Later, when the hollows lay in shadow and only the crowns of the hills glistened in the departing sunshine, Coats Penniman came back through the woods.
Sue had gone about the house oppressed by the terror she tried to keep out of her face. She was gripped by the certainty that there was even worse trouble in store for them than merely the shame Ann had brought upon them. The thought of it made her weak-kneed and sick, yet she tried to do the usual things in the usual way. She persuaded her father to have an early supper and go to bed, and she sent Rachel to her cabin, gave her an unexpected evening off. They would have their wretchedness to themselves for one night at least. If only it did not end in tragedy! Coats' grimly purposeful look obsessed her. And in all her coming and going, from the kitchen landing, when she was down-stairs, from an upper window, while she waited for her father to go to sleep, she watched the woods.
Sue had watched Coats in terror when he went down to the woods; she watched in terror when she saw him coming back. He had gone quickly, but was coming back slowly, bent forward and walking as if each step was an effort. His coat was off, laid over one shoulder, and his free hand held it in place, so that it covered his other arm.
Sue ran down the spring-house path, and they met as he was dragging himself up to the willows. She did not need to ask if anything had happened, for Coats was ghastly pale, and, even before she reached him, she saw that he was walking so slowly because he could not walk any faster, though, from the strained look in his eyes and the effort he was making, it was plain that he wanted to hurry. They had fought and he was terribly hurt; they had tried to kill him, and suddenly rage sprang up in Sue, commingled with her fear that he was mortally wounded.
Even before she reached him, she cried, "Coats, they've hurt you—"
"I've been shot," Coats said, in a voice that was not his it was so lifeless.
He spoke with great difficulty, as if he were about to faint, yet at her horrified exclamation he frowned and looked about him. "Hush!" he said thickly. "It's just my arm—but I've bled so I'm almost done.... Get me a drink of water."
Sue obeyed him instantly and in silence. He looked grim and determined—in spite of his exhaustion; somberly excited and at the same time fearful of something, of being overcome by weakness, for one thing. Sue visioned the worst as she hurriedly filled the tin cup she took from one of the jutting logs of the spring-house. He was not fatally hurt; her greatest terror had been quieted, and the fighting blood of the Pennimans lifted in her, giving her courage. If he had killed a Westmore it was that Westmore's due. Hatred of their hereditary enemy nerved her. No matter what Coats had done in his righteous anger, she would stand by him; she would stand and fall with Coats—no matter what came. Even the sight of his blood-soaked coat did not turn her faint.
Coats was leaning against the spring-house, and she put her arm about him, holding the cup to his lips, for he kept his uninjured hand pressed to his shoulder. "Don't you worry, Coats," she said resolutely. "I'm not frightened now. Just you drink this, an' then let me help you up to the house. I've got father to bed an' I've sent Rachel home an' Ben's not about. Just you tell me—I'll stand by you no matter what it is, Coats."
Evidently he did not mean to tell her, or else his haste was too great to waste precious moments. The water had revived him somewhat. "I'm not going to the house," he said more clearly than he had spoken before. "Go up and get something soft to wrap my arm in. Bring it to the barn—I'll manage to get up there and wait for you—in the wagon-shed. Don't let anybody know what you're about—just come to the barn to me.... Has Ann come back?"
"No. Ain't you seen her, Coats?"
"No." He paused to think, intently, though his face was twitching from pain. Then he went on hurriedly, "It's just as well—it's better she shouldn't know.... She'll come back. Put a note where she's sure to find it—just say that we've gone driving and won't be back till late, and that she's to look after her grandfather; that she's not to leave the house; that Ben will be there, so she needn't feel nervous. Say that and nothing more. Then get your hat and things and something to put around my arm and another coat for me—I want you to drive me into the city as fast as you can. I'd not take you with me, but I can't manage by myself."
"Coats! You can't go all that way with your arm like that! You've got to have a doctor!" Every word he had uttered made her the more certain that there had been a tragedy, something so terrible that he was afraid of arrest. He was afraid to tell her, and she was afraid to ask him. "You can't go like that," she reiterated helplessly. "You'll bleed to death." The thought of it made her sick.
Coats broke into sudden impatience. "I'm going to a doctor! We can't have a doctor from the Ridge! I want to get to the city as fast as I can. It's the only way. I know what I'm about—I'm trying to do what's best for us all—I've had time to think. Ann and your father mustn't know—what's not known can't be told. I'll explain while we're on our way. Go and do what I told you, then come and hitch up Billy—he's the best traveler.... Hurry, Sue—God knows what I'd do if I hadn't you to help me." His voice failed at the end; he was panting from exhaustion.
Sue obeyed without a word.
Twenty minutes later, when Ann came out from beneath the pines at the edge of the woods and started down through the fields to the house, she saw Sue and Coats driving away from the barn. She could not see distinctly, they were too far away, but she noticed that they were going fast. Evidently they had had supper and were going somewhere together, as they so often did.
Ann had not realized how late it was until the sun touched the horizon. She was reminded then that it was past the supper hour and that they would wonder what had become of her. She must have sat for two hours there, under the pines, simply thinking of her happiness. She had wanted to be alone with it, just as long as she could be. Once she had carried her grief and her desolation to that place; it seemed the right place to come with her joy.
Ann was glad she was going to have the evening to herself, just to sit on the porch and think. The farm and everything connected with it had faded into distance since that hour with Edward. They belonged to each other. The joy of it! During those two weeks of anxious thought over Garvin, she had realized that Edward was more to her than any one else in the world. And she knew now that he loved her as she loved him. She was solemnly, gratefully happy. He was wise and loving and wonderful; he filled the place of friend, father and lover. The ache of loneliness she had carried about with her since she was a little thing was stilled.
Ann had thought of Garvin many times that afternoon. Edward had talked about him while they sat together in the hollow. The first time she and Edward had met after she had given Garvin her promise, she had gathered up her courage and had told Edward of her engagement to his brother. Ann had felt that she must tell him. She had given Edward every detail of her acquaintance with his brother.
Edward had listened to her, never taking his eyes from her face, and when she had finished he was a little gray about the lips, as he had been while she handled the runaway horse, but all he had said was, "You don't love Garvin, Ann."
"I'm fond of him," Ann had said in deep distress.
"You don't love him—you have been spared that," Edward had repeated quietly.
"I don't love him as he loves me—I promised to marry him when I was angry and wretched," Ann had confessed.
"Yes, I understand that," Edward had said in the same steady way. "You neither love him nor will you marry him. Before long you will collect courage to write Garvin exactly how you feel. I'd rather have it that way. Then he will accommodate himself to it without going mad over it, which will be the best solution for him. And in the meantime he shall not come near you." Then he had smiled at her as he often did. "You love to be loved too well to love easily, my little Ann. But it won't always be so."
"I am so sorry for him," Ann had said.
"We are all sorry for him," Edward had answered. "By and by you will understand why."
It had been Edward's last word on the subject. In their following meetings, he had held his peace, listening intently to Ann's troubled thoughts—until that afternoon, when she had told him that she had written to Garvin, and what she had written. Then, in that steady way of his, Edward had told her what she was to him, and heaven had opened to Ann. He had filled her heart completely.
