“The emptying tide of life has drained the iron channel dry;Strange winds from the forgotten dayDraw down, and dream, and sigh:”
“The emptying tide of life has drained the iron channel dry;Strange winds from the forgotten dayDraw down, and dream, and sigh:”
They were passing and repassing him—these winds. A sigh, a certain coolness, a faint whisper—that was all as they entered the shaft and sped upward like ghosts of a busy world.
Steve turned and ran rapidly up the stairs. He could hardly fit his key, he was in such haste to escape from that lonesome hallway. Day was passing out by the western gate when he entered his room, and it would seem that heaven, in all its untold beauty, had come forth to greet her. Such a sky! It fairly overwhelmed him, and he turned to the east, as one seeks shelter in the shadow from a too brilliant light. Even the east was whispering the story, but gently and in cadences fit for weak human senses, just as winds in the tall tree-tops faintly repeat the harmonies of heaven.
To and fro Steve walked in the spacious lonesome apartments. Was his presentsolitude an earnest of his future? Was he forever to be denied the warm human clasp of another's hand? Was he doomed evermore to see the oncoming of the night from out some deserted room?
The west was fading now. Day had passed and carried light and sunshine with her. The clouds were moving hither and yonder restlessly, and in their ghostly passage they took on weird shapes.
Steve watched them with a strange interest—an interest just tinged with superstition, half rejecting, half receiving their import, something as one watches the shifting of cards in the hands of a wizard.
He looked out over the waters of the lake, but the east was leaden now; her lips were sealed; she had passed silently into the night. Even in the west there was but a fitful glowing, and the clouds came and went.
The room had grown black—insupportable! Steve could not endure it—he must light it in some way. A lamp would not do. It was a warm evening, wonderfullywarm for that season, but he must have firelight.
He looked about him and soon found kindling and fuel, for he had as yet disturbed none of the room's furnishings. His lease was not spent; he could use the place for storage for quite a time yet.
The warmth of the cheery flame was welcome to him, for despite the heat of the evening he felt a chilliness which he did not know meant fever. It was not among possibilities that a man of Steve's fine sensitive fiber could do violence to his idea of right without disaster to his physical being. He had fled from his post of duty, he felt himself to be a deserter, and this deflection was necessarily accompanied by physical disturbance.
As he sat beside the bright blaze he heard Randolph telling of his successful wooing and saw him tilted back in his chair against the opposite wall of the chimney. Then he stepped from out the ingle-nook and stood in a little old cemetery. They were putting mother and Mary into the same grave, and he thought the gravediggers cruel because theyhurled the clods of earth so heavily upon them.
The cemetery was growing colder now, and he wakened, oppressed with the dreariness of it all. He replenished his failing fire and then sat down to dream again, but this time he was not alone, for Nannie sat by the cheery little blaze—not across the way, but close by his side. She had all her brilliant beauty, all her tantalizing, bewitching ways, but he no longer feared to touch her; no longer feared to smooth back the tangled curls and kiss the dear, piquant face, for the drawbridge was down, the gates were flung open, and Castle Delight was his at last.
It was a great moment for Steve. Now he had life and had it abundantly; now he had wife and hearthstone.
He wakened again in a cold, dark room, and he saw gleaming through the blackness a tearful, wistful face which he knew was Nannie's. She was in trouble—she wanted something, she was calling him in weird, spirit fashion, and he must go!
WhenNannie went out into the garden she saw old Hayseed leaning over the fence contemplating some of the ruins of Steve's vegetables. Glad of any diversion, she opened a conversation on the subject of Mr. Seymour, of whose death she had heard that day. In far-away times, old Hayseed had known Mr. Seymour's father.
“I didn't think he could die,” said Nannie. “He was always trying to, but I didn't think he was really sick enough.”
