XVIII
Gordon Makimmon made one step toward her. Lettice held the box in an extended hand:
“Gordon,” she asked, “what was this for? It was in the clothes press last evening: it couldn’t have been there long. You see—it’s a little jewellery box from the post-office; here is the name on the lid. Somehow, Gordon, finding it upset me; I couldn’t stop ’til I’d seen you and asked you about it. Somehow there didn’t seem to be any time to lose. I asked for you last night in the village, but everybody had gone to the sap-boiling ... I sat up all night ... waiting ... I couldn’t wait any longer, Gordon, somehow. I had to come out and find you, and everybody had gone to the sap-boiling, and—”
“Why, Lettice,” he stammered, more disconcerted by the sudden loss of youth from her countenance than by her words; “it wasn’t—wasn’t much.”
“What was it, Gordon?” she insisted.
Suddenly he was unable to lie to her. Her questioning eyes held a quality that dispelled petty and casual subterfuges. The evasion which he summoned to his lips perished silently.
“A string of pearls,” he muttered.
“Why did you crush the pretty box if they were for—for me or for your sister, if it was to be a surprise? I can’t understand—”
“It, it was—”
“Who were they for, Gordon?”
A blundering panic swept over him; Lettice was more strange than familiar; she was unnatural; her hair didn’t shine in the sunlight streaming into the shallow, green basin; in the midst of the warm efflorescence she seemed remote, chill.
“For her,” he moved his head toward Meta Beggs.
She withdrew her burning gaze from Gordon Makimmon and turned to the school-teacher.
“For Miss Beggs,” she repeated, “why ... why, that’s bad, Gordon. You’re married to me; I’m your wife. Miss Beggs oughtn’t ... she isn’t anything to you.”
Meta Beggs stood motionless, silent, her red cotton dress drawing and wrinkling over her rounded shoulders and hips. The necklace hung gracefully about the slender column of her throat.
The two women standing in the foreground of Gordon Makimmon’s vision, of his existence, summed up all the eternal contrast, the struggle, in the feminine heart. And they summed up the duplicity, the weakness, the sensual and egotistical desires, the power and vanity and vain-longing, of men.
Meta Beggs was the mask, smooth and sterile, of the hunger for adornment, for gold bands and jewels and perfume, for goffered linen and draperies of silk and scarlet. She was the naked idler stained with antimony in the clay courts of Sumeria; the Paphian with painted feet loitering on the roofs of Memphis while the blocks of red sandstone floated sluggishly down the Nile for the pyramid of Khufu the King; she was the flushed voluptuousness relaxed in the scented spray of pagan baths; the woman with piled and white-powdered hair in a gold shift of Louis XIV; the prostitute with a pinched waist and great flowered sleeves of the Maison Doree. She was as old as the first vice, as the first lust budding like a black blossom in the morbidity of men successful, satiated.
She was old, but Lettice was older.
Lettice was more ancient than men walking cunning and erect, than the lithe life of sun-heated tangles, than the vital principle of flowering plants fertilized by the unerring chance of vagrant insects and airs.
Standing in the flooding blue flame of day they opposed to each other the forces fatally locked in the body of humanity. Lettice, with her unborn child, her youth haggard with apprehension and pain, the prefigurement of the agony of birth, gazed, dumb and bitter in her sacrifice, at the graceful, cold figure that, as irrevocably as herself, denied all that Lettice affirmed, desired all that she feared and hated.
“Why, that’s bad, Gordon,” she reiterated, “I’m your wife. And Miss Beggs is bad, I’m certain of that.” A spasm of suffering crossed her face like a cloud.
“You ought not to have come, Lettice. Lettice, you ought not to have come,” he told her. His dull voice reflected the lassitude that had fallen upon him, the sudden death of all emotion, the swift extinguishing of his interest in the world about him; it reflected, in his indifference to desire, an indifference to Meta Beggs.
“Do you love her, Gordon?” his wife asked.
“No, I don’t,” he answered, perceptibly impatient at the question.
“Do you like her better than you like me?”
The palpable answer to her query, that he thought of himself more than either, evaded him. “I don’t like her better than I like you,” he repeated baldly.
Lettice turned to the other woman. “There’s not much you can say,” she declared, “caught like this trying to steal somebody’s husband. And you set over a school of children!”
“I don’t choose to be,” Meta Beggs retorted. “I hate it, but I had to live. If you hadn’t had all that money to keep you soft, yes, and get you a husband, you would have had to fight and do, too. You might have been teaching a roomful of little sneaks, and sick to death of it before ever you began ... or you might be on the street—better girls have than you.”
“And you bought her a necklace, Gordon, her—”
All that he now desired was to get Lettice safely home. Another wave of pain rose whitely over her countenance. “Come on, Lettice,” he urged; “just step into the buggy.” He waved toward the vehicle, toward the peacefully grazing horse, Mrs. Caley sitting upright and sallow.