Edward had gone back over the years and had told her about his life; about his leaving Westmore; about his marriage; about their future together. And then he had told her about Garvin, and Ann had understood why she had been drawn to Garvin and had pitied him, and yet had felt repelled. He was one of the unfortunates of the world.
Edward had not even hinted at what he knew had been Garvin's endeavor and that she had been walking on the edge of a precipice over which many would have fallen; that her elusiveness and her innocence, and, more than anything else, the quality of her affection for Garvin had probably saved her. He allowed her to think affectionately and pityingly of his brother; when he took Ann unto himself, Garvin would necessarily be part of her inheritance.
Ann was still absorbed when she came slowly down from the woods and into the house. Sue's note was lying on Ann's plate, and she read it somewhat vaguely: she was to take care of her grandfather while they were away; they would not be back until very late, but Ben would be there so she need not feel anxious.... Ann turned away from the table; she did not want anything to eat. She went up, dutifully, to see whether her grandfather needed anything, and, finding him asleep, went to her room. Then she saw her gaping trunk, Edward's books flung out on the floor ... and that Garvin's letters were not there.
At first she was terrified, for the spell of secrecy was still upon her, and the fear of harm to Edward and to Garvin. But then it came to her as a tremendous relief that Edward would know how to guard himself and how to shield Garvin. He was very wise and careful. He had said to her, "I mean to tell Garvin everything just as soon as I feel it is wise to do so. I shall write to Coats Penniman at once, but I am afraid the Penniman enmity is insurmountable. If it is, we must wait until you are of age, and that will be in October." Edward would know what to do and what to say to them; she need not be frightened.
As she sat on the porch, listening to the night sounds, Ann kept repeating to herself that she need not be frightened, and her faith in Edward's wisdom was so complete that she slipped into visions of the future. It was a dark night illumined only by the orange-red glow in the west, and it was fading rapidly. It was going to be a black night, misty with the prescience of rain.
It grew so dark that even the outlines of the nearest objects faded into the enveloping blackness, but Ann did not move; she was still dreaming with eyes wide, quite alone yet content.
It was after sundown when Judith lifted from her work over the flower-bed on the terrace and looked at the glow in the western sky. It was twilight; time for Garvin to come from the city, and Edward from his daily ride to the club; another long evening before her without the relief of active work.
Would Baird come that evening? Since her visitors had gone, there had been significant intervals between his calls, and she was quite helpless in the matter. She was filled with a passionate revolt against what she felt was woman's helplessness. If she had a man's opportunities, how long would she remain quiescent at Westmore, a slave to a routine that had begun to gall her intolerably! And any day she might be set aside.
Judith had endlessly pondered Edward's tense championship of Ann, and Baird's interest in the girl. What was going to grow out of it all? Something certainly that would make Westmore unendurable to her. After fifteen years of mental and physical toil, she was a dependent, unskilled in any direction—except as a housekeeper—the spinster adjunct to a family that would not need her. It was the fate of most women who conserved and conserved. It was her rearing that had made her what she was. If she had defied the family conventions and had gone out into the world, she could easily have made a life for herself. It was men who held the winning cards.... Judith's gardening had been a relief. She could look her thoughts while she worked; the warm earth her strong hands had prodded and pressed was a safe confidant.
She stood with hand shading her face, looking at the sunset glow, her lips shut in a straight line, her eyes smoldering. When the thud of steps on the porch above warned her that some one was coming, she turned with her usual swift decision, but first she had wiped expression from her face, a resolute downward movement of her hand from which her eyes emerged, level and questioning.
It was Ben Brokaw who was hurrying down to her, his long arms hanging and his body bent, his usual position when running and which was oddly suggestive of primordial locomotion. The smile that grew in Judith's eyes as she watched the grotesque creature changed quickly into a frown when she saw his face. He had evidently run some distance, for there was about him the steaming heat of a hard-driven animal. But his ridged and mottled face was curiously drawn and tense. He had brought up within a few feet of her, had paused and straightened.
With the instant alarm of one inured to apprehension, Judith asked, "What has happened?"
Ben could express himself only in the way natural to him. "Miss Judith, there ain't no time fo' me to come around slow to what I've got to tell, an' you ain't one to go under, you're Westmo' through an' through.... Miss Judith, the Mine Banks is claimed another Westmo'."
"Garvin?" Judith asked through suddenly blanched lips.
"Not him, tho' there's no tellin' about him. It's Edward, Miss Judith."
"Edward ... not Edward—" Judith's voice was entirely without modulation.
Ben hurried over his explanation. "I were watchin' over Ann, like Edward had told me to do—it's Edward I've been workin' for this spring, not Coats Penniman. I had found out that Garvin was meeting Ann, an' Edward had told me not to let Garvin come near Ann again. Edward knowed that Ann were safe if I watched over her. This afternoon Edward had been talkin' with Ann, down by the Back Road, an' when he went and Ann went up in the woods, I was clost to her. When she went down to the house I went to the Banks. I'd heard shootin' there, but that's always goin' on about here, I didn't think nothin' of that, but I was scart by things I seen when I got to the Banks, an' I looked about. I found him, Miss Judith, he's lyin' like one gone peaceful to sleep—the little thing what killed him done its work quick."
"You mean—he's been shot—to death—?" Judith whispered with pauses.
"Yes." Ben looked down at the flower-bed.
"By whom?" She had straightened, flung back her head.
Ben was silent.
Judith went to him, laid her steel grip on his shoulder. "You tell me!... There's only one man in the world would do that.... You know who did it—tell me this instant what you know!"
Ben looked at her, a glance that dropped away from the fire in her eyes. "It weren't the man you think. Coats Penniman's knowed nothin' of what's been goin' on. An' I don't know nothin' either—that's my answer to any who may ask, an' always will be," he said doggedly, "but there's things I'll tell you an' no one else.... Edward loved Ann, Miss Judith. He loved her very dear, an' he's seen her pretty constant. An' Garvin, he were mad over her, like it's in him to be. Edward made him keep away from Ann—there were hard feelin' between them because of it. But Edward didn't tell Garvin about Ann and hisself. 'Tain't a thing Edward would confide to Garvin—there ain't many things you or Edward ever has trusted to Garvin. I think Garvin suspicioned Edward to-day—that Edward were seein' Ann—and—" He stopped, then went on. "An' Edward come back by the Banks—" he stopped again.
Judith had drawn back as if the sight of him burned her. "You're wrong!" she said passionately. "Garvin was in the city to-day!"
Ben looked at her, pity and affection and respect struggling together in his eyes and in his voice. "He were at the Banks, Miss Judith. The traces of him was there. He had hid Black Betty, but I run acrost her, an' up to Crest Cave I foun' the letter Ann had wrote him, sayin' she wouldn't have him. An' he'd been drinkin'—I foun' the bottle. An' then, when I stood up by Crest Cave, I seen Garvin go acrost from the Mine Banks Road to the creek. It scart me the way he went—like he was hidin' hisself. I was so scart I went down to the road an' first I saw Edward's horse, an' then I foun' where he lay."
Judith's hand had covered her lips, as if to smother a shriek; over it her eyes stared at him.
