The veteran was perplexed, and his proud spirit also labored under a deep sense of wrong. It was evident that he had been deceived by Mara, and that all along she had loved the man so near to him, loved him better than her own life. Why had she concealed the fact? Why had she been so cold and harsh toward Clancy himself until the awful events of the night and peril to life had overpowered her reserve and revealed her