“And take him right along with you,” Meta Beggs added; “your money’s tight around his neck.”
Resentment at the implied ignominy penetrated his self-esteem.
“We’re going right on now, Lettice,” he continued; “we must drive as careful as possible.”
“I don’t know that I want you,” his wife articulated slowly.
“You can decide that later,” he returned; “we’re going home first.”
She relaxed her fingers, and dropped the pasteboard box on the turf. She stood with her arms hanging limply, breathing in sharp inspirations. She gazed about at the valley, the half-distant maple grove: suddenly the youth momentarily returned to her, the frightened expression of a child abruptly conscious of isolation in an alien, unexpected setting.
“Gordon,” she said rapidly, “I had to come—find you ... something—” her voice sharpened with apprehension. “Tell me it will be all right. It won’t ... kill me.” She stumbled toward him, he caught her, and half carried her to the buggy, where he lifted her over the step and into the seat. A red-clad arm was supporting her on the other side: it was Meta Beggs.
“You drive,” he directed Mrs. Caley. He held Lettice with her face hidden against his shoulder. The valley was refulgent with early summer, the wheat was swelling greenly, the meadows, threaded by shining streams were sown with flowers, grazed by herds of cattle with hides like satin, the pellucid air was filled with indefinite birdsong. The buggy lurched over a hillock of grass, his wife shuddered in his arms, and an unaccustomed, vicarious pain contracted his heart. Where the fields gave upon the road the buggy dropped sharply; Lettice cried out uncontrollably. He cursed Mrs. Caley savagely under his breath, “Can’t you drive,” he asked; “can’t you?”
The ascent to the crown of the ridge was rough, but beyond, winding down to the Greenstream valley, it was worse. The buggy, badly hitched, bumped against the flank of the horse, twisted over exposed boulders, brought up suddenly in the gutters cut diagonally by the spring torrents. Gordon Makimmon forgot everything else in the sole desire to get Lettice safely to their house. He endeavored, by shifting her position, to reduce the jarring of the uneven progress. He realized that she was in a continual agony, and, in that new ability to share it through the dawning consciousness of its brute actuality in Lettice, it roused in him an impotent fury of rebellion. It took the form of an increasing passion of anger at the inanimate stones of the road, against Mrs. Caley’s meager profile on the dusty hood of the buggy. He whispered enraged oaths, worked himself into an insanity of temper. Lettice grew rigid in his arms. For a while she iterated dully, like the beating of a sluggish heart “bad ... bad ... bad.” Then dread wiped all other expression from her face; then, again, pain pinched her features.
The buggy creaked down the decline to their dwelling. Gordon supported Lettice to their room; then he stood on the porch without, waiting. The rugged horse, still hitched, snatched with coarse, yellow teeth at the grass. Suddenly Mrs. Caley appeared at a door: she spoke, breaking the irascible silence of months, dispelling the accumulating ill-will of her pent resentment, with hasty, disjointed words:
“... quick as you can ... the doctor.”
XIX
A hoarse, thin cry sounded from within the Makimmon dwelling. It fluctuated with intolerable pain and died abruptly away, instantly absorbed in the brooding calm of the valley, lost in the vast, indifferent serenity of noon. But its echo persisted in Gordon’s thoughts and emotions. He was sitting by the stream, before his house; and, as the cry had risen, he had moved suddenly, as though an invisible hand had touched him upon the shoulder. He sat reflected on the sliding water against the reflection of the far, blue sky. One idea ran in a circle through his brain, his lips formed it soundlessly, he even spoke it aloud:
“It ain’t as though I had gone,” he said.
The possible consequence to Lettice of what had been a mere indecision seemed to him out of any proportion. No, he thought, I wouldn’t have gone when the time came; when the minute came I’d have held back. Then again, it ain’t as though I had gone. A species of surprise alternated with resentment at the gravity of the situation which had resulted from his indiscreet conduct; the agony of that cry from within the house was too deep to have proceeded from ... it wasn’t as though he had gone ... he wouldn’t have gone, anyway.
He heard footsteps on the porch, and turned, recognizing Doctor Pelliter. He half rose to go to the other with an inquiry; but he dropped quickly back on the bank, looked away.—Some time before the doctor had tied a towel about his waist ... it had been a white towel.
His mind returned to Lettice and the terrible mischance that had been brought upon her; that he had brought on her. He tested the latter clause, and attempted to reject it: he had done nothing to provoke such a terrible actuality. He rehearsed the entire chain of events which had resulted in the purchase of the pearl necklace; he followed it as far back as the evening when, from the minister’s lawn, he had seen Meta Beggs undressing at her window. He could nowhere discover any desperate wrong committed. He knew men, plenty of them, who were actually unfaithful to their wives: he had done nothing of that sort. He endeavored to grow infuriated with Meta Beggs, then with Mrs. Caley; he endeavored to place upon them the responsibility for that attenuated, agonized sound from the house; but without success. He had made a terrible blunder. But, in a universe where the slightest fairness ruled, he and not Lettice would pay for an error purely his own.
