. His dexterity was applauded by the spectators, who thought it a great pity that Levi had not opened the fight instead of Cassi, who was too light for Henry, whom Levi fairly mated. Matthi was not faring well with Tom Myers, and the way the struggle was going it looked as if Levi and Tom would be left as sole contestants, when into the midst of the fighters rushed Lizzī, brandishing the poker, a long iron rod, which she had snatched from the stove as she entered.
Hunch had seen her on the opposite side of the street, and, running to her, had said, "Hooray! Lizzī, the boys is gettin' in great licks fer yer."
Pausing, she listened to his proud story of how the fight began; and, without waiting for him to conclude, crossed the street quickly and entered the tavern, the dwarf following closely.
In the low-ceilinged bar-room, where the smoke from strong pipes almost stifled her, she stood, an Amazon before whom the fighters fell back sullenly. There was majesty in her demeanor, and upon her face no sign of shame. Honest motherhood and sincere sisterly gratitude, pride, and affection flashedfrom her eyes, deepened the modest blush on her cheek, and trembled in her tones.
"I am thankful to you, Levi and Matthi, and to you, dear Cassi." Kneeling, she kissed the forehead of the unconscious man.
When she rose, the poker fell from her fingers and struck the floor with a dull thud. Standing firmly, with one foot advanced, she continued: "Yes, dear boys, I'm thankful to you, but my name needs no defence."
A hush followed her words, then a cheer broke involuntarily from her hearers. The Myers brothers looked at each other furtively, and a smile appeared on Levi's face, who was uninjured. Matthi, whose mouth was bleeding, betrayed by the expression of his eyes his pride in the sister for whom he had fought. Some of the spectators stepped forward to raise Cassi, but Lizzī intercepted them. Then pointing to her brother, she regally commanded the Meyers boys.
"You killed him; now take him to his old mother."
Murder! a shiver ran through the crowd.
The Myers brothers looked at the men around them. A living wall encompassed them, which at a woman's bidding would topple and crush them. They could not pierce it. Lizzī stamped her foot and startled them into action.
They lifted Cassi gently. Lizzī pointed to the door. The crowd fell back. Levi and Matthi led the way. Next them came Thomas and Henry with Cassi's limp form. Lizzī followed, and the crowd escorted them. At the edge of the assemblage were boys whose shrill voices broke the silence. Vengeance was held in abeyance by a woman's whim; and Thomas and Henry Myers walked unsteadily, fearful that, Herodias-like, she would have their heads.
Before they were half-way to the Block the constable appeared, and to the stern assemblage added the subtle, intangible when not provoked, but when angered terrible, presence of the law.
Nearer to the Block the crowd approached. Doors and windows were thrown open hastily, and broad beams of light fell across the street, while curious persons thrust out their heads to learn the cause of the unusual procession marching so grimly over the bands of light and darkness.
Nearer still to the Block the column came. Soon the heavy footsteps on the porch would strike terror to the aged mother's heart, already half broken by doubt. Soon to the feet of that doubting mother would be borne the senseless form of her youngest son, stricken down in defence of his sister's fair name. Halt, pressing crowd eager to witness a heart-break.
But the Queen had commanded, and there was no alternative.
There was a momentary halt at the door as if for orders, every man acting as if under a spell which she alone could break. But she could not speak. Her voice seemed dead in her throat.
The door was open and she saw her mother, who did not look up as Levi and Matthi entered. The Myers brothers with their burden crossed the door-sill, and Lizzī, a queen no more, but a remorseful, dejected woman, stood in the open door, with her profile to the crowd, keeping it at bay.
Mrs. McAnay was apparently asleep, and the noise of the heavy shuffling feet had not waked her. Her head rested on one hand, her elbow supported by the arm of the chair.
"Mother."
Levi spoke low.
"Mother, wake up."
He shook her gently. Her head drooped a little lower, but her eyes remained closed.
"Mother, get awake."
His voice was harsh and loud, and the shake he gave her vigorous and sudden, but her head only drooped lower.
The Myers brothers had laid Cassi on the floor at her feet, and were standing at a little distance from her. Matthi, stanching the flow of blood from his lips, stood near the door.
It was a cruel scene, this attempt on the part of an older son to arouse his mother to the knowledge of the injury done to her best beloved, and in silence the spectators beheld it.
Sharply the stillness was broken as Lizzī, with a shriek, threw herself across Cassi and buried her face in her mother's lap.
"Dead, dead!" she moaned, "Cassi and mother—and both for me!"
Cassi was restored to his senses by the jar of her fall upon him, and Thomas Myers saw in his opening eyes the return of life.
"Cassi's livin'!" he cried. "He's opened his eyes."
But only Henry Myers heeded him. The others were engrossed by the awful scene before them.
Levi and Matthi, stunned by the sudden death of their mother, were motionless. Their wits had apparently deserted them, and they were unable to comprehend the situation.
Lizzī did not remain long on her knees. Struggling to her feet, she tore open her dress at the neck, as if to give her greater freedom in breathing, but really to reach her marriage-certificate, which she snatched from the little pocket made for it and held it before her mother.
"Are your eyes open in heaven, mother? If they are, read this. You died without seein' it."
Of the gaping, mystified crowd none guessed what the crumpled paper was. Thrusting it back in its hiding-place, she turned to the wide-mouthed throng, and said:
"Leave us alone."