“He hed ter die ter vindercate hisself,” said Hayseed. “Some folks, yer know, hez ter live ter set 'emselves right, but this one 'bleeged ter die. He was allers goin' on erbout his bein' out o' health, an' nobody believed him, so he was 'bleeged ter die. Mrs. Seymour's young woman was tellin' me she tho'the died to spite folks that wouldn't 'low he was sick. She said he was mean enough to do anything.”
“He was; mean as he could be!” exclaimed Nannie. “He was so little and so narrow-minded, and he had no excuse for it either, for he had a good education and he'd been all over the world.”
“Well, now, once in awhile ye see a prune that won't swell. Ye put 'em all in water alike, an' most on 'em gits fat an' smooth, but this one stays small an' shriveled up. There's no accountin' fer ther difference.”
Nannie turned and walked toward the house. She was restless and felt at a loss to know what to do with herself. Since her caper in the garden Steve had left her absolutely to her own way, and she had found, as folks will soon or late, that nothing could be more dreary. She finally started over to see her cousins, the Misfits, but on her way thither she had occasion to pass the house of some plain folk by the name of Meader, and she suddenly decided to go in there. It was thesame house from which Steve had heard that anguished wail, and when Nannie entered, shortly after Steve had passed on, she found Mrs. Meader weeping bitterly. The woman was so far gone in misery that she did not resent Nannie's entrance or her question.
“What is the matter?”
“Oh, I can't stand it no longer. He don't give me nothin' to git anything with, an' we can't live on nothin'. Whenever he gits mad he plagues me by keepin' everything out o' my han's, an' he won't answer when I ask him fer anything. I'd like to know if a woman an' five children kin live without money! Before I was married I used to earn some. I had enough to live on, but now, what with the cookin', an' washin' an' nussin' all these babies, I ain't no time ter earn a livin'!”
“I should say youwereearning it! You earn more than he does!” exclaimed Nannie hotly.
“He don't look at it that way,” sobbed the woman. “He's ferever makin' me feel so beholten ter him fer every pennyan' ter-day when I needed some money awful fer tea an' I went ter his pocket an' got it, he went on so afore ther children it seems like I can't never look them in ther face agin. He said—he said”—she stammered amid her sobs—“thet I was a thief—a low-down common thief—that's what he said, and the children heard him.”
Nannie rose from her chair with clinched hands and a flaming face.
“Where is he?” she asked under her breath.
“He's gone ter ther grocery. He ain't working ter-day. He said he'd 'tend ter the spendin' of the money. I couldn't be trusted with it. He said thet, he did, afore the children.”
And she broke down again.
Just then the man himself came walking in.
“What's up now?” he asked when he saw Nannie's face.
“You are!” she blazed, “and you're a contemptible brute!”
His face flushed. He looked bothashamed and angry, but a man in his position is at a loss to know what to do when attacked by a woman outside his family. He had enough pride to shrink from this invasion of his affairs, but he did not know just how to resent it.
“It ain't no matter fer discussion,” he said, “but she's been into my pockets, an' thet's what I can't stand.”
“What do you steal her money for, then?” demanded Nannie.
He stared at her in stupid astonishment.
“It's you who steal!” continued Nannie in ringing tones. “There she is, earning more than you do, and——”
“I don't know how you make that out,” said the man in a sulky tone.
“Try to hire some one to take her place, and you'll learn. She could hire your work done fast enough, but there never has been and there never will be money enough in all your horrid pockets put together to hire what she does for you and the children; and then you are so nasty, and mean, and dishonest as toclutch the money and pretend you have the right to dole out what belongs to her. I wonder you aren't ashamed to be alive!”
He certainly did look ashamed now. He had probably never before viewed matters from this point.
“Well, I don't suppose I done just the right thing. I'm not going ter deny it, but money comes hard, anyhow.”
“And her life is hard enough, anyhow, without your making it harder by tyrannizing over her.”
Here one of the five little ones began to cry, and the mother started forward to take it, but Nannie intercepted her.
“You go and get your dinner,” she said. “I'll look after the children.”