Lettice was so young, he realized suddenly.
He recalled her as she sat alone, under the lamp, with her shawl about her shuddering shoulders, waiting for the inevitable, begging him to assure her that it would be all right. It would, of course, be all right in the end. It must! Then things would be different. He made himself no extravagant promises of reform, no fevered reproaches; but things would be different.—He would take Lettice driving; he had the prettiest young wife in Greenstream, and he would show people that he realized it. She had been Lettice Hollidew, the daughter of old Pompey, the richest man in the county.
The importance of that latter fact had dimmed; the omnipotence of money had dwindled: for instance, any conceivable sum would be powerless to still that cry from within. In a way it had risen from the very fact of Pompey Hollidew’s fortune—Meta Beggs would never have considered him aside from it. He endeavored to curse the old man’s successful avarice, but without any satisfaction. Every cause contributing to the present impending catastrophe led directly back to himself, to his indecision. The responsibility, closing about him, seemed to shut out the air from his vicinity, to make labored his breathing. He put out a hand, as though to ward off the inimical forces everywhere pressing upon him. He had seen suffering before—what man had not?—but this was different; this unsettled the foundations of his being; it found him vulnerable where he had never been vulnerable before; he shrunk from it as he would shrink from touching a white-hot surface. He was afraid of it.
He thought of the ghastly activities inside the house; they haunted him in confused, horrid details amid which Lettice suffered and cried out.
He was unaware of the day wheeling splendidly through its golden hours, of the sun swinging across the narrow rift of the valley. At long intervals he heard muffled hoof-beats passing on the dusty road above. He watched a trout slip lazily out from under the bank, and lie headed upstream, slowly waving its fins. It recalled the trout he had left on the porch of Hollidew’s farmhouse on the night when he had attempted to ... seduce ... Lettice!
The details of that occasion returned vivid, complete, unsparing. It was a memory profoundly regrettable because of an obscure connection with Lettice’s present danger; it too—although he was unable to discover why it should—took on the dark aspect of having helped to bring the other about. As the memory of that night recurred to him he became conscious of an obscure, traitorous force lurking within him, betraying him, leading his complacency into foolish and fatal paths, into paths which totally misrepresented him.... He would not really have gone away with Meta Beggs.
He was a better man than all this would indicate! Yet—consider the result; he might as well have committed a foul crime. But, in the end, it would be all right. Doctors always predicted the darkest possibilities.
He turned and saw Doctor Pelliter striding up the slope to where his team was hitched on the public road. A swift resentment swept over Gordon Makimmon as he realized that the other had purposely avoided him. He rose to demand attention, to call; but, instinctively, he stifled his voice. The doctor stopped at the road, and saw him. Gordon waved toward the house, and the other nodded curtly.
XX
He passed through the dining room to the inner doorway, where he brushed by Mrs. Caley. Her face was as harsh and twisted as an old root. He proceeded directly to the bed.
“Lettice,” he said; “Lettice.”
Then he saw the appalling futility of addressing that familiar name to the strange head on the pillow.
Lettice had gone: she had been destroyed as utterly as though a sinister and ruthless magic had blasted every infinitesimal quality that had been hers. A countenance the color of glazed white paper seemed to hold pools of ink in the hollows of its eyes. The drawn mouth was the color of stale milk. Nothing remained to summon either pity or sorrow. The only possible emotion in the face of that revolting human disaster was an incredulous and shocked surprise. It struck like a terrible jest, a terrible, icy reminder, into the forgetful warmth of living; it mocked at the supposed majesty of suffering, tore aside the assumed dignity, the domination, of men; it tampered ferociously with the beauty, the pride, the innocent and gracious pretensions, of youth, of women.
Gordon Makimmon was conscious of an overwhelming desire to flee from the white grimace on the bed that had been Lettice’s and his. He drew back, in a momentary, abject, shameful cowardice; then he forced himself to return.... The fleering lips quivered, there was a slight stir under the counterpane. A little sound gathered, shaped into words barely audible in the stillness of the room broken only by Gordon’s breathing:
“It’s ... too much. Not any more ... hurting. Oh! I can’t—”
He found a chair, and sat down by her side. The palms of his hands were wet, and he wiped them upon his knees. His fear of the supine figure grew, destroying the arrogance of his manhood, his sentient reason. He was afraid of what it intimated, threatened, for himself, and of its unsupportable mockery. He felt as an animal might feel cornered by a hugely grim and playful cruelty.
The westering sun fell through a window on the disordered huddle of Lettice’s hastily discarded clothes streaming from a chair to the floor—her stockings, her chemise threaded with a narrow blue ribband. His thoughts turned to the little white garments she had fashioned in vain.
