CHAPTER XV.
THE GIRL AND THE CHURN.
The next morning Lou was churning out in the yard and near her Mrs. Mayfield sat, sewing. The scene was inspiring. Off to the right flowed the blue creek, and everywhere were the hills, softly purple in the distance.
"Things look so lonesome since poor mammy died," said the girl.
"But her passing away was beautiful," the city woman made reply, sewing, thinking, glancing up with a sigh and then permitting her gaze to wander off among the hills. "You were very fond of her, weren't you?"
"Yes. Her black face was one of the first I ever saw. She nursed father and me, too; and she was like a mother. I—I wish you would stay here a long time, Mrs. Mayfield."
"I don't like to think of returning to what people almost senselessly call the world. This is the world as God made it. And amid these heart-throbs of genuine nature I am beginning to live anew."
"But you'd get tired of it if you had to milk a cow that can pop her tail like a whip," and after churning vigorously for a time, she inquired: "Did you have trouble away off yonder where so many folks live?"
"Yes, my married life ended in misery."
Lou ceased to churn and for a time stood musing. "Did you' husband tell you a lie?"
"He lived a lie, my dear."
"Lived a lie? I don't understand how anybody can do that. Didn't he love you?"
"Once, perhaps, but the love of some men is as variable as the wind, blowing in many directions."
"But how could he tell you he loved you if he didn't?"
"My dear, men tell women many things that aren't true."
"I don't like to know that." She ceased churning again and thoughtfully leaned upon the dasher. Suddenly she looked up and then came the question: "And did they put yo' husband in jail?"
"Oh, no."
"His friends shrugged their shoulders, laughed and—forgave him."
"And didn't yo' friends try to kill him?"
"Oh, certainly not."
"What did they do?"
"Well, they shrugged—and didn't forgive me."
"But they had nothing to forgive," she replied, with a frown.
"In the world, my dear, that makes no difference." She was silent for a time and the girl stood motionless, looking at her. "Sometimes I have thought," she continued, "that it was not altogether his fault. With the error of tenderness and confidence I believed that my life was his, his mine; I believed that his every thought belonged to me—and perhaps I asked him too many questions, and when a woman begins to do that, she is unconsciously setting a trap for her husband."
For a moment the girl looked at her. "I don't know what you mean. But when you came here with all yo' putty dresses, I thought you must be happy."
"Little girl, there are many well-dressed troubles, and misery may gleam with diamonds. But we won't talk about it. I have battled it out and now I am surprised—and perhaps just a little disappointed," she added with a laugh, "to find that I'm not as unhappy as I was. Sometimes there is a consolation in feeling that we are utterly wretched."
"Is there?" She meditated for a time, puzzled, and then said: "I don't believe it. You might just as well say that we have better health when we're sick."
Mrs. Mayfield looked away, and the girl stricken with remorse, hastened to her and said: "There, I have been too brash, haven't I? You must forgive me for I didn't intend to be brash."
"Brash, my dear? What do you mean by that?"
She laughed. "Why, I thought everybody know'd what brash meant. Well, it's er—too quick to say somethin' you oughtn't to say."
"Well, then, I don't think you were 'brash.'"
"Thank you." She resumed her work, and after a time left off to inquire: "May I ask you somethin'?"
"Well, where you came from how long does it take anybody to—to fall—in love?"
Mrs. Mayfield blushed. "No longer than it does here, my dear. Sometimes here and everywhere love comes like death, in the twinkling of an eye. But why do you ask?"
Upon her bosom the girl pressed her hands. "Because lately there is somethin' here that tastes bitter an' sweet at the same time. You have told me somethin' about yo'se'f an' now I will tell you somethin'. I—I love Tom."
The woman arose. "Oh, but you mustn't tell it—you mustn't let him know it. He is wayward and I am afraid that he has innocently deceived you. He is hardly responsible—he says many things he doesn't mean. He—"
"And is he a liar, too?" the girl exclaimed, her eyes ablaze with anger.
"Oh, no, not that. But has he told you?"
She stood cold and defiant. "Not with words that I didn't understand, but sometimes when he looks into my eyes I feel that he is tellin' me with somethin' I do understand, and now—now I must shut my eyes." And catching up the churn she ran into the house, Mrs. Mayfield calling after her.
"Come back, Lou, I didn't mean that. Please come back and let me explain." She hastened toward the door and Lou came running out. "Lou, I didn't mean—" But she would not stay to hear. She ran away and Mrs. Mayfield was begging her to return when Tom came hurriedly out of the house. The girl had seen him and with fluttering heart she was seeking the loneliness of the woods.
Mrs. Mayfield seized Tom by the hand. "Just a moment, Tom. Wait, sir; just a moment." He strove to pull away, but she held him back.
"Yes, as soon as I catch the fawn. Let me go, please."
"Why, have things come to such a pass as this? Wait just a moment, I tell you."
"Well, what is it?"
"Why won't you be more considerate? Why do you act this way? What are you trying to do? You must remember that Mr. Starbuck is our host, and that his daughter, while one of the most lovable of little girls—"
"Ah, you are leaving off your romance and are coming down to level-headedness. Yes, she is lovable and as sweet as a wild strawberry, and I have fought against this thing until I am tired of it. But what are you trying to get at?"
"She is not of your world, Tom."
