CHAPTER XIXThe Moment
LIGHTNING was squatting on a box beside the doorway of the bunk-house that had sheltered him for years. The dawn was just beginning to break. A low, yellow tinge was spreading over the eastern horizon, and the sky was cloudless. The stars were still shining to the west, and south, and north. But their brilliance was past, and they were fading slowly before the dawn.
The chill of the hills was in the air, but it made no impression on the tough old body of the squatting man. Like everything else in Nature he was indifferent to it.
The man’s lap was spread with a grease cloth. On the ground beside him lay the belt that was usually about his waist, with its holsters, two long, three-strapped open holsters. One of his two guns was in its place in its holster. The other was lying in pieces in his lap.
The old man’s mood was one of content. His night had been long and wakeful, but with the first streak of dawn he had crawled from under his rough blankets and sought the sure solace of his present occupation. He was cleaning his beloved guns, handling them with something of the mother love for her child.
The contemplation of these priceless friends of his early days never failed to lull him into a quiet, assured confidence and content. When trouble beset they were his whole resource. And just now trouble was looming heavily.
It was the dawn of the day of the farmers’ ball in Hartspool. So he saw to it that his guns were ready. Their carefully filed hair-triggers needed little more thana breath of wind to release, the beautifully adjusted ivory sights were without blemish, and the seven chambers contained not one single speck of rust.
With these things so, ease relaxed the tension of his troubled thought. He hated the day that was dawning. He hated the folk who had designed the farmers’ ball. But more than all he hated, with all his untamed soul, the man who had stolen Molly’s peace of mind and transformed her into a woman.
“Two-gun” Rogers snapped his second gun to. He opened it again. And again he closed it. Then, with a deep, satisfied breath, he stooped over and replaced it in its holster. Then he folded the grease-stained cloth and thrust it into his hip pocket, and, stooping again, picked up his belt. He stood up from his box, tall, and lean, and vigorous. And the process of adjusting the belt about his waist preoccupied him.
A moment later he turned and stared out at the golden prospect of the sunrise. The sun had cut the horizon and its fiery rays rent the heavens with slashes of furious fire. It was almost intolerable to gaze upon. Yet the man stood before it with the unflinching gaze of an old eagle.
He kicked the box he had been sitting on back within his doorway. And, with a hunch of his shoulders, he moved on quickly in the direction of the house. The cook-stove was waiting his attention. In all his years Molly had never been permitted to light it.
The cook-stove remained unlit. Lightning had not yet passed into the house. He was standing just outside the door, and his eyes were gazing down upon something which seemed to bar his way. It was two securely lashed sacks bulging with their contents, and the old man’s gazewas speculative as he studied their contours, their lashings, and the loose attached labels which gave them the appearance of having been delivered by mail.
After a profound study, which could not possibly have yielded enlightenment, Lightning resorted to the next most obvious procedure. He bent down and examined the labels. There was one to each sack. They were addressed in a clear, bold handwriting to “Molly” at “Marton’s Farm.” But they gave no indication whence they came and the old man was left to his own resources.
For awhile these looked to be distinctly barren. Then, slowly, a change of expression heralded inspiration. After a few more moments he gingerly stepped over the mysterious bundles and passed into the house.
Molly’s week had been passed in excited anticipation and growing anxiety. And in the end anxiety supervened over every other emotion. At first happiness had well-nigh intoxicated her. Life, the simple daily life of her farm, had been transformed with everything else. The labours that were her routine were accomplished in something like a dream, a dream wherein the good-looking face of a man was always near to her, looking on, encouraging, and smiling his approval of her efforts.
In her the great love that had swept into her young life was no sickly, unwholesome sentiment. It inspired her. It supported her. It gladdened every moment of her day, and stimulated her spirit. She dreamed her dreams as she went about her simple duties. She dreamed, in the fashion of every other woman, of the home she would make for the love with which she had crowned her man. And the home which Molly contemplated was the home she had always known. She had yielded her love, and with it went all she was, all that was hers.There were no reservations. No less than her farm could be the setting wherein her love should find its home.
Every day she looked again for the man without whom the meaning of life would be completely lost to her. She did not expect him, but she looked for him. She knew. She understood. It was spring, and he was far too good a farmer, she told herself, to neglect the season. No, she did not expect his coming, but she looked for it, and her yearning was deep, and full of a profound content.
Then there was that other. Each day with her first waking moments expectancy leapt. Her trust was without question. An assurance, whithersoever it came, was an assurance. A promise would be fulfilled, or why should it be made? Life for Molly had no deceit. So each day she looked for the coming of Blanche, or of her messenger.