"There weren't no one else at the Banks but Garvin when I was there—I'd have knowed it jest so quick as a dog, if there had been. I'd already took the letter—I run to you then.... Miss Judith, I don't need to tell you what all this'll come to. Garvin's jest gone mad, but if he comes to hisself like he does, who'll believe it? The law'll get him, Miss Judith. An' that ain't all—every bit of all your family history will be gone into. And Ann's name will be ruined. It will be the end of Westmo'. I never come up against nothin' like this befo'—I'm jest helpless!" The big creature looked both helpless and desperate.
Judith turned abruptly, faced God's half-acre, and Ben stood still with eyes on her rigid shoulders and carven profile. He knew Judith Westmore well; there was no room for grief, no limit to her capability when the family name was at stake.
It was not for long; she faced him again. "Where was he shot?" she asked stiffly.
Ben lifted a finger to his forehead.
Her mask-like face twitched, then was controlled. "Where is he—lying?" she asked, with the same difficulty over her words. "In the road?... Where some one may pass?"
"No—off the road—in the hollow—near the first ore-pit."
"In the bushes and grass?"
"Yes."
"Did you search around—him?"
"No. I saw he were gone—then I come quick."
Judith nodded. "Go to the barn and put the horses in the light wagon. There's no one there—the men have gone. Saddle another horse for yourself. I'll get some things from the house and come out to you. Go quick—I'll be quick."
"Are you goin' to the Banks?" Ben asked.
"I'll tell you when I come back. Go put the horses in," and she turned and walked rapidly to the house.
She returned to Ben's side before he had finished harnessing the horses. She was laden with blankets and a pillow, and, after she had put them into the wagon, her skilful hands helped him. She worked swiftly and accurately, her hard, short-drawn breathing alone indicative of tense emotion and desperate haste. She spoke low and decidedly.
"We'll have to face it the best way we can.... I want you to ride to the Copeleys'. Tell Cousin Copeley just that you found Edward—shot at the Banks, and that you came straight off to me—just that and nothing more.... Tell any one who asks—just that. Tell Cousin Copeley to come quick to the Banks to meet me. Then have him send one of the boys for the doctor and have him bring him to Westmore.... I'm going down through the woods to the Smiths'. I'll get Allen Smith and his son to go with me to the Banks—they're the nearest men I can reach, and they're not relations—I'd rather have them with me."
Judith said no more until they were ready. Then she put her hands on his huge shoulders. Even in the dim light he could see that her eyes were brimming. "Ben, you are our friend?" she asked very low. "You will stand by me?"
"I'd die befo' I hurt a Westmo'—or a Penniman," he said as huskily as she.
"I believe it, Ben.... Do this for me then: find Garvin and bring him to Westmore. It's the place where he'll be safest. Tell him I said so. He'll listen to you when he wouldn't to any one else. And there's no one who can find him in the night as you can. And, Ben, have him come back on Black Betty, if you can, and if you can't—" She paused and thought a moment. "If you can't, get Betty into the club stables during the night.... You're not afraid to do that for me, Ben?"
Ben's growl was sufficient answer.
Her hands dropped. "We'll go then," she said more clearly.
Ben held her back a moment. "Miss Judith, you'll not put this on a Penniman, an' you'll keep Ann's name out of it if you can?"
"No—I'll not accuse a Penniman. The dead can't speak—or suffer—let them bear the blame."
Baird was riding slowly back from Westmore to the club. Even if he had been in the mood for rapid riding, he would not have attempted it; it was too dark a night. As it was, he was too much absorbed by his thoughts to hurry his horse. He was thinking of the group of proud people he had left standing guard over their dead. And he was thinking of Ann. Did she know?
The thing was terrible. The news had reached the club before the sunset glow had faded from the sky, brought to Sam by a Westmore negro and transmitted by him to the men who were dining at the club: Edward Westmore had taken his own life—at the Mine Banks. The men had scattered to their homes with the news, and Baird had ridden at once to Westmore.
There was nothing he could do; the family had already collected. Even Colonel Dickenson had been sent for and would reach Westmore before midnight. At Westmore Baird had learned a few details: Ben Brokaw had found the body and had run to Westmore with the news, and Judith and the two neighbors she took with her had discovered Edward's pistol, with one chamber emptied, lying in the grass not far from his hand. It was the ivory-handled, silver-chased weapon that all of them knew so well, which Edward always kept loaded and often carried.
Mr. Copeley had said to Baird: "We can't account for such an act on Edward's part. The only reason we can give to ourselves is that during the past year he has suffered from occasional attacks of heart trouble. That's the reason he wouldn't hunt and always rode so slowly. It may have preyed on his mind.... It is most kind of you to come, Mr. Baird, and we all thank you; but there is nothing you can do." Baird had remained only a few moments.
Brave people! Courteous and dignified even when in the deepest distress. During the moment Judith had given him, Baird had bent to her hand in profound admiration. She was deadly pale, but erect and clear-voiced. She was a woman in a million, was Judith Westmore!... And he had liked Edward almost better than any man he had ever known.... And Ann? Did she know yet?
Baird was thinking intently of Ann. As soon as the shock of the thing had worn off, he had thought of Ann. Since the night before, when Ann had said, "I'd rather you stayed away," he had been as unhappy as he had thought it possible for him to be, wretched because he felt unable to get out and fight for the thing he had begun to want badly.
Baird's horse had brought him down into the hollow, to where the creek crossed the Post-Road. Beyond was the long upgrade at the summit of which he would turn off into the club road, the extension of the Pennimans' cedar avenue.... Who would tell Ann? And how much would it mean to her?
Baird's horse had come to the bridge, his hoofs had struck the planks, when he stopped abruptly, with fore-feet planted. When Baird spoke to him, he snorted and backed.
Baird knew the signs of fright, but when he peered over the animal's head he could see nothing. It was impossible toseeanything in that density of gloom; one could onlyfeel. He spoke to his horse again, but the creature refused to move. There was certainly some good reason for such reluctance; the bridge was dangerously ramshackle, and should have been condemned long ago.
Baird dismounted, led his horse to the roadside, and groped until he found a tree to which he could tie him. He went back to the bridge and, kneeling, felt his way along. He came upon it very soon; his hand left the plank and reached into space, a yawning hole wider certainly than the length of his arm, for there appeared to be nothing beyond.
He crept along then to the side of the bridge, and, presently, he made it out: beyond the broken and splintered end of timber which supported the planks on which he was, there was no bridge. It had been torn away, had collapsed. Full fifteen feet below, in the blackness, the creek tore along, fretted by the rocks. Whatever had jammed through that rotten structure had gone to certain destruction.... An automobile!
A certainty, something more than a premonition of a disaster to which he had played agent, turned Baird hot. He hung over the black gulf, trying to see, alive with dread of what he might see.... He could not see, but he could smell. It was an exhalation from below, the odor of gasoline; he was right, then.
Baird straightened, energetic, as always when action was demanded.... If only he had a lantern!... He remembered that he had matches, and struck one. The breeze, faint though it was, snuffed it out. He tried another with the same result. His next effort was a torch, a letter twisted so as to burn as long as possible.