It had been wonderfully comfortable in the evening in the sitting room with Lettice sewing. He recalled the time when he had first played the phonograph in order to hear the dog “sing.” Lettice had cried out, imploring him to stop; well—he had stopped, hadn’t he? The delayed realization of her patience of misery rankled like a barb. The wandering thoughts returned to the long fabrication he had told her of the loss of his money in Stenton, of the fictitious agent of hardware. He had snared the girl in a net of such lies; scornful of Lettice’s innocence, her “stupid” trust, he had brought her to this ruinous pass. It hadn’t been necessary.
The window was open, and a breath of early summer drifted in—a breath of palpable sweetness. Mrs. Caley entered and bent over the bed, an angular, black silhouette against the white. She left without a word.
If Lettice died he, Gordon Makimmon, would have killed her, he had killed more ... he recognized that clearly. The knowledge spread through him like a virus, thinning his blood, attacking his brain, his nerves. He lifted a shaking hand to wipe his brow; and, for a brief space, his arm remained in air; it looked as though he were gazing beneath a shielding palm at a far prospect. The arm dropped suddenly to his side, the fingers struck dully against the chair. He heard again the muffled beat of horse’s hoofs on the road above; the sun moved slowly over the narrow, gay strips of rag carpet on the floor: life went on elsewhere.
His fear changed to loathing, to absolute, sick repulsion from all the facts of his existence. With the passing minutes the lines deepened on his haggard countenance, his expression perceptibly aged. The stubble of beard that had grown since the day before grizzled his lean jaw; the confident line of his shoulders, of his back, was bowed.
He looked up with a start to find the doctor once more in the room. He rose. “Doc,” he asked in a strained whisper, “Doc, will it be all right?” He wet his lips. “Will she live?”
“You needn’t whisper,” the other told him; “she doesn’t know ... now. ‘Will she live?’ I can only tell you that she wanted to die a thousand times.”
Gordon turned away, looking out through the window. It gave upon the slope planted with corn; the vivid, green shoots everywhere pushed through the chocolate-colored soil; chickens were vigorously scratching in a corner. The shadow of the west range reached down and enfolded the Makimmon dwelling; the sky burned in a sulphur-yellow flame. When he turned the doctor had vanished, the room had grown dusky. He resumed his seat.
“I didn’t do right,” he acknowledged to the travesty on the bed; “there was a good bit I didn’t get the hang of. It seems like I hadn’t learned anything at all from being alive. I’m going to fix it up,” he proceeded, painfully earnest. “I’m—” He broke off suddenly at the stabbing memory of the doctor’s words, “She wanted to die a thousand times.” He thought, I’ve killed her a thousand times already. The fear plucked at his throat. He rose and walked unsteadily to the door and out upon the porch.
The evening drew its gauze over the valley, the shrill, tenuous chorus of insects had begun for the night, the gold caps were dissolving from the eastern peaks. He saw Simeon Caley at the stable door; Sim avoided him, moving behind a corner of the shed. His pending sense of blood-guiltiness deepened. The impulse returned to flee, to vanish in the engulfing wild of the mountains. But he realized vaguely that that from which he longed to escape lay within him, he would carry it—the memories woven inexplicably of past and present, dominated by this last, unforgettable specter on the bed—into the woods, the high, lonely clearings, the still valleys. It was not remorse now, it was not simple fear, but the old oppression, increased a thousand-fold.
He sat in the low rocking chair that had held his mother and Clare, and, only yesterday, Lettice, and its rockers made their familiar tracking sound over the uneven boards of the porch. At this hour there was usually a stir and smell of cooking from the kitchen; but now the kitchen window was blank and still. Darkness gathered slowly about him; it obscured the black and white check, the red thread, of his suit; it flowed in about him and reduced him to the common greyness of the porch, the sod, the stream. It changed him from a man with a puzzled, seamed visage into a man with no especial, perceptible features, and then into a shadow, an inconsequential blur less important than the supports for the wooden covering above.
XXI
After a while he rose, impelled once more within. A lamp had been lit in the bedroom, and, in its radiance, the countenance on the pillow glistened like the skin of a lemon. As before, Mrs. Caley left the room as he entered; and he thought that, as she passed him, she snarled like an animal.
He sat bowed by the bed. A moth perished in the flame of the lamp, and the light flickered through the room—it seemed that Lettice grimaced, but it was only the other. Her face had grown sharper: it was such a travesty of her that, somehow, he ceased to associate it with Lettice at all. Instead he began to think of it as something exclusively of his own making—it was what he had done with things, with life.
The sheet lay over the motionless body like a thin covering of snow on the turnings of the earth; it defined her breasts and a hip as crisply as though they were cut in marble effigy on a tomb of youthful dissolution. He followed the impress of an arm to the hand; and, leaning forward, touched it. A coldness seemed to come through the cover to his fingers. He let his hand stay upon hers—perhaps the warmth would flow back into the cold arm, the chill heart; perhaps he could give her some of his vitality. The possibility afforded him a meager comfort, instilled a faint glow into his benumbed being. His hand closed upon that covered by the linen like a shroud. He sat rigid, concentrated, in his effort, his purpose. The light flickered again from the fiery perishing of a second moth.
