I
“Steve!” It was the girl who spoke, but the man did not seem to hear. He was staring through the window, unseeingly, into the heart of his bitter foe, Winter. He sat silent, helpless.
“Steve!”
At last he awoke.
“Mollie!––girlie!”
An hour had passed since he left the doctor’s office to reel and stagger drunkenly through the slush and the sleet, and the icy blasts, which bit cruelly into his very vitals.
Now he and Mollie were alone in the tiny library. Babcock had been warmed, washed, fed. Seemingly without volition on his part, he was before the hard-coal blaze, his feet on the fender, the light carefully shaded from his eyes. Once upon a time–– 240
But Steve Babcock, master mechanic, had not lost his nerve––once upon a time.
“Steve”––the voice was as soft as the wide brown eyes, as the dainty oval chin––“Steve, tell me what it is.”
The man’s hand, palm outward, dropped wearily, eloquently. That was all.
“But tell me,” the girl’s chair came closer, so that she might have touched him, “you went to see the doctor?”
“Yes.”
“And he––?”
Again the silent, hopeless gesture, more fear-inspiring than words.
“Don’t keep me in suspense, please.” A small hand was on the man’s knee, now, frankly unashamed. “Tell me what he said.”
For an instant there was silence, then Babcock shrugged awkwardly, in an effort at nonchalance.
“He said I was––was––” in spite of himself, the speaker paused to moisten his lips––“a dead man.”
“Steve!”
Not a word this time; not even a shrug. 241
“Steve, you––you’re not––not joking with me?”
Lower and lower, still in silence, dropped the man’s chin.
“Steve,” in a steadier voice, “please answer me. You’re not joking?”
“Joking!” At last the query had pierced the fear-dulled brain. “Joking! God, no! It’s real, real, deadly real, that’s what ... Oh, Mollie––!” Instinctively, as a child, the man’s head had gone to the girl’s lap. Though never before had they spoken of love or of marriage, neither noted the incongruity now. “It’s all over. We’ll never be married, never again get out into the country together, never even see the green grass next Spring––at least I won’t––never.... Oh, Mollie, Mollie!” The man’s back rose and fell spasmodically. His voice broke. “Mollie, make me forget; I can’t bear to think of it. Can’t! Can’t!”
Not a muscle of the girl’s body stirred; she made no sound. No one in advance would have believed it possible, but it was true. Five minutes passed. The man became quiet. 242
“Steve,” the voice was very even, “what else did the doctor say?”
“Eh?” It was the doddering query of an old man.
The girl repeated the question, slowly, with infinite patience, as though she were speaking to a child.
“What else did the doctor say?”
Her tranquillity in a measure calmed the man.
“Oh, he said a lot of things; but that’s all I remember––what I told you. It was the last thing, and he kind of tilted back in his chair. The spring needed oil; it fairly screamed. I can hear it now.
“‘Steve Babcock,’ said he, ‘you’ve got to go some place where it’s drier, where the air’s pure and clean and sweet the year round. Mexico’s the spot for you, or somewhere in the Far West where you can spend all your time in the open––under the roof of Heaven.’
“He leaned forward, and again that cursed spring interrupted.
“‘If you don’t go, and go right away,’ he said, ‘as sure as I’m talking to you, you’re a dead man.’” 243
Babcock straightened, and, leaden-eyed, looked dully into the blaze.
“Those,” he whispered, “were his last words.”
“And if you do go?”––very quietly.
“He said I had a chance––a fighting chance.” Once more the hopeless, deprecatory gesture.
“But what’s the use? You know, as well as I, that I haven’t a hundred dollars to my name. He might just as well have told me to go to the moon.
“We poor folks are like rats in a trap when they turn the water on––helpless. We––”
Babcock had wandered on, forgetting, for the moment, that it was his own case he was analyzing. Now of a sudden it recurred to him, cumulatively, crushingly and, as before, his head instinctively sought refuge.
“We can’t do anything but take our medicine, Mollie––just take our medicine.”