It served his purpose, a flickering revelation of a mass of wreckage thrust against the shelving bank of the creek—until the flame crept to his fingers and he was forced to drop the charred paper. He sprang up and went back to the road, not to get help, that did not occur to him, but to get down to the thing below as soon as possible. There might be life lingering beneath that mass of wreckage.
Baird encountered a snake fence and an almost impassable mat of briers, but even in the darkness he felt sure of his direction, certain of it when he slid down into mud and water. He stood still, trying to determine just where the wrecked machine lay; to his left? His olfactory nerves helped him, and his hand soon touched a bit of the wreckage, an upflung wheel, then the rear of the car. Baird was trying to discover all he could first by feeling. He had a note-book in his pocket with which to make a brief bonfire, but he was saving that. If only he had a lantern!
It was the smell of a reeking wick that suggested a possibility. In 1905, an automobile was not equipped with electricity; its tail light was a lantern. Baird's hand had encountered it, its glass shattered, but the metal lamp intact and still warm. He lighted the wick; though inadequately equipped, he could find his way about now.
The machine lay against a rock, half-overturned, and with nose buried in the soft earth of the bank. Baird made his way forward on its other side. Engine, wheel and seat were jammed against the rock and half-buried in the earth, but by climbing over the rock he reached the top of the pile, and could throw the light on the confused mass.
For a moment he knelt motionless above the thing he saw, weakened by a wave of physical inability; it was not the Mine Banks alone that had claimed a Westmore.... Then he made certain that the body below was without pulse or heartbeat, and that his utmost strength could not move the mass that rested on it. The end must have come as instantaneously to one brother as it had to the other.
It was of Judith, Baird was thinking as he prepared to go back. He must take the word to Westmore.... And by some means, he must prevent travelers on the Post-Road from plunging into this death-trap. He felt a little dizzy and sick.
Baird held the light up, trying to see the bank above. He kept it upheld, staring at what it revealed—a woman's crumpled body flung against the soft loamy earth, a white blot against a black background. Even before he reached her, Baird knew who she was, and the thought was quicker than his forward plunge: "It was Garvin she loved, and Edward knew it. It was that had 'preyed' on his mind."
Baird's first terror, when his hands discovered warmth in her body, was that it was deceptive—life might be gone ... or it might be passing fast, was his fear when he found that her heart was beating; it beat so faintly against his hand. He brushed the hair from her face and brought the light close, but Ann's eyes remained closed, her lips colorless, her skin bluey-white; life was merely flickering.
Something infinitely painful rose up in Baird and choked him, a hurt greater than anything he had ever known, a profounder sense of desolation than he had had when his father lay dying. He wanted to hold her against his breast.
When he lifted her, she sighed, and the unexpected assurance of life galvanized him. He laid her down and stumbled to the creek. He brought back a little water in his cupped hands and dropped it on her face, then he rubbed her forehead with his wet hands.
It did not bring her back to consciousness, but hope had him now, coupled with a definite purpose: to get her away as soon as possible, back to her home. It would not be possible to carry her through that network of briers, but if he made his way up the creek to where there was less undergrowth he could reach the pasture. Then he could get his horse.
It was no easy matter to carry her limp body and still keep a hand free for the lantern. He made his slow way around rocks, half the time wading in water, more than once almost falling. He was nearly exhausted by combined anxiety and exertion when circumstance favored him; he came to a wide path tracked by the cattle, an easy ascent. When he reached the pasture, he laid his burden down, put the lantern where it would serve as a guide for his return.
He skirted the undergrowth along the creek without much difficulty, avoided the brier-patch, and came to the rail fence, shortly above where his horse was tied. He took down a tier of rails that he might lead him through, and his return was even more rapid than his going.
To mount his horse with Ann laid across his shoulder taxed every muscle in his body, and to hold her inert weight half-seated before him and dragging over one arm while he kept one hand free to guide his horse took both strength and skill.
Baird found the Back Road by keeping, as nearly as he could judge, parallel with the Post-Road. With his horse's head turned homeward, his task was not so difficult, for the animal strode along the familiar way, needing no guidance. In his relief, Baird kissed Ann's upturned face. "It won't be long now," he whispered. In his stress he had forgotten the hole in the bridge; forgotten Edward; forgotten Garvin; forgotten every one but Ann; forgotten even himself.
Their entrance into the woods was like passing from a darkness in which objects could be sensed into the thicker blackness of a tunnel. Baird could tell where the road led off to the club only by the turn his horse made. He forced him to back and then urged him straight ahead. Once on the Penniman Road, the animal could be trusted to keep on. That he did keep on and with the lessened speed of the horse walking away from his stable was the only guarantee Baird had that they were going in the right direction.
In time they emerged from the tunnel, into what seemed, by contrast, a normality. Baird had loathed the palpable blackness that had shrouded Ann's vague outline; he had seemed to be embracing an unreality. When they neared the barn and a horse in the enclosure whinnied, it was like hearing a friendly voice. Baird forced his horse to circle the barn, started him on the road leading to the front of the house, which the animal took gladly because again headed for the club, and checked him before the vague black mass which was the house. There was no lighted window, no sign of anxiety or of welcome.
Baird dismounted and laid Ann gently on the grass. If there was any one in that apparently heartless house to whom he could entrust her, he would ride for a doctor. He left her on the grass—better that two should move her with the care two could give—and went to the living-room door. He knocked, then pounded, then called, and was answered by total silence.
A chill touched him; was the whole world dead? Where were they all at this hour of the night? He lighted a match and, for the first time that night, looked at his watch. It was only a few minutes after ten. Baird's disbelief was so complete that he put the watch to his ear, and even when he found it ticking steadily he could not credit what it had told him. It seemed to Baird that he had spent hours under the bridge and that he had agonized half the night over Ann. But there was one comfort, if his watch was right, Ann had not been unconscious half the night. And her family were probably simply out for the evening and would be back.
He tried the door, found it unlocked, and, going in, lighted the lamp. Then he brought Ann to the couch. He could see her distinctly now, and his heart contracted as he looked at her; the limpness of her body and the waxen immobility of her face were terrifying, an inertia as complete as death. She was slipping away, and he did not know how to call her back.
As long as Baird had been fighting his way along through the night, he had been hopeful. But that vacant house!... If he went for help, Ann would die while he was gone; there was no doctor within four miles. If his ignorance struggled with that persistent unconsciousness, he might blunder fatally. He felt desperate.
Baird had sat for an hour with his fingers on Ann's wrist; from twelve o'clock until the living-room clock struck one. He had made his decision. As he had expressed it to himself, "I'll stand by my job."
Once, in South America, he and a companion had worked over a man who was dying from exhaustion. They had administered stimulants and had wrapped the man in hot blankets. Baird had ransacked the living-room and the kitchen, had come upon the family supply of simple remedies, among them a bottle of spirits of camphor, and, in the cedar chest beneath the stairs, had found a feather-bed laid away for the summer. He had built a fire in the kitchen stove and had heated water.