And taking the two youngest in her arms she coaxed the others along, and they all went out into the warm, pleasant sunlight, and there Nannie sang to them, told them stories, washed their dirty little faces, and mothered them generally until their own poor mother could recover herself and their father had time to see the error of his way and repent.
The sun was setting when Nannie wended her way homeward. She dreaded to see Steve, but found relief in the thought that he would probably appear as usual. When she learned that he had not returned she felt surprised, but decided not to wait dinner, and so ate alone.
She spent the evening at her cousin's house. She did not quite dare to go to Constance's, for she instinctively felt that Constance would heartily disapprove of her leaving home in that way at a time when her husband was likely to be alone.
Returning, she found the house dark. Steve had probably retired, and she remembered she had given Bridget permission to go to the city for the night to look after a sick cousin. Something impelled her to do an unusual thing—open Steve's door a crack and peep in. He was not there.
The shock of this discovery was so great that for a moment Nannie was almost too bewildered to know what she did, and was half frightened when she found herself at the front door calling “Steve! Steve!”
The leaves rustling on the trees in the soft night wind was her only answer, and she closed the door with a feeling of desolate misery new to her experience.
At no time was she afraid. The fact of her being alone in the house merely served to emphasize her realization of her loss, for she had no doubt that Steve had left her. There was no resentment in her attitude now; she felt that she deserved her fate. None the less she also felt that she could not endure it—could not live without Steve. And yet she had told him that very day that she had neither love nor respect for him. How could he stay with her after that?
The night passed somehow, and morning found Nannie with a white face, save where the shadows rested 'neath her large eyes.
Bridget had not yet come home, and she could not endure to stay alone any longer, so she wrapped a little parcel and started over to Constance's. The parcel was one of a set of articles she was learning to make. Some weeks before this shehad appeared at Constance's one day, and unrolling a large bundle she carried, had spread upon the latter's bed a quantity of tiny clothing, cut and made in most original fashion.
“Why, Nannie!” exclaimed Constance, who had no other idea than that they were meant for little baby Chance. “How lovely of you! Thank you ever so much!”
“They're not for you,” said Nannie in her crude way. “They're mine.”
The chagrin and embarrassment Constance might have felt over her mistake was swallowed up now in her amazement and delight.
“Yours! Oh, Nannie, I'm so glad.”
“I haven't any use for them,” said Nannie, bluntly, “but”—and here there was a hardly perceptible quiver of her lips—“I just wanted them around.”
“I declare, that's really pathetic,” said Randolph afterward when Constance told him. “Why don't you teach her, sweetheart—teach her to make the pretty little things?”
And Constance did, and as a result ofall the ripping and cutting over Nannie had made some exquisite little garments, two of which she presented to Constance, and the rest kept in a little chiffonier in her room, to gaze at and kiss many times a day.
Returning from her sewing lesson rather earlier than usual, for she longed and dreaded to go back to her house, she found Steve awaiting her.
He was sitting in the little parlor, and his face was flushed and his eyes strangely bright.
Nannie stood stock-still on the threshold when she saw him.
“Steve,” she asked at length, “have you come back to live with me?”
“Yes,” he said, and then something impelled him to hold out his arms to her.
She hesitated, wavered for a moment like some beautiful wild bird that had strayed from the forest; then she ran to him in headlong fashion.
“Steve!” she fairly cried, “I can't make the words, but you know! you know!”
Steve folded her in his arms and—the dream came true. In the rapture of that moment he knew indeed—knew that this strange, untutored child was the one woman in all the world to satisfy him.
Timehas run on. It is just three years from the morning Steve came home. He was quite ill for awhile after that, and from his feverish talk Nannie learned several things. In his convalescence they became acquainted, and Steve felt that his wife's handy, pretty nursing was the sweetest experience he had ever known.
Shortly after he was on his feet again Nannie returned from Constance's, whither she had run of an errand one morning, with a great distress working on her face.