She yearned for the coming of Blanche’s promised party frock as she yearned for nothing else in life. Blanche had promised that she should be adorned as no farmer’s wife in Hartspool could possibly be adorned. And adornment, at that moment, meant something to her it had never meant before. It was for the eyes of her man to gaze upon. It was for the added attraction she might possess for him. It was that he might be proud of, and pleased with, the love she had so abundantly yielded him.
So each day she looked for Blanche’s fulfilment of her given word, and with the passing of each she reassured herself of the morrow. And so came the night beforetheday, and the promise still remained unfulfilled.
That night the climax of her anxiety smote her. She said not one word to Lightning. She uttered no word of complaint. But the smile was less ready in her eyes; there was a curious, deep sinking of her buoyant spirit, and, for the first time, she contemplated the possibilities of the non-fulfilment of the promise she had relied upon.
She had prepared to retire to her bed that night in a dejection of spirit which Lightning was swift to realise. And for all his hatred of the thing the coming day meant, his manner of parting from her was infinitely gentle.
“That swell dame couldn’t lie,” he declared spontaneously. “Ther’s surely eyes you ken look into, Molly, gal, an’ see right through to the truth back of ’em. Her’s was that way.”
And as he prepared to take his departure for his bunk-house, his hand rested encouragingly upon the girl’s soft shoulder.
When Molly entered the living-room at sun-up the next morning, and found Lightning completing his task at her stove, she was without her customary greeting for him. Lightning glanced up from his labours and discovered the anxious searching of her gaze. He smiled. It was a curious, twinkling smile that never got beyond his eyes. But those it lit in a fashion that must ordinarily have seemed impossible.
“Say, Molly, gal,” he observed, with a studied contortion of his features intended to express physical pain. “Guess the rheumatiz’s got my left hinge some. I’d take it kindly fer you to dump the ash bucket for me.”
He finished up with another fierce contortion as he rose from his knees before the stove. And, in a moment, Molly was all sympathetic concern.
“Why, I’m sorry, Lightning,” she cried. “I’ll fix the hoss oils right away. You haven’t had a touch of that a whole winter. It surely is the ploughing. The flat’s damp with the spring freshet. I’ll fix a good bottle before I eat.”
She seized the bucket of ashes standing ready as the crackling of the wood in the stove developed into a roar of flame up the iron stove pipe.
She moved towards the door, and Lightning’s voice followed her.
“Them iles is mighty good dope, but I don’t guess them’s my need. It’s the saddle. It’s the saddle I was raised to. And I bin weeks on my feet. The saddle’ll fix it better’n hoss dope.”
The girl had flung open the door to pass out, but she stood stock still where she was, the heavy bucket firmly grasped in one hand. The old man watched her, and his eyes had strangely softened. He beheld a flush of excitement break out upon her soft cheeks, and then—and then the bucket fell to the ground and overturned its whole contents upon the immaculate floor.
“Lightning! You knew!”
The living-room was littered with the ravishing contents of the carefully packed bundles. The ashes had been swept up by the willing hand of Lightning, while Molly’s deft, excited fingers dealt with her treasure. Gone for the while was all thought of the breakfast that should have been in preparation. Gone was every other consideration, swept out of mind by that supreme moment of gladness.
What else could matter? Two great bundles in their waterproof wrappings, enclosed in stout sacks. The contents? Ah, those wonderful contents. The fairy godmother had done her work with due regard for the conventions of magic. She had waved her wand, and transported her burdens to the sheltering storm doorway of Molly’s home in the night. That was understood. It was clear enough to the simple minds of these two children, the one so far travelled on the journey of life, and the other standing at the very threshold of the age of joy.
The messenger, whoever he was, had travelled with a pack horse. That was clear enough. And his instructionsmust have been very, very definite, and carefully considered. Clearly he had been admitted to the secret of it all. He must arrive in the night, when the world was wrapped in slumber, with only the twinkling eyes of the stars to see, and the full moon smiling down her beneficence. He must steal upon the silent house and deposit his friendly burden all unseen. Then in the morning, then—then—— In her heart Molly felt that only Blanche could have planned so heavenly a surprise.
It seemed well-nigh impossible that the sacks could have contained all that wealth of delight. The first of the two to be opened was given up to the afterthoughts of a generous mind. It was a delicious collection of creature comforts that had nothing to do with apparel. It was food delicacies such as no ordinary store in Hartspool could have provided. And here again was shown the consummate purpose of the sender. The whole thing was designed without a hint of charity. It was a present of only those things which no money could have provided out of the stock of a prairie store. There were candies that must have come from some big city. There were bottled fruits of a quality Molly had never seen. There were foreign preserves in wide variety. There were sauces and flavourings for preparing food. Even Lightning’s appetite was whetted, and he forgot the occasion of it all. No, there was no charity in it; only a supreme kindliness.