Baird had set to work then upon Ann's cold limp body, had taken off her shoes and stockings and had chafed her icy feet with hot water and camphor. He had opened her dress and had rubbed her chest and her arms and her hands with it. Then he had wrapped her closely in the feather-bed, and, lastly, he had tried to make her swallow a little of the mixture.
Though he had worked quickly, it had taken time, a lifetime of effort and of waiting, it had seemed to Baird, before even a slight warmth had crept into her body. When his fingers discovered a throb in her wrists, Baird was uplifted; he sprang from despair to hope. When her chest began gently to lift and fall, he climbed to the height of gratitude.
For an hour he had sat almost motionless, feeling life grow beneath his fingers, watching the ghastly white in Ann's face change to a more life-like hue. It seemed to him that the life in her was trying to answer to the life in him, that each throb of his heart transmitted a little and still a little more of its bounding vitality to her, and, gradually, a curious certainty had taken possession of Baird: that through his finger-tips he was pouring his superabundant strength into Ann's limp body, while with all his force he was willing her to live.
The conviction possessed him so completely that it blotted out the disjointed thoughts that had obtruded while he had longed for other assistance than his own: his anxiety over the absence of Ann's people; the suggestion that they had traveled by the Post-Road and had fallen into the death-trap he had left unguarded; his pangs of retrospective jealousy; his hopes for the future.
He was so concentrated upon his idea that all extraneous thoughts and impressions had faded from his brain. The collie had thrust himself in through the partly-open door and had nosed Baird's absorption and Ann's muffled form, and Baird had scarcely noticed him; the murky, indeterminate night had resolved itself into a steady rain, and Baird had not been aware of it; the clock had struck a single definite note, and Baird had not heard it, for Ann had stirred at last, had moved her head and sighed.
With the same curious certainty that his strength had led her back to life, and that if he called to her now she would answer, Baird bent to her ear: "Ann—?" he said softly. He called to her several times, softly, insistently, waited, then called again. When, finally, her eyelids lifted, he was so imbued with the certainty that speech would follow that the sweep of relief did not unsteady him. She was looking at him widely, fully, but without blankness. She knew him.
He waited, giving her time. It seemed to Baird that her half-awakened thoughts crossed her eyes like slowly-moving shadows. Then her gaze turned slowly from him to the room, to the half-open door and the blackness beyond. And suddenly recollection appeared to leap up in her, twitching the muscles in her face until it set in a mask of pain. She turned strained eyes on him, and speech broke from her, a voice husky but demanding:
"Is it true, what he told me—that Edward was dying?"
Baird had not thought it would be this way. He had not considered what Ann would say when she spoke; all he had thought was that, if only she could speak, he would know whether or not she was injured, whether she was in pain. Baird's native quickness and coolness almost forsook him; he retained only presence of mind enough to grasp the fact that it was Edward she loved, and that he dared not thrust the truth upon her suddenly and abnormally active brain.
He parleyed until he could think. "Who told you that, dear?"
Her speech came quickly and thickly: "Garvin. He came for me. He said Edward's horse threw him an' he was dyin' an' wanted me."
Baird had done his thinking, and had hazarded a guess as well. "He didn't tell you the truth," he said clearly and decidedly. "He simply wanted you to come with him."
She said nothing, but she relaxed; the rigid muscles in her face softened into relief and her eyes grew cloudy and slowly closed. The spurt of abnormal animation passed.
With a new fear tugging at him, Baird watched the moisture gather on her forehead and about her lips and noted the utter laxness of her hands and the weighted heaviness of her eyelids. Was she slipping into unconsciousness again? He bent over her.
"Ann, does your back hurt?" he begged.
She breathed rather than spoke the word, "No—"
"Do you feel any pain?"
She moved her head in denial.
"You're sleepy—that's all?"
She did not answer.
If she had fainted, it was a warm breathing unconsciousness like the sleep of exhaustion. And she had said she was not in pain.... As he listened to her regular breathing Baird gradually lost his fear; nature was helping her now. He loosened the hot thing in which she was wrapped, and sat with her hand in his; if she grew feverish he would know it. There was nothing over which he could exert himself; he must simply wait; sit there till morning, if no one came.
For the first time since the struggle had begun Baird thought of himself. He was fearfully tired, sore and aching and wet; he was wet and caked with mud almost to his waist. He was experiencing the reaction. Depression settled upon him.... So it was Edward she loved. That sort of love would hold for a long time; there was no hope for him.... That she had not been crushed or broken was one of the wonders, but she was not out of danger—her spine might be injured.... A wave of anger swept Baird, arousing him a little from depression: where were her people throughout all this tragedy? Why had they left her alone in the house for Garvin to mislead? For that must have been the way of it—he had told her a half-truth in order to get her away.... Then he sank back into depression.
When the clock struck two, Baird looked up at the slowly-traveling hands; the next would be the deadest hour of the night.
"Does she know about Edward?" Baird asked of Ben. He had followed Ben to the barn, and that was his first anxious question.
"Yes. I tol' her. She had to be told—I couldn't keep it from her. I tol' her before Sue come."
"God! How did she take it?"
Ben's eyes lighted. "Like a Penniman—or a Westmo' would take it!"
"You had courage," Baird breathed in relief. "I didn't dare tell her."
"I knowed who I talked to," Ben returned deeply. "Ann growed up under my han'—I know the blood that's in Ann. She's got courage, Ann has—I weren't afraid."
It was Ben Brokaw, not the Penniman family, who had come in out of the darkness and the rain and had watched over Ann while Baird had gone for the doctor. Between three and four o'clock, the sleeping collie had roused and gone out, and a few minutes later Baird had heard the approach of some one. When he sprang up, it was Ben who had confronted him, dripping wet, splashed with mud, small eyes peering and amazed. He had looked at Ann, prostrate, an instant of partial comprehension, then he had looked, as redly as any enraged animal, at Baird.
Baird's explanation had been succinct, and, after a moment of grief-stricken understanding, Ben had shown even a shrewder grasp of the situation than Baird himself. Their consultation had been a hurried one, but when Baird galloped off through the rain he had been supported by the certainty that he had left both love and wisdom watching over Ann. There was a capable brain and a father's tender heart in Bear Brokaw's grotesque body—and a dog's faithfulness.
It was after sunrise when Baird had brought the doctor to the Pennimans' door, and it was Sue Penniman, haggard but collected, not Ben, who had opened to them.
"How is she?" had been Baird's instant question.
"We think she's better. She's awake an' able to talk."
Baird had held Sue's eye. "I've told the doctor Ben sent me for him. I couldn't tell him anything about the accident, only that she must have lain unconscious for a long time."
Sue met his look steadily. "We'll tell him about it," she said.
"Where is Ben?" Baird had asked.
"He just went out to the barn."
Baird had followed and had found Ben seated on a box in the wagon-shed, whittling and swaying as he worked. Any one who knew Ben well could have told Baird that Ben always whittled and swayed when thinking deeply or when perturbed; that he always carried bits of pine in his pockets, and that under his handling they usually became figure-fours. Ben had heard Baird's hasty approach, but he had not looked up until Baird was upon him with his anxious question.