She entered the study, where Steve sat at his desk writing, and tried to speak, but words failed her, and she sobbed instead.
Steve went to her quickly, and his gentle face and manner were eloquent with concern and sympathy.
“Why, my dear, whathashappened?”
“It's the little baby! She's beensoill all night! She can't live!”
“Oh, my dear! Oh, that is too sad!” and Steve's face flushed and quivered.
“You must come right back with me, Steve; they are in such grief.”
They went in without pausing to ring and tiptoed their way to Constance's room. The house was very still.
In response to their soft tap Randolph opened the door. When he saw Steve he broke into a great sob and laid his head on the shoulder of the dear friend of olden days.
“Oh, is she gone?” cried Nannie, entering the room.
Constance nodded and turned away, but Nannie burst into uncontrollable grief as she saw the little white-faced figure lying in the crib.
“I never want a child!” cried Nannie passionately. “If God can be so cruel as to take her, I never want one!”
It was Constance who was forced to comfort.
“Don't say that, dear,” she urged gently. “I don't understand why we couldn't keep her, but Iknowthat God is good. And we'd rather have her this way than never to have held our own little baby——”
But here she broke down and wept convulsively over the tiny crib.
And Steve and Nannie wept as they went homeward together hand in hand.
There is another baby there now—a jolly, roystering little fellow, just one year old to-day, on his mother's birthday, and a very precious little man he is; but the dear little girl who just alighted in their arms long enough to lay hold upon their heartstrings and then flew away with the other angels is not forgotten.
Randolph stepped over to Steve's desk this morning to ask if he and Nannie would be sure to come in the evening to celebrate the double birthday.
“If it's at all clear we will, old man, and gladly,” said Steve, “but it looks to me as if a big storm were brewing.”
“Well, I hope you can come. Wethink a deal of these anniversaries. Each one of 'em marks off a happy year, I tell you, old man.”
“No doubt,” said Steve gently.
“And the years have been successful, too,” continued Randolph. “On the whole—to speak between friends—I've managed pretty well, I think.”
“Pretty well with one,” said Steve, and there was a slight gleam in his eye as he recalled Randolph's bachelor boast that he could manage forty women. “Now for the thirty-nine.”
“Steve,” said Randolph, “you're a good fellow, but you'll have to let up on that forty. I had sense enough, after all, to marry only one of them, and occasionally I have my doubts—looks a little as if even that one managed me. Just you drop the thirty-nine. You're using the poker too freely.”
And then they fell to talking about how warm it was on this same day three years ago.
Steve was right, for that afternoon it began to snow and it forgot to stop. Hehad hard work to get home and still harder to get out and attend to the little stock. The chickens, he found, had had the sense to go to roost before time; both Brownie and the cat were safe indoor; they could look out for themselves, but the gentle, fawn-like Jersey (quite a different animal from the wild-eyed beast of three years agone) had expectations, and she must needs receive especial care.
After Steve had fed her and seen that she was comfortable for the night, he made his way into the house with a feeling that only a very happy man can understand.
Nannie was busy upstairs and called to him not to come up, as she had a surprise in store. He was to stir the fire and set her chair, which she would fill directly, and Steve had done all this and now was walking about the room, which was bright and pretty in the firelight, handling the books and magazines, trying a chord or two on the piano, and looking occasionally from the windows out into the night.
That was wild enough, what withwind, and ice, and snow. Every now and then the little house shuddered in the blast, which was shrieking in the chimneys. The window glass was bearded with snow, which melted here and there and ran for a little space; then, lest one should fancy the weather were shedding repentant tears, it stiffened into ice straightway. Down at the foot of the bluff the lake was booming; there was something to make the blood run cold about its mighty passion. One thought of the boats at its mercy that night and whispered, God help them!