Then the second bundle, softer and infinitely lighter than the first.
The girl’s cheeks reflected an almost painful excitement as her fingers fumbled with the fastenings. When the last of the covers was torn aside Molly drew such a breath that Lightning forgot the amazing display of luxurious garments that lay revealed. He watched only the hungry eyes devouring greedily all the beauty of tone and texturewhich the girl’s fingers were moving amidst. The whole thing was beyond him.
Molly looked to be in a sort of trance. The beautiful fur wrap she almost ignored. It was fur, something she understood, something, in however inferior a quality, that had long since entered her life. Beneath it, enfolded in tissue paper, lay the party frock. It was gauzy and diaphanous, and of such a colour and material that was quite beyond her wildest dreams. Molly raised it gently, tenderly. It was so slight, and so—so delicate. It seemed to her her hands, those hands that were used only to her work, must inevitably crush and completely ruin it.
But with its removal a quick intense exclamation broke from the girl. Beneath it lay something that held her completely spellbound. It was several layers of garments of the most exquisite silk and crêpe-de-chine. They were those delicious things which are the dream of any and every woman’s life, whatever her station. Something so irresistible that, once possessed, life becomes impossible without. And the warm fingers, accustomed only to the homeliest materials, moved amongst them, fondling them, and telling the old man looking on an emotion which was utterly outside his crude understanding.
There was everything there, everything even to the shoes and those necessities of the girl’s dark hair which the sender had deemed essential. Blanche’s promise had been fulfilled, her pledge had been redeemed with a prodigal generosity that almost dazed the simple farm girl.
Molly sighed deeply. It even seemed to involve an effort to raise her eyes from the fascinating spectacle set out upon the well-scrubbed table.
“I can hardly believe, Lightning.”
The girl’s words came scarcely above a whisper, and the old man watched her closely. In a moment his mind had leapt back to the meaning of it all. The smilingenjoyment of Molly’s delight passed out of his eyes, and they hardened again to their natural glitter.
He remained without reply, and the girl roused herself. Quickly and deftly she replaced the garments and enfolded them in their wrappings. And she talked the while.
“Lightning,” she cried, and the excitement of it all was still thrilling in her tones. “You got to help me. This is my day. My day,” she repeated almost tenderly. Then she went on quickly and almost sharply. “You’re mad about Andy. You’re mad because he’s my beau. Remember this, and get it good. I love Andy. I just love Andy with my whole heart. Whether you like him, or whether you don’t one day he’s going to be boss around this farm, just the same as he’s boss right in—here.” She pressed her hands over her gently swelling bosom. “Since father died I guess you’ve been real good to me. You been so good to me I just can’t tell you about it. Well”—she drew a deep breath—“you aren’t goin’ to quit being good to me because of Andy?” She shook her head. “You surely aren’t. You see, folks can’t just help these things. I mean—I mean I—I love Andy. I can’t help it. I wouldn’t if I could. Won’t you help me still? Won’t you quit hating him?”
The suddenness, the earnestness of Molly’s appeal almost caught the old cattleman off his guard. And he stood staring down at the refolded bundle she was about to remove to her room while he prepared his reply. Then, very deliberately, he shook his head, and gazed at her out of his framing of loose whisker and grey hair.
“Andy’s your beau all right, Molly, gal,” he said, in his harsh way. “The thing I feel fer that boy don’t matter a’ curse. You can’t help the way you feel about him. Wal, I don’t guess I’m no diff’rent. Leave it that way. I ain’t no sort of archangel, or any pie-faced psalm-smiter. I got one notion in life. That’s you. I’m goin’to see you fixed right if hell itself throws a fit and busts up the throne o’ glory. If Andy’s the boy that’s goin’ to fix you right I’m right behind him waggin’ a banner, with a halo around my thatch, an’ a pair o’ dandy wings dustin’ the sand out o’ my eyes, an’ talkin’ pie like a Methody Meetin’. But if he ain’t? If that boy sets you worryin’, if that boy hands you a haf-hour o’ grievin’, why, I’m after him like a bitch wolf chasin’ feed in winter. That goes, Molly, gal. Don’t you worry a thing. Sure, this is your day, gal. It’s yours, all of it. An’ I’m ready to weep around that boy’s neck same as if I’d no more sense than a blind sheep at lambin’ time.”
It was long past the midday meal that the sun of Molly’s day reached its meridian. The afternoon was well advanced. Lightning had betaken himself to his labours, and the manner of his going had been sufficiently characteristic.