Ben thought, as he watched Baird's partial relief, that the young fellow looked pretty thoroughly "done." The rain had washed most of the mud from his trousers, but he was still well smudged with it and soaking wet, his face gray-white and his eyes red-rimmed.
"You better set down while you wait fo' what the doctor has to say," he advised in a kindly growl. "Emergencies had oughter be met standin' and suspense sittin'. You've stood up pretty good against the first, reckon you can do the right thing by the second.... There's a box strong enough to hol' you, over there."
Baird brought it and sat down opposite Ben.
"You're about as wet and all in as I am," he remarked, in answer to the kindly note in Ben's voice. The big creature was just as Baird had seen him last, wet and muddy and queerly mottled about his cheeks and nose, red patches upon the nearest approach to pallor his tanned face could attain.
"A wettin' ain't nothin' to me," Ben said, "but I done somethin' the same things you done last night." Then, either to ease Baird's suspense or for some other reason, he continued: "I was tellin' you last night it was me foun' the hole in the bridge an' what was below, an' we agreed I must have come on it a little after you'd took Ann away.... You see, when I run to Westmo' to tell Judith about Edward, she says, 'Ben, Garvin ain't here. You take the word to the Copeleys first, go quick, then try to meet up with Garvin.' I done what she says. I had a hard time findin' Garvin, though. I got the first word of him at the club. Everybody were gone from there to tell everybody else what a Westmo' had done to hisself, an' the cook were the only one left. He said a while befo' he'd heard some one gettin' out Garvin's automobile from the shed—seems he'd been keepin' it there, at the club. The cook reckoned it was Garvin that some one must have tol' Garvin what had happened, an' he'd took the automobile so's to get to Westmo' in a hurry. I started down the Post-Road then, an' I come upon what had happened. My lord!" Ben paused, then went on. "Well, I dragged some rails acrost the road an' went fo' help, an' we got the las' man bearin' the name of Westmo' back to his house."
In spite of his efforts, Ben's voice had grown unsteady, and he whittled violently and in silence for a few moments, until speech escaped him: "It begun to rain on us befo' we got to Westmo', like the sky were weepin' over the sins of them that brung us into the world. That po' thing we was carryin'—'tweren't none of his fault. An' we builds jails an' madhouses fo' the like of him, an' jest goes right on fillin' them.... Garvin weren't never jest right, Mr. Baird. Them two youngest Westmo's—Sarah an' Garvin—'twere their pa should answer fo' them ... an' yet, what right hev I talkin' like that! There didn't no one teach sense to men like the ole colonel an' ole Mr. Penniman. I've jest got one big pity fo' every one of them—particular fo' them that's left."
"He nearly did for Ann—I'm not thinking of his forebears," Baird said bitterly.
Ben collected himself. "He was jest out of his mind—you can't judge him like you would a sane man.... You know, of co's', that Edward cared a lot for Ann and she fo' him, an' that Garvin were mad over her, like he would be, an' that she wouldn't have him. If you don't know, I'm telling you, an' fo' Ann's sake, it's a thing we ain't goin' to speak about to others. I'll tell you, too, what Ann tol' me when her an' me were talkin', befo' Sue come back. Ann tol' me she was sittin' in the dark on the porch an' Garvin come up sudden an' tol' her Edward were hurt an' dyin' an' askin' fo' her to come. He'd brought his automobile to the cedar road, an' that's what he must have been doin' when the cook heard him. I know his horse was at the club barn when I was there, because I seen it there. Ann says she went off quick with him, she weren't thinkin' of nobody but Edward, an' they started fo' the Post-Road. She didn't suspicion at first that Garvin weren't in his right mind, but when they began to tear down the Post-Road he spoke queer, an' jest befo' they struck the bridge she was sure he was clean mad. She was so scart she stood up, an' the next thing they was throwed. It was her standin' up saved her, I reckon. Jest what drove Garvin mad we'll never know. How much he knowed of what's happened, or jest what he intended to do, it's beyond us to tell, but that he was clean beside hisself, that's certain."
Baird had listened to Ben's explanation. It fitted in with much that he knew and with much that he had suspected, and he guessed that Ben could have told him a great deal more had he chosen to do so. Ben loved Ann, as a father loves his daughter, so much Baird had discovered during the night, and, also, that Ben was faithful to both the Pennimans and the Westmores. In his weariness and anxiety, Baird refused to think of it. What did it matter—if only Ann pulled through unshattered?
Baird was sick with fatigue, racked still by anxiety, and angered by Coats Penniman's neglect of his daughter. "Where were Ann's people all night—why did they leave Ann to fall into a trap like that?" he demanded.
Ben worked away at his stick. "That were a mystery to me, till Sue come. It was natural enough, though, how that happened. Coats, he had to go to the city, an' Sue, she drove in with him, early in the evenin'. They'd left word with Ann they'd be gone late. They knowed I'm always here in the evenin'—I ain't moved off this place a single evenin', not in weeks. They weren't worryin' about Ann's not bein' safe. But last evenin' I weren't here, an' you know why. Sue tells me they were drivin' Billy, an' you know what he is. Come time to get home, they had trouble with him. He's a devil, that horse, a good traveler, but that's all. He give Coats' shoulder a bad wrench. There weren't no trains they could get till near mornin', an' Sue she took the first train out an' walked up from the station, leavin' Coats to dispose of Billy and come out later. Sue were worried to death over her father an' Ann, she looked like a ghost when she come in, an' ready to drop, but she come to when she seen what trouble she'd come back to.... That's Penniman fo' you, jest like Miss Judith's stiff upper lip is Westmo'. These southern ladies, Mr. Baird, whose mothers done stood fas' while their men was bein' shot to pieces in the war—their mothers' blood's in them, all right! They'll stand up to anything, they will, an' gamble on a chance cooler nor any man!" Ben spoke with a profound admiration that dignified even his language.
Baird thought of Judith and how he had bent to her hand. But he had learned a surprising thing. "You don't tell me that old Mr. Penniman was in the house all the time I was there?" he exclaimed. "Why, I pounded the door and shouted."
"Sure he was there—up to his room in the front. He's fearful deaf an' he were asleep. He never heared you. I forgot to tell you, when we were plannin' quick of how to keep from everybody's knowin' that Ann was with Garvin. All my mind was on gettin' the doctor to her an' keepin' Ann's name from bein' mixed up in what's happened, an' so was yours."
"Will Miss Penniman be able to carry it through?" Baird asked anxiously.
"Shewill! I've done talked to her."
"And Ann?"
"Ann's too sick to talk—that's her answer," Ben returned with decision. "I tol' you I'd find the right thing to say." He pointed: "You see that there hole, where fodder is throwed down to the cows? Ann fell through there—it's a consid'able fall—more'n fifteen feet an' it won't be the first case of the kind the doctor has had to do with.Isay thatIfoun' Ann down there, onconscious, an' any that doubts my word can come to me! I ain't never judged a lie a lie if it were tol' to help a woman—it's about the only chanst a man has to make up to his ma fo' men's havin' fastened the story of Eve to her."