A strange feeling crept over him, a deepened sense of suspense, of imminence. He fingered his throat, and his hand was icy where it touched his burning face. He stood up in an increasing, nameless disturbance.
A faint spasm crossed the drained countenance beneath him; the mouth fell open.
He knew suddenly that Lettice was dead.
There her clothes lay strewn on the chair and floor, the long, black stockings and the rumpled chemise strung with narrow blue ribband. She had worn them on her warm, young body; she had tied the ribband in the morning and untied it at night, untied it at night ... it was night now.
A slow, exhausted deliberation of mind and act took the place of his late panic. He smoothed the sheet where he had grasped her hand in the futile endeavor to instil into her some of his warmth. He gazed at her for a moment, at the shadows like pools of ink poured into the caverns of her eyes, at a glint of teeth no whiter than the rest, at the dark plait of her hair lying sinuously over the pillow. Then he went to the door:
“Mrs. Caley,” he pronounced. The woman appeared in the doorway from the kitchen. “Mrs. Caley,” he repeated, “Lettice is dead.”
She started forward with a convulsive gasp, and he turned aside and walked heavily out onto the porch. He stood for a moment gazing absently into the darkened valley, at the few lights of Greenstream village, the stars like clusters of silver grapes on high, ultra-blue arbors. The whippoorwills throbbed from beyond the stream, the stream itself whispered in a pervasive monotone. The first George Gordon Makimmon, resting on the porch of his new house isolated in the alien wild, had heard the whippoorwills and the stream. Gordon’s father had heard them just as he, the present Makimmon, heard them sounding in the night. But no other Makimmon would ever listen to the persistent birds, the eternal whisper of the water, because he, the last, had killed his wife ... he had killed their child.
He trod down the creaking steps to the soft, fragrant sod, and made his way to where a thread of light outlined the stable door. Sim was seated on a box, the lantern at his feet casting a pale flicker over his riven face and the horse muzzling the trough. Gordon sat down upon the broken chair.
“She’s dead,” he said, after a minute. Simeon Caley made no immediate reply, and he repeated in exactly the same manner:
“She’s dead.”
A sudden bitterness of contempt flamed in the other’s ineffable blue eyes. “God damn you to hell!” he exclaimed; “now you got the money and nothing to hinder you.”
His resentment vanished as quickly as it had appeared. He rose and picked up the lantern, and with their puny illumination they went out together into the dark.
THREE
THREE
I
On an afternoon of the second autumn following Lettice’s death Gordon was fetching home a headstall resewn by Peterman. The latter, in a small shed filled with the penetrating odor of dressed leather at the back of the hotel, exercised the additional trade of saddler. General Jackson ambled at Gordon’s heel.
The dog had grown until his shoulder reached the man’s knee; he was compact and powerful, with a long, heavy jaw and pronounced, grave whiskers; the wheaten color of his legs and head had lightened, sharply defining the coarse black hair upon his back.
October was drawing to a close: the autumn had been dry, and the foliage was not brilliantly colored, but exhibited a single shade of dusty brown that, in the sun, took the somber gleams of clouded gold. It was warm still, but a furtive wind, stirring the dead leaves uneasily over the ground, was momentarily ominous, chill.
The limp rim of a felt hat obscured Gordon’s features, out of the shadow of which protruded his lean, sharp chin. His heavy shoes, hastily scraped of mud, bore long cuts across the heels, while shapeless trousers, a coat with gaping pockets, hung loosely about his thin body and bowed shoulders. He passed the idlers before the office of theBuglewith a scarcely perceptible nod; but, farther on, he stopped before a solitary figure advancing over the narrow footway.
It was Buckley Simmons. He was noticeably smaller since his injury at the camp meeting; he had shrivelled; his face was peaked and wrinkled like the face of a very old man; the shadows in the sunken cheeks did not resemble those on living skin, but were dry and dusty like the autumn leaves. His gaze was fixed upon the ground at his feet; but, as he drew up to Gordon, he raised his head.
Into the dullness of his eyes, his slack lips, crept a dim recognition; among the ashes of his consciousness a spark glowed—a single, live coal of bitter hate.
“How are you, Buckley?” Gordon pronounced slowly.
The other’s hands clenched as the wave of emotion crossed the blank countenance. Then the hands relaxed, the face was again empty. He continued, oblivious of Gordon’s salutation, of his presence, upon his way.
Gordon Makimmon stood for a moment gazing after him. Then, as he turned, he saw that there was a small group of men on the Courthouse lawn; he saw the sheriff standing facing them from the steps, gesticulating.
II
The purpose of this gathering was instantly apparent to him, it stirred obscure memories into being.—A property was being publicly sold for debt.