Patter, patter sounded the sleet against the window-panes, mingling with the roar of the wind in the chimney, with the short, quick breaths of the man. In silence he reached out, 244 took one of the girl’s hands captive, and held it against his cheek.
For a minute––five minutes––she did not stir, did not utter a sound; only the soft oval face tightened until its gentle outlines grew sharp, and the brown skin almost white.
All at once her lips compressed; she had reached a decision.
“Steve, sit up, please; I can talk to you better so.” Pityingly, protectingly, she placed an arm around him and drew him close; not as man to maid, but––ah, the pity of it!––as a feeble child to its mother.
“Listen to what I say. To-day is Thursday. Next Monday you are going West, as the doctor orders.”
“What––what did you say, Mollie?”
“Next Monday you go West.”
“You mean, after all, I’m to have a chance? I’m not going to die like––like a rat?”
For a moment, a swiftly passing moment, it was the old vital Steve who spoke; the Babcock of a year ago; then, in quick recession, the mood passed.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, 245 girl. I can’t go, I tell you. I haven’t the money.”
“I’ll see that you have the money, Steve.”
“You?”
“I’ve been teaching for eight years, and living at home all the while.”
The man, surprised out of his self centredness, looked wonderingly, unbelievingly, at her.
“You never told me, Mollie.”
“No, I never saw the need before.”
The man’s look of wonder passed. Another––fearful, dependent, the look of a child in the dark––took its place.
“But––alone, Mollie! A strange land, a strange people, a strange tongue! Oh, I hate myself, girl, hate myself! I’ve lost my nerve. I can’t go alone. I can’t.”
“You’re not going alone, Steve.” There was a triumphant note in her voice that thrilled the man through and through. She continued:
“Only this morning––I don’t know why I did it; it seems now like Providence pointing the way––I read in the paper about the rich farm lands in South Dakota that are open for settlement. I thought of you at the time, 246 Steve; how such a life might restore your health; but it seemed so impossible, so impracticable, that I soon forgot about it.
“But––Steve––we can each take up a quarter-section––three hundred and twenty acres, altogether. Think of it! We’ll soon be rich. There you will have just the sort of outdoor life the doctor says you need.”
He looked at her, marvelling.
“Mollie––you don’t mean it––now, when I’m––this way!” He arose, his breath coming quick, a deep blot of red in the centre of each cheek. “It can’t be true when––when you’d never let me say anything before.”
“Yes, Steve, it’s true.”
She was so calm, so self-possessed and withal so determined, that the man was incredulous.
“That you’ll marry me? Say it, Mollie!”
“Yes, I’ll marry you.”
“Mollie!” He took a step forward, then of a sudden, abruptly halted.
“But your parents,” in swift trepidation. “Mollie, they––”
“Don’t let’s speak of them,”––sharply. 247 Then in quick contrition, her voice softened; once more it struck the maternal note.
“Pardon me, I’m very tired. Come. We have a spare room; you mustn’t go home to-night.”
The man stopped, coughed, advanced a step, then stopped again.
“Mollie, I can’t thank you; can’t ever repay you––”
“You mustn’t talk of repaying me,” she said shyly, her dark face coloring. It was the first time during the interview that she had shown a trace of embarrassment.
“Come,” she said, meeting his look again, her hand on the door; “it’s getting late. You must not venture out.”
A moment longer the man hesitated, then obeyed. Not until he was very near, so near that he could touch her, did a vestige of his former manhood appear. He paused, and their eyes were locked in a soul-searching look. Then all at once his arm was round her waist, his face beside her face.
“Mollie, girl, won’t you––just once?”
“No, no––not that! Don’t ask it.” Passionately 248 the brown hands flew to the brown cheeks, covering them protectingly. But at once came thought, the spirit of sacrifice, and contrition for the involuntary repulse.
“Forgive me, Steve; I’m unaccountable to-night.” Her voice, her manner were constrained, subdued. She accepted his injured look without comment, without further defence. She saw the perplexed look on his thin face; then she reached forward––up––and her two soft hands brought his face down to the level of her own.
Deliberately, voluntarily, she kissed him fair upon the lips.