"Oh, world be blowed. I've got no world—never had one."
"Well, then, your set, your—"
"Damn my set, if I've got one. I wouldn't give her for all the sets in the world. You can see that—you must have seen it all along."
"Then you are in earnest?" she asked, putting her arm about him.
"In earnest? You might just as well ask a dying man if he means it."
"That's all I want to know, my boy—I want to know that you are true."
"You are all right, auntie," he said, kissing her.
"It is simply a question of love, Tom. And that should come before everything. Go and find her."
"Yes, if I have to track her with the hounds," he replied, hastening away; and she stood looking after him, with a new light in her eye. And while she was standing there, Jim came out of the house.
"Ma'm," he said, and she turned with a start; and toward her he came with a gentle boldness, and she looked at him in surprise. "Ma'm, I have come to tell you good-bye."
Her breath came quick, and then with a smile she quieted herself as one resigned to evil news. "Why, you aren't going, are you?"
Standing a few paces from her he hung low his head. "Yes, I thought I'd better cut my stay a little short. My people need me."
As someone far away she saw him, though he was nearer now. "But don't we—don't your uncle need you?"
He was not too big, not awkward now—his hands were not in his way, and thinking not upon how to stand, stood gracefully; and the breeze that came down the creek brought cool perfume from the nestling coves where all the day and the night the wild rose nodded.
"No, ma'm; my work lies away over among the mountains." She turned to walk away from him, but looking up, was closer. "I beg yo' pardon, ma'm, but haven't you got a picture of yo'se'f you would give me?"
"A picture of me? What do you want with it, Mr. Reverend?"
"My cabin is under the hill, and in the winter time it is dark there and I would like to have—have a never-failing lamp to lighten it."
"Oh," and her hands were pressed to her bosom, "You can't mean that."
"Ma'm, I don't joke about sacred things."
"Mr. Reverend—"
"If you would call me Jim one time—just once, I should have something to dream about."
She gestured and he caught her hand. "Please don't," she pleaded, slowly taking her hand away. "Please don't talk that way. You know I told you that you had revived my faith in man, after it had gasped and died. But you spoke a resurrecting word and—"
"But would my dreaming again and again that I had heard you call me Jim—would that kill it again? Honey,—I—I beg your pardon. I am used to talking to children, and I call them by pet names. I beg your pardon."
She looked far away, at the blue water rippling down the hills. "If in your sight I could be as a little child."
"Ma'm, I lead a child, but you could lead me."
"To walk with you, Mr. Reverend, would be along the upward path, toward the sunrise."
"Ma'm, you make me think of Christian when he stood with clasped hands, looking up at the golden city where they sang, 'holy, holy.'"
"How could I make you think of that, Mr. Reverend?"
"Walking with me toward the sunrise. Ah, but the wild briar would tear your dress."
"But haven't the briars torn your flesh?"
He pointed upward. "Ah, and a wound in His service is balm to the soul."
"Mr. Reverend, a true woman would take most of the wounds if—"
"If she were—loved?"
"Yes," she said, and her face was pale.
Before her he drooped, sinking to the earth, and on his knees he gently took her hand. "Toward woman my heart has been dumb, but you have given it a tongue. I love you. You dazzled me and I was afraid to speak—I was afraid that I might be worshipping an idol."
"Oh, not an idol. Oh, not that. No poor heart could be so humble as mine, Mr. Reverend. But strong in its love for you, it accepts your love as a benediction. Oh, if you only knew what I have suffered—"
"But I must not know and you must forget. With me you must begin your life over again."
Upon her hand he pressed a kiss, and no idle eye was there in mockery to gaze upon them and no ear save his own heard her when she said: "And together we will do His work."
"In the vineyard of usefulness. Ma'm, we will go among the stricken and nurse them."
Gentle mischief sometimes sweetens quiet joy. "Then, you haven't come to tell me good-bye," she said, and the light from her eye fell upon his face, leaving there a smile. "Well no, not now," he replied, arising. "But I had spoken for passage in the stage coach and I must go now and tell them not to save the place for me. And when I come back we will go to the mountain-top and view from afar the field of our life's work."
"May I go with you?"
Now they were slowly walking toward the gap in the yard fence which Old Jasper called the gate.
"The way is short, but it lies over the creek and through the brambles," he said, and after a pause, looking fondly into her eyes he added, out of his great store-house of care and sympathy: "The thorns would thirst for your blood."
"They have drunk yours and your thorns shall be mine."
They stood at the gap in the fence. "Yes," he said, "when I have more than I can take care of. The fact is—what shall I call you?"
"Mary," she answered.
"Mary," he repeated. "It is sweet with the memory of many a home and hallowed by the Christian's hope. And, Mary, when I come back I will bring a preacher and a paper from the law. You understand?"
"Yes, I understand, and the understanding is beautiful and precious." She stood so near and he was so lost—so near that her lips were close to his and he kissed her and started as if the earth had shaken beneath his feet.
"And—and now, Mary, I won't have to beg your pardon when I call you by pet names."
"No, Jim."
"And we will surprise them, Mary."
"Yes, Jim."
He kissed her again and hastened down the road. She looked after him until his head sank down behind a hill, and then for a long time she stood there, leaning upon the fence, and suddenly, with her hands clasped, she cried: "Oh, miracles were wrought in the wilderness."