There, in the center of it all, 'neath the trees that were clashing arms with one another in the storm, stood the snug little home, with the study, over whose pictured walls the cheery, flickering light played at glow and shadow. And there, close to the merry blaze, poker in hand, sat Steve, as happy, as well content a man as you'd find, though you looked far and wide. Brownie occupied the other chair, and it appeared that he had much to say. Nannie was singing—singing to the baby upstairs—andSteve and Brownie hearkened to the pretty notes.
“You hear that, sir?” asked Brownie, with his head slightly tilted and cocked on one side.
Steve poked assent at the fire.
“You didn't think much of her at one time, did you?”
Steve was gravely shocked and promptly poked remonstrance into the glowing coals.
“Well, you were rather discouraged about her—you know that,” persisted Brownie.
Steve looked ashamed, but he was honest enough to nod slightly.
“And now you see there isn't a less wearisome, a nicer, brighter——”
Here Steve interrupted by stabbing the fire's front in a manner betokening the heartiest concurrence.
Just at this point the subject of these thrusts entered the room.
“No, you don't, Steve—no, sir. You shan't even have a squint till I get to the fire.”
And carefully covering Miss Baby from view, Nannie sidled along to her chair.
“Now! Ask daddy what he thinks of Miss Loveland!” she exclaimed, dropping all disguises suddenly and holding the pretty little creature up in the firelight.
“Oh, Nannie! short clothes!” said Steve with an admiring gasp.
“Yes,” said Nannie. “Look at the darling little shoes! See her kick them! Oh, she's so glad to be rid of those long dresses.”
Steve's poker was greatly agitated.
“Nannie,” he said, in his quiet way, “I hardly think I can wait much longer.”
“Then you shall have her. Now! Here she goes, daddy!” and Nannie tossed the baby, all laughter and dimples, into the delighted father's arms.
True to her sex, she proceeded to grasp all he had—the poker. Steve held on for safety, but Miss Baby wielded it, and straightway the fire sent forth a shower of sparks that went frolicking up the chimney in pure glee.
“Steve,” said Nannie, pointing to them, “look! See how prone to sin you are.”
But Steve had no time for his derelictions; he was busy studying the wonderful baby.
“Nannie,” he said, “this marks an epoch; and it's Constance's birthday.”
“It's your birthday, too, you dear old stupid!” laughed Nannie.
“Why, so it is. I never realized before that we were twins.”
“He never realizes anything about himself, does he, baby?”
The baby gave a great assenting dab at the fire, necessitating a prompt examination of all her gear to see if she had caught anywhere.
“He's always thinking of other people and forgetting himself, isn't he, baby?”
Another dab still bigger and another overlooking.
“Oh, my dear!” stammered Steve.
“Just you hush,” said Nannie imperiously. “And he's too foolish and forgetful of himself to dream that there's a birthday dinner almost ready in thedining-room and some be-au-ti-ful things under somebody's plate.”
Here Steve was helplessly and hopelessly embarrassed, but Nannie snatched the baby and went on:
“And he's a regular stupid old know-nothing, isn't he, baby?”
And she made the baby give the poker such a thrust of sympathy that it stuck fast in the fire.
“Whew!” she exclaimed, jerking it out. “How hot that fire is! I'm fairly cooked!”
There was a peculiar expression on Steve's face, and all at once Nannie remembered a newspaper clipping that had dropped from one of his note-books that day when she cleared his desk. A sudden thought struck her and caused her to pause with the poker in mid air.
“Have you been cooking me, sir?” she asked in awful tones, taking her seat as a judge might take his bench.
Steve's color started and a strange smile dawned upon his face. His very looks convicted him.
Now it was Nannie who was flushing, and so prettily, pursing up her bewitching mouth in the old way.
“Am I done?” she asked presently in a lower tone.
“To a turn!” he replied.
“Then I think I'll get off the spit, by your leave, sir,” she said with saucy bravado.
And she arose to move back from the fire.
“Steve!” she cried, “you aredevouringme!”
THE END.