In spite of his anxiety, Baird smiled. He liked Ben, and for much the same reasons as he had liked Edward Westmore; Ben Brokaw was every whit as true a gentleman. Baird thought of Edward's gentleness and consideration to women. "Ben?" he asked abruptly. "Why did Edward kill himself? Ann loved him, and you say he loved her—why did he hurt her like that? There appears to be no doubt about it, for the doctor told me that the pistol was smoked and that the wound showed that it had been fired at close range. The reason Mr. Copeley gave me—that Edward had heart trouble—isn't sufficient reason to me. Why in the name of heaven did he do such a thing!"
Ben stopped his work. But he did not look at Baird; he looked out at the struggle between sun and mist. After a considerable pause, he said slowly, "It seems the cruelest thing in all this night's work, don't it?... I can't explain it.... The Ridge'll give its reasons, an' first among them, that there is knowed to be one Westmo' whose mind ain't right, an' that now the thing's showed itself in Edward.... It's all right your askin' me—I know you are considerin' Ann same as I am. You can ask me anything you like an' I'll answer to the best of my ability, but it's a thing I won't discuss with nobody else. I thought a heap of Edward—I don't want to talk about it. My biggest trouble now is Ann."
If Ben intended to divert Baird, he succeeded. Baird moved restlessly, then got up. "He's in there a long time!" he said through his teeth.
He went to the door and looked out at the misty morning. It had been a steady, deep-sinking rain, like the satisfying answer to a prayer, and now the sun was fighting the steaming moisture, trying to work its vivifying will upon the growing things; in an hour's time it would triumphantly climb the heavens.
Ben looked at Baird's drooping shoulders. The boy was almost falling from fatigue. He was certainly a "cool-head," but a boy, nevertheless; a young fellow experiencing his first big trouble, and not knowing just what to make of it. He loved Ann completely, he had shown that, a somewhat astonishing thing in one of his rough-and-ready sort, Ben thought. If the doctor brought them bad news, they were both going to suffer.
Baird straightened and turned. "He's coming," he said.
Ben rose uncertainly to his feet. "You go ask him," he returned in his deepest growl.
But Baird was already on his way. The doctor's buggy had come into view, and Ben watched Baird go. He peered intently at the group, the doctor bent forward a little and Baird standing with one hand on the dashboard, as if for support.... The buggy moved on, and, for a moment, Ben could not make out whether Baird was returning laggingly or not. Then he saw that he came with head up, and Ben stopped swaying.
Baird's tired eyes were alight. "Ben, he says there's no serious injury, just a severe shock. It was the concussion made her unconscious so long. He said she might never have come out from it, that many don't, but that she had. And he says her spine's all right." It was the fear that had harried them both, and to which neither had referred.
"Um!" said Ben. It was an expressive monosyllable.
The two looked at each other in the way usual with men when uplifted and yet held by awkwardness.
"I'm going to the club now," Baird said.
And Ben asked as prosaically, "Where's your horse?"
"I left him in the doctor's stable—I don't mind walking.... I'll come over this afternoon." And he went.
Ben stood for a time, considering, and the color that for a few moments had dulled the patches on his face gradually faded. One trouble had been lifted from his mind, but it was crowded with others. He was thinking of Judith Westmore—and intently of Coats Penniman. Sue had done her best, and he had listened without questioning, but she had not deceived his intelligence. Ann had told him that they had found Garvin's letters. Coats' sudden going and his failure to return were curious things. Was it possible that he had been mistaken? And that he had misled Judith?... If he had, he had unwittingly saved a Penniman at a pretty big price to a Westmore.
Ben was thinking anxiously of the future.
The middle of June brought hot days and unrefreshing nights to the Ridge, frequent rains and steaming heat, and yet Baird stayed on. He was comparatively idle now, for he had done about all he could in the Southeast for his firm. Dempster needed him in the West; any day the summons might come.
Baird could not and would not go until Ann was on the way to recovery. It was three weeks since her accident and yet he had not been allowed to see her; she had been too ill. Coats Penniman had returned to the farm the day after the Westmore tragedy, and had immediately sent for a city specialist, who had simply confirmed what the Ridge doctor had said, that there was no injury except the shock to Ann's entire nervous system. She had youth in her favor, but, at best, nervous prostration was a slow matter. Rest and freedom from worry of any sort was his prescription, the usual prescription.
Coats and Sue and Ben, and Baird also, knew why Ann was so lifeless, that she was not only ill from shock, but sick with grief as well. Sue had talked to Ann, affectionately and pityingly, and Coats had shown Ann far more paternal tenderness than he had expressed in all the seventeen years past; Ann was surrounded by kindness, but she remained lifeless, too weak to walk, too weak to talk much, even to Ben, though he was her constant companion, her nurse, in reality, for his seemed to be the only presence that did not tire her. The sight, even the sound, of her grandfather made her eyes dilate dangerously. The attentions of her family appeared to exhaust her; she could not sleep when they were with her.
Very little of the talk and excitement over the Westmore tragedy filtered to Ann. Ben told her a little about Judith's and the entire Westmore connection's quiet acceptance of an overwhelming trouble. The day following the tragedy, the city papers had given accounts of the occurrence that carefully avoided any mention of the Westmore family's inherited misfortune which was being openly discussed both in the city and on the Ridge. Colonel Dickenson had given to his friends in the city the only reason the family could assign for Edward's act, the same reason Mr. Copeley had given to Baird, and their explanation of Garvin's fate; a frantic haste to reach Westmore, and the condition of the Post-Road bridge.
For a time the Ridge had buzzed with comments: the Ridge had always known that the family misfortune would reveal itself in another Westmore, and for Garvin they had terse sentences: a reckless dissipated man, what else could you expect? A dash in an automobile on a black night and over such roads as theirs! The Ridge had always known that he would come to some such end. Ben was questioned by every one he met, and talked with apparent frankness of his connection with the tragedy. Baird had said little, but had listened intently to the Ridge gossip. When it was apparent that no one knew of Ann's connection with the Westmore brothers, he breathed more freely. Ben was keeping his secret well. Baird's own surmises he kept strictly to himself.
Coats Penniman had very little to say to any one—except Sue—there were no secrets between them. They had come together, those two; mutual distress had united them. It was known now on the Ridge that they would be married as soon as Coats' daughter was well. Coats went about the farm working hard, as usual. He had carried his arm in a sling for some days, then had discarded it. He had always been a silent man, he was more silent than usual, that was all.
Sue alone knew what weighed on his mind. His most constant thought was of Ann, and how best to help her. It seemed best to leave her to Ben. Sue knew how acutely Coats was suffering, and she clung to him with the greater devotion.
During the last of the three anxious weeks, Ann had talked more with Ben, and after that she gained a little strength. Ben wished that she would weep; her calmness was unnatural.
Ann's stoicism frightened Sue. "I'm afraid of it," she was driven to say to Coats.
The furrows in Coats' forehead deepened, but he said quietly, "Don't worry, Sue. There's plenty of good sane blood in Ann. Just wait and let time help her."
Baird also was anxiously waiting. Every day of that three weeks he had stopped at the Penniman house to inquire about Ann. Often he rode on to Westmore and spent the evening with Judith. Though urged by the whole connection, Judith had refused to leave Westmore, even for a day. She had faced God's half-acre, faced the present and the future with the same undaunted spirit with which she had faced the difficult past. She had taken up Edward's interests; she rode about Westmore like any capable overseer, and her evenings she spent seated beneath the Westmore portraits.
She was always at home to Baird, and Westmore seemed to Baird much as it had been. Save for Judith's black gown, there were few signs of mourning. Judith bore herself spiritedly, was the same fluent speaker, and charming, as always. If Baird had not noticed her expression at times, when she was off guard, he might have thought her heartless. He knew that, in her way, she was suffering as keenly as Ann. Her manner to Baird was a mixture of friendly interest and something deeper, a tacit recognition of their former relations, and as tacit a disclaimer of any expectations.
Baird was in many respects the "cool-head" Ben Brokaw thought him. So long as his own feelings were clearly defined, he felt no hesitation in going to Westmore. On the first occasion when Judith said, "You are not looking well, Nickolas," he had answered without preamble or apology, "You know, I suppose, how fond I am of Ann Penniman? She's very ill—I doubt sometimes whether she'll pull through. I'm not feeling particularly happy, Judith."
If Judith had rehearsed her answer many times, it could not have been more equably delivered: "Yes, I know you are. Ben tells me that it was a fall in the barn, and I'm sorry both for you and for her. But she's young and strong—she will get well."
"I don't know. I hope so," Baird said.
The drop in his voice had told Judith far more than his avowal, and she could not endure it in silence. "Ann was fond of my brother—of both my brothers," she said dryly.
Baird had winced; so she knew all that history, doubtless far better than he did. Then his jaw set, and he quoted her own words, "But she's young and so am I. And as I'm good at both fighting and waiting, I generally win out."
"I hope you will," Judith said, with an instant return to her usual manner. "There is no one whom I'd rather see happy."
After the first flash of anger Baird forgave her the thrust. He had been rather brutal. Still it had been a necessary brutality; unless there was a distinct understanding, he could not continue his visits. Baird judged that Judith would not again swerve from the attitude she had adopted, and he was right. He genuinely liked and admired Judith Westmore. He admired the strength of will that enabled her to go on playing the role she had chosen; she was a pretty splendid sort. And he was profoundly sorry for her; she'd had a beastly hard row to hoe, and had hoed it well. He took off his hat to her!
But Baird did not take his depression and his fears to Judith. When he was "down," he rode for miles into the country, often until late at night. He thought continuously of Ann. He was convinced that she had been a more potential factor in the Westmore tragedy than any one dreamed. Baird wondered endlessly whether Ann was not suffering as much from remorse as from grief. He had long ago decided that she was both elusive and compelling, the type that gives little and receives much, the sort of woman who drives a man to fight for all he receives. Certainly two men had struggled for her, and, Baird was convinced, had died because of her. And he himself! He had fought for her against death itself, and was still fighting.... Well, he liked to fight; he had never treasured anything that came easy.
From the beginning of time men have yielded to the women they think potential, a fascinated interest that may or may not be love. Certainly when coupled with desire it is an irresistible force. When allied to tenderness, it is the blind worship which has urged men to most of the chivalrously romantic acts in history.
Baird told himself that he had sensed the potential in Ann, on the day when he had captured a kiss. She had drawn him away from Judith and had compelled him even when he knew perfectly well that her thoughts were with one or the other of those two. She had compelled him to put up the stiffest fight he had ever made, an actual grapple with death. It might seem to others that he was infatuated with a girl of no importance whatever, but he knew better: Ann's surroundings were an accident—by right of innate superiority, she belonged to Judith's class, and Edward had realized that, too. No, he was held and compelled and overwhelmingly in love with a potential woman.
Perhaps Baird was simply laboring under the hallucination usual with lovers, which urges them to swathe the objects of their affection with an interest quite indiscernible to the sane-minded. Possibly the tragedy in which Ann was involved and the fact that she almost certainly owed her life to him had touched an imaginative strain in him. It is more likely that, like Edward, he was a shrewd judge of character and that, despite her youth and her simple rearing, Ann did possess potentiality; that eventually she might even emerge a gifted woman.
However that may be, certainly no lover came into the presence of the woman he loved with more profound sensations than stirred Baird when at last Ben brought him to Ann. "You can come on in," Ben said. "She says she wants to thank you."
When Baird's eyes leaped to her, he lost the power of speech, for illness and grief had worked havoc: they had thinned her face until it looked small and pinched, had set immense circles about her eyes, destroyed the softness of lips and chin; her hair appeared to be the only unchanged thing about her, a black mass crowning the pillow.
Ann lifted to his clasp a hand that seemed as fragile as a bird's claw, but her voice had not changed, the old soft drawl enlivened by the well-remembered touches of coquetry and aloofness: "Ben says you saved my life—and I can't ever pay off that debt, can I? Not unless I save yours some time. I'll have to be always watching out for the chance, but all I can do now is just to say, 'Thank you—thank you very much,' an' not talk any more about it."
A light answer was quite beyond Baird. For almost the first time in his life he was pretty thoroughly tongue-tied. "I wish you weren't so ill," he said simply.
She smiled at him, a parting of colorless lips over white teeth. "Ben says young things get well quicker than old ones. He says funny things to me, an' some of them I reckon are wise things. He said yesterday, that, if a man had any heart left at all after he had done playing with it, he didn't really know nothin' about what kind of a heart it was till he was forty, an' that a woman, whether she had a heart or not, 'never knows nothin' about it at all.'"
Baird was permeated by an aching disappointment. Ann had seen what lay in his eyes, and on the instant had donned a mask and interposed a shield. She had confessed to a debt, that was all. She wanted none of him; Judith could not have conveyed the impression any more skilfully.
From somewhere within himself Baird managed to bring forth what strove to be a light sentence: "Ben's a pretty good second father to you, isn't he?"
"Yes—I reckon he is—" Then, suddenly, her mask slipped. Her eyes widened, filled to overflowing with grief and pain—then closed. The tears gathered beneath her lashes and rolled down her cheeks, until a storm of sobs caught her and shook her.
Shocked and bewildered, Baird bent over her. He was never able to remember just what he said, only that he tried to lift her up and that Ben made him put her down, then drew him out of the room.
"She ain't fit to talk!" Ben said forcibly. "Jest you go on along, an' come another time!"
Baird went out and rode for miles, until long after dark. He would have carried his wretchedness to bed with him had he not returned through the Penniman place. Ben was lounging by the gate.
"Well?" Baird asked dully.
"She's right smart better," Ben growled.
"Sheis!"
"Um."
Then Ben explained. "Women's nerves is like plants—they needs water. I've been wishin' this long time that Ann's would get rained on.... She's jest naturally cried herself to sleep."
"And you think it's done her good?" Baird asked doubtfully.
"I do.... When she asks me to fetch her the lookin'-glass, I'll rest easy."
Baird felt rather than saw the twinkle in Ben's eyes, and he laughed from sheer relief, the first time he had laughed in weeks.
He went on to the club and wrote to Dempster, asking him for a month's vacation. "You see," Baird wrote, "the girl I love and mean to marry—if I can get her—has been next door to death. There seems to be a chance for her now, and a month will mean a lot to me."