“Guess I’ll quit you now, Molly, gal,” he had said. “Ther’s things in life as I see ’em it ain’t no good trying to boost the way you’d fancy ’em. With your notion fixed that way ther’ ain’t no sort of sense ’cep’ to leave ’em alone till they hurt you. Your Andy, boy’ll get along, an’ when he comes I don’t guess you’ll be yearnin’ to hev the remains o’ my life joinin’ in your party. So I’ll beat it right now to my ploughing. Hev a time, kid. Hev a real, swell time with them dandy fixin’s, an’ when you need me, why, I’ll just get around.”
So Molly had the afternoon to herself and the heaven of dreaming her young soul yearned for. She was more than content with Lightning’s going. He was right enough in his estimate of her mood. There was nothing, and no one, must come between her and the wonderful thing that was hers.
From dinner to the time of Andy’s arrival with his team and spring wagon was none too long for all Molly had to do. It was perhaps the most beautiful three hours in her life. For all that had gone before when the man had taught her her first meaning of love, these hours in contemplation of herself, and the beautiful garments that had been showered upon her by the generous hand of Blanche, were perhaps her real awakening to the meaning of her womanhood. The whole thing was so deliciously expressive of her ardent youth.
In her precise little way she had promptly decided there should be no half measures. Nothing but completeness could satisfy her. So it came that a great boiler was set on the stove, and the iron bath, in which her weekly laundry was done, was made ready. Nothing would have induced her to defile the precious finery with a body that had not been specially prepared.
Her bath was an expression of wonderful restraint, but she went through with it with a resolve that was quite beautiful in its self-denial. The whole time of it was one of infinite anticipation and yearning for the array of beauty laid out awaiting her in her bedroom.
At last the great moment came, and the joy of it all was beyond words. She lingered in a state of ecstasy over each detail of her dressing. Some of it was easy, even to her untutored mind; some of it was fraught with such bewilderment that she came near enough to despair. Inside out, wrong way round, the girl found herself well-nigh frantic through her lack of knowledge. But patience served her truly in the end, and her little mirror reassured her.
The transformation was complete. No Cinderella was ever more richly endowed. She gazed for minutes that swept swiftly on at the wonder which Blanche’s wizardry had created. Her eyes shone with delight as they gazed at the beautiful picture they beheld looking back at herout of the old mirror. Blanche had judged rightly. Their figures were almost identical, so the delicate blue frock revealed itself in its most ravishing aspect.
Yes, the eyes gazing back at her were like twin stars in the velvet setting of a moonlit sky. Her carefully coiled hair, shining with satin-like sheen, was surmounted by paste brilliants which had been selected with such care and taste by the woman who had sent them. And the string of pearl beads about her soft, white throat were an adornment incapable of increasing its beauty. The straightness of the cut of the frock itself entirely disguised the soft contours of her youthful figure, and the arms, bare to the shoulder, were white, and soft, and round, with perfect formation of her trained muscles.
Then her feet, and the length of silk hose below the edge of the duly shortened skirt. The fascination of these things was something that left the girl almost bewildered at the change. The hose revealed the ivory tint of the flesh beneath and her diminutive feet, usually encased in heavy highlows, or gum boots or even buckskin moccasins that made them look broad and flat, seemed, in their beautifully shaped covering of silver tissue, utterly incapable of supporting the substantial burden for which they were designed.
The rattle of Andy’s spring wagon pulling up outside her door sent the warm blood rushing into Molly’s cheeks. Her moment had come, that moment for which for seven anxious days she had waited, and of which she had dreamed. Her inclination was to rush out and greet him, and so reveal to him the wonder of her physical transformation. But she denied the impulse.
Just for a moment a little smiling reflection looked back at her out of her mirror. Then she glanced round her bedroom. She left the fur wrap unheeded on the bed. No power on earth at that moment could have persuaded her to hide up her splendour beneath its folds. So shepassed it by, and moved slowly and restrainedly out into the living-room, and, with all her woman’s delighted vanity, she waited.
She heard his voice. He was talking to his team.
“You’ve a big piece to make before the night’s through,” he said. “Get that feed into you. You’ll sure need it.”
She heard him moving about. He was probably removing the horses’ bits, and maybe easing the straps of the neck-yoke. Then his footsteps approached the door, and the girl’s breath came quickly, and her colour deepened.
Then his voice came again. This time it was she to whom he was addressing himself.
“Ho! Molly!” he cried.
There was a pause. Just an instant’s pause. Then the door was flung wide.
Andy stood framed in it. He was clad in a dark suit, with a light, thin raincoat buttoned over it. He made no attempt to cross the threshold. He remained just where the vision of Molly revealed itself to him, and abruptly bared his head. His dark eyes were alight with amazement.
“Molly!” he cried. Then, with a little gasp: “By Gee!”
The girl had her reward. It was truly her moment. It was the moment of her life.