Slowly the burly men and curious boys went away in obedience to the pathetic command. Thomas Myers closed the door behind him, shutting Henry in, who, thoroughly repentant, remained to be of service.
Cassi, who had staggered to his feet, seeing him, made an attack upon him, muttering as he swayed in uncertain advance:
"Yer hed no bizness ter drag my sister's name inter this bar-room!"
He tried to shake off Lizzī's enfolding arms, but they held him firmly.
"It's all right, dear Cassi. You fought hard; but Hen's apologized, and if you make a noise you will wake mother. Now go to bed."
She led him to the foot of the stairs and kissed him good-night. He obeyed her, for her will was dominant in that household.
When Cassi had entered his room, Lizzī lifted her mother and laid her on her bed. Then she sent Levi for Margaret Reed, a little, winning, sympathetic woman who was summoned on all occasions. In times of sorrow she shed a soft radiance on darkened hearts, and in times of rejoicing she wasbright as the sunshine. "Send for Gret"—no one called her Mrs. Reed; toddlers said "Det"—was the suggestion of sadness, the impulse of joy, and Gret, childless herself, but mother to all the babies and sister to all the mothers of the village, answered every call.
She had no rebuke for Henry Myers, whom she met as she entered the McAnay home, except such as just hearts will sometimes express by an unconscious manner of repugnance. Henry was sensitive enough to feel it, and he departed cursing himself bitterly.
Gret went straight to Lizzī, and felt like a giantess as the latter knelt before her and clung to her dress.
"I killed her, Gret; I killed her. I never told her, and it broke her heart; and I am a murderer, worse than Henry Myers would have been if he had killed Cassi. She couldn't think it was all right, and when she heard the boys was fighting for me, she couldn't stand it any longer and just died where I left her. And I was so crazy to have Cassi brought home, so I could say to her, 'There, mother, you see how he believed in me, fightin' till he died;' but the Lord shut her eyes so she couldn't see the cruel sight. Yes, I'm punished for my stubborn silence. If I had showed it to her she wouldn't have died so sudden."
Gret did not invite confidence by asking Lizzī what she should have shown her mother.
"And poor father," Lizzī continued, "away out in the cabin alone, his wife dead and his daughter disgraced—how will I tell him that mother is dead?"
"I'll send Seth," said Gret; "and while he is gone we must get your mother ready for the grave."
Gret went out, and soon came back with the news that Seth was on his way to Peter McAnay's cabin.
Lizzī was more composed, and assisted Gret in preparing the body for burial.
It was near daybreak when Peter reached his home. Gret met him at the door. Levi, Matthi, and Cassi rose to receive him. They had been sitting in the room where their mother died. Blind Benner lay asleep on a bench, and Hunch was crouching in a corner. Lizzī was with the dead. She heard her father's voice in response to the greeting of her brothers, but did not move from her knees.
Her father's step on the stairs told of his approach. She bowed her head lower and clasped her hands. Her posture was one of utter dejection. Her father stood over her. She did not move. He spoke to her. She did not reply.
He glanced at the bed, and saw how tastefully she had dressed her mother for the grave. He could see through the mist in his eyes that the dress was not stiff in its folds, but gracefully draped the rigid form. He was touched by the natural arrangement of the snow-white hair.
"Yer hev drest yer mother pretty, Lizzī; she's sleepin' nateral."
This broke Lizzī down completely, and she fell forward, with her face between her father's boots and her arms outstretched.
"Oh, father, forgive me for bein' so bad! I killed mother. I killed her by not tellin'."
When Lizzī began to speak, Levi closed the stair door. The noise he made, though not loud, was sufficient to wake Blind Benner. By Levi's direction, Hunch led the blind man to his home.
Lizzī lay on the floor moaning and calling herself "a bad, bad woman."
Her father's heart almost burst. Could it be after all that she was dishonest? Could it be that her mother had read her aright? Could it be that she had cruelly encouraged his faith in her, knowing the certainty of his discovery of the truth at last? No, no; it could not be. In his desperation he became calm, with the forced self-control that makes many a man firm on the gallows. His tones had not a ring of hope as he said:
"Don't grovel there, Lizzī. Stand up. There's yer old dead mother, and here's yer old dyin' father. Git up and face her and me, and tell the truth, and it all too, mind."
His voice grew sharp and commanding; never had he spoken so sternly to her. She slowly lifted herself and looked first at the dead, then at her father. A shudder passed over her. He mistook her manner for fear, and was convinced she had deceived him. Taking one step forward, he lifted his hand to strike her and huskily exclaimed:
"You hussy!"
A spasm passed over her face, then she calmly awaited the blow. The look in her eyes checked it. When his hand fell to his side, she spoke:
"I forgive you, father, for the dead mother's sake."
Her tones were deep and tender, and he bowed before the majesty of unsullied womanhood. He knew without further assurance that she was pure.
"Call the boys," she said in quiet command. He obeyed her, and her brothers promptly responded. For a moment she gazed upon them tenderly as they stood mutely expectant behind their father; and then, with one of her royal gestures, put her hand to her neck and tore open her dress, exposing her bosom.
"My heart's white as that," she said, tapping with her finger-tips the fair skin, "and there's the proof of it."
She handed her marriage-certificate to her father with manner as stately as if it were the title to a throne. His hands trembled so he could not grasp it, and it fell to the floor. Levi picked it up.