The trooping thoughts of the past filled his mind; thoughts, it seemed to him, of another than himself. Surely it had been another Gordon Makimmon that, sitting before theBugleoffice, had heard the sheriff enumerating the scant properties of the old freehold by the stream to satisfy the insatiable greed of Valentine Simmons. It had been a younger man than himself by fifteen years. Yet, actually, it had been scarcely more than three years since the storekeeper had had him sold out.
That other Makimmon had been a man of incredibly vivid interests and emotions. Now it appeared to him that, in all the world, there was not a cause for feeling, not an incentive to rouse the mind from apathy.
Stray periods reached him from the sheriff’s recounting of “a highly desirable piece of property.” His loud, flat voice had not changed by an inflection since he had “called out” Gordon’s home; the merely curious or materially interested onlookers were the same, the dragging bidding had, apparently, continued unbroken from the other occasion. The dun, identical repetition added to the overwhelming sense of universal monotony in Gordon Makimmon’s brain. He turned at the corner, by Simmons’ store, while the memories faded; the customary greyness, like a formless drift of cloud obscuring a mountain height, once more descended upon him.
At the back of the store a small open space was filled with broken crates, straw and boxes—the debris of unpacking. And there he saw a youthful woman sitting with her head turned partially from the road. As he passed a suppressed sob shook her. It captured his attention, and, with a slight, involuntary gasp, he saw her face. The memories returned in a tumultuous, dark tide—she reminded him vividly of Lettice. It was in the young curve of her cheeks, the blue of her eyes, and a sameness of rounded proportions, that the resemblance lay.
He stopped, without formulated reason, and in spite of her obvious desire for him to proceed.
“It’s hardly fit to sit here and cry before the whole County,” he observed.
“The whole County knows,” she returned in the egotism of youthful misery.
Her voice, too, was like Lettice’s—sweet with the premonition of the querulous note that, Rutherford Berry had once said, distinguished all good women.
A sudden intuition directed his gaze upon the Courthouse lawn.
“They’re selling you out,” he hazarded, “for debt.”
She nodded, with trembling lips. “Cannon is,” she specified.
Cannon was the storekeeper for whom his brother-in-law clerked. He thought again, how monotonous, how everlastingly alike, life was. “You just let the amount run on and on,” he continued; “you got this and that. Then, suddenly, Cannon wanted his money.”
Her eyes opened widely at his prescience. “But there was sickness too,” she added; “the baby died.”
“Ah,” Gordon said curtly. The lines in his worn face deepened, his mouth was inscrutable.
“If it hadn’t been for that,” she confided, “we could have got through. Everything had started fine. Alexander’s father had left him the place: there isn’t a better in the Bottom. Alexander says Mr. Cannon has always wanted it. Now ... now ...” her blue gaze blurred with slow tears.
Her similarity to Lettice grew still more apparent—she presented the same order, her white shirtwaist had been crisply ironed, her shoes were rubbed bright and neatly tied. He recalled this similitude suddenly, and it brought before him a clearly defined vision of Lettice, not as his wife, but of the girl he had driven to and from the school at Stenton. He had not thought of that Lettice for months, for three years; not since before she had died; not, he corrected himself drearily, since he had killed her. He had remembered the last phase, of the glazed and bloodless travesty of her youth. But even that lately had been lost in the fog of nothingness settling down upon him.
And now this girl, on a box back of Simmons’ store, brought the buried memories back into light. They disconcerted him, sweeping through the lassitude of his mind; they stirred shadowy specters of fear.... The voice of the sheriff carried to them, describing the excellent repair of incidental sheds.
“I nailed all the tar-paper on the—the chicken house,” she told him in a fresh accession of unhappiness, the tears spilling over her round, flushed cheeks.
It annoyed him to see her cry: it was as though Lettice was suffering again from old misery. His irritation grew at this seeming renewal of what had gone; it assumed the aspect of an intentional reproach, of Lettice returned to bother him with her pain and death. He turned sharply to continue on his way. But, almost immediately, he stopped.
“Your name?” he demanded.
“Adelaide Crandall.”
The Crandalls, he knew, were a reputable family living in the valley bottom east of Greenstream village. Matthew Crandall had died a few years before, and, as this girl had indicated, had left a substantial farm to each of his sons. Cannon would get this one, and it was more than probable, the others.
The old enmity against Valentine Simmons, directed at Cannon, flamed afresh. Simmons or the other—what did the name matter? they were the same, a figurative apple press crushing the juice out of the country, leaving but a mash of hopes and lives. He stood irresolute, while Adelaide Crandall fought to control her emotions.
The badgering voice of the sheriff sounded again on his hearing. He crossed the road, pushed open the grinding iron gate of the fence that enclosed the Courthouse lawn, and made his way through the sere, fallen leaves to the steps.
III
“Twenty-seven hundred and ninety dollars,” the sheriff reiterated; “only twenty-seven ninety ... this fine bottom land, all cleared and buildings in best repair. Going! Going!”
“Three thousand,” a man called from the group facing the columned portico.
“Three thousand! Three thousand! Sale must be made. Going—”
“Thirty-one hundred,” Gordon pronounced abruptly.
A stir of renewed interest animated the sale. Gordon heard his name pronounced in accents of surprise. He was surprised at himself: his bid had been unpremeditated—it had leaped like a flash of ignited powder out of the resurrected enmity to Valentine Simmons, out of the memories stirred by the figure that resembled Lettice.
The sheriff immediately took up his bid. “Thirty-one hundred! thirty-one, gentlemen; only thirty-one for this fine bottom land, all cleared—”
There was a prolonged pause in the bidding, during which even the auctioneer grew apathetic. He repeated the assertion that the buildings were in the best repair; then, abruptly, concluded the sale. Gordon had purchased the farm for thirty-one hundred dollars.
He despatched, in the Courthouse, the necessary formalities. When he emerged the group on the lawn had dwindled to three people conversing intently. A young man with heavy shoulders already bowed, clad in unaccustomed, stiff best clothes, advanced to meet him.
“Mr. Makimmon,” he began; “you got my place.... There’s none better. I’ve put a lot of work into it. I’ll—I’ll get my things out soon’s I can. If you can give me some time; my wife—”
“I can give you a life,” Gordon replied brusquely. He walked past Alexander Crandall to his wife. She turned her face from him. He said:
“You go back to the Bottom. I’ve fixed Cannon ... this time. Tell your husband he can pay me when it suits; the place is yours.” He swung on his heel and strode away.
IV
The fitful wind had, apparently, driven the warmth, the sun, from the earth. The mountains rose starkly to the slaty sky.
Gordon Makimmon lighted a lamp in the dining room of his dwelling. The table still bore a red, fringed cloth, but was bare of all else save the castor, most of the rings of which were empty. The room had a forlorn appearance, there was dust everywhere; Gordon had pitched the headstall into a corner, where it lay upon a miscellaneous, untidy pile.
“I reckon you want something to eat,” he observed to General Jackson. He proceeded, followed by the dog, to the kitchen. It revealed an appalling disorder: the stove was spotted with grease, grey with settled ashes; a pile of ashes and broken china rose beyond; on the other side coal and wood had been carelessly stored. A table was laden with unwashed dishes, unsavory pots, crusted pans.
Gordon stood in the middle of the floor, a lamp in his hand, surveying the repellent confusion. It had accumulated without attracting his notice; but now, suddenly detached from the aimless procession of the past months, it was palpable to him, unendurable. “It’s not fit for a dog,” he pronounced.
An expression of determination settled on his seamed countenance; he took off his coat and hung it on a peg in the door. Outside, by an ash-pit, he found a bucket and half-buried shovel. A minute after the kitchen was filled with grey clouds as he shoveled the ashes into the bucket for removal. He worked vigorously, and the pile soon disappeared; the wood and coal followed, carried out to where a bin was built against the house. Then he raked the fire from the stove.
It was cold within, but Gordon glowed with the heat of his energy. He filled a basin with water, and, with an old brush and piece of sandsoap, attacked the stove. He scrubbed until the surface exhibited a dull, even black; then, in a cupboard, he discovered an old box of stove polish, and soon the iron was gleaming in the lamplight. He laid and lit a fire, put on a tin boiler of water for heating; and then carried all the movables into the night. After which he fed General Jackson.
He flooded the kitchen floor and scrubbed and scraped until the boards were immaculate. Then, with a wet towel about a broom, he cleaned the walls and ceiling; he washed the panes of window glass. The dishes followed; they were dried and ranged in rigid rows on the dresser; the pots were scoured and placed in the closets underneath. Now, he thought vindictively, when he had finished, the kitchen would suit even Sim Caley’s wife—the old vinegar bottle.
The Caleys had left his house the morning following Lettice’s funeral. Mrs. Caley had departed without a word; Sim with but a brief, awkward farewell. Since then Gordon had lived alone in the house; but he now realized that it was not desirable, practicable. Things, he knew, would soon return to the dirt and disorder of a few hours ago. He needed some one, a woman, to keep the place decent. His necessity recalled the children of his sister.... There was only Rose; the next girl was too young for dependence. The former had been married a year now, and had a baby. Her husband had been in the village only the week before in search of employment, which he had been unable to secure, and it was immaterial where in the County they lived.
V
The couple grasped avidly at the opportunity to live with him. The youth had already evaporated from Rose’s countenance; her minute mouth and constantly lifted eyebrows expressed an inwardly-gratifying sense of superiority, an effect strengthened by her thin, affected speech. Across her narrow brow a fringe of hair fell which she was continually crimping with an iron heated in the kitchen stove, permeating the room with a lingering and villainous odor of burned hair.
William Vibard was a man with a passion—the accordion. He arrived with the instrument in a glossy black paper box, produced it at the first opportunity, and sat by the stove drawing it out to incredible lengths in the production of still more incredible sounds. He held one boxlike end, with its metallic stops, by his left ear, while his right hand, unfalteringly fixed in the strap of the other end, operated largely in the region of his stomach.
He had a book of instructions and melodies printed in highly-simplified and explanatory bars, which he balanced on his knee while he struggled in their execution.
He was a youth of large, palpable bones, joints and knuckles; his face was long and preternaturally pale, and bore an abstracted expression which deepened almost to idiocy when bent above the quavering, unaccountable accordion.
The Vibard baby was alarmingly little, with a bluish face; and, as if in protest against her father’s interminable noise, lay wrapped in a knitted red blanket without a murmur, without a stir of her midgelike form, hour upon hour.
VI
Some days after the Vibards’ arrival Gordon Makimmon was standing by the stable door, in the crisp flood of midday, when an ungainly young man strode about the corner of the dwelling and approached him.
“You’re Makimmon,” he half queried, half asserted. “I’m Edgar Crandall, Alexander’s brother.” He took off his hat, and passed his hand in a quick gesture across his brow. He had close-cut, vivid red hair bristling like a helmet over a long, narrow skull, and a thrusting grey gaze. “I came to see you,” he continued, “because of what you did for Alec. I can’t make out just what it was; but he says you saved his farm, pulled it right out of Cannon’s fingers, and that you’ve given him all the time he needs to pay it back—” He paused.
“Well,” Gordon responded, “and if I did?”
“I studied over it at first,” the other frankly admitted; “I thought you must have a string tied to something. I know Alexander’s place, it’s a good farm, but ... I studied and studied until I saw there couldn’t be more in it than what appeared. I don’t know why—”
“Why should you?” Gordon interrupted brusquely, annoyed by this searching into the reason for his purchase of the farm, into the region of his memories.
“I didn’t come here to ask questions,” the other quickly assured him; “but to borrow four thousand dollars.”
“Why not forty?” Gordon asked dryly.
“Because I couldn’t put it out at profit, now.” Edgar Crandall ignored the other’s factitious manner: “but I can turn four over two or three times in a reasonable period. I can’t give you any security, everything’s covered I own; that’s why I came to you.”
“You heard I was a fool with some money?”
“You didn’t ask any security of Alexander,” he retorted. “No, I came to you because there was something different in what you did from all I had ever known before. I can’t tell what I mean; it had a—well, a sort of big indifference about it. It seemed to me perhaps life hadn’t got you in the fix it had most of us; that you were free.”
“You must think I’m free—with four thousand dollars.”
“Apples,” the other continued resolutely. “I’ve got the ground, acres of prime sunny slope. I’ve read about apple growing and talked to men who know. I’ve been to Albermarle County. I can do the same thing in the Bottom. Ask anybody who knows me if I’ll work. I can pay the money back all right. But, if I know you from what you did, that’s not the thing to talk about now.
“I want a chance,” he drove a knotted fist into a hardened palm; “I want a chance to bring out what’s in me and in my land. I want my own! The place came to me clear, with a little money; but I wasn’t content with a crop of fodder. I improved and experimented with the soil till I found out what was in her. Now I know; but I can’t plant a sapling, I can’t raise an apple, without binding myself to the Cannons and Hollidews of the County for life.
“I’d be their man, growing their fruit, paying them their profits. They would stop at the fence, behind their span of pacers, and watch me—their slave—sweating in the field or orchard.”
“You seem to think,” Gordon observed, “that you ought to have some special favor, that what grinds other men ought to miss you. Old Pompey sold out many a better man, and grabbed richer farms. And anyhow, if I was to money all that Cannon and Valentine Simmons got hold of where would I be?—Here’s two of you in one family, in no time at all.... If that got about I’d have five hundred breaking the door in.”
The animation died from Edgar Crandall’s face; he pulled his hat over the flaming helmet of hair. “I might have known such things ain’t true,” he said; “it was just a freak that saved Alec. There’s no chance for a man, for a living, in these dam’ mountains. They look big and open and free, but Greenstream’s the littlest, meanest place on the earth. The paper-shavers own the sky and air. Well, I’ll let the ground rot, I won’t work my guts out for any one else.”
He turned sharply and disappeared about the corner of the dwelling. Gordon moved to watch him stride up the slope to where a horse was tied by the public road. Crandall swung himself into the saddle, brought his heels savagely into the horse’s sides, and clattered over the road.
Gordon Makimmon’s annoyance quickly evaporated; he thought with a measure of amusement of the impetuous young man who was not content to grow a crop of fodder. If the men of Greenstream all resembled Edgar Crandall, he realized, the Cannons would have an uneasy time. He thought of the brother, Alexander, of Alexander’s wife, who resembled Lettice, and determined to drive soon to the Bottom and see them and the farm. He would have to make a practicable arrangement with regard to the latter, secure his intention, avoid question, by a nominal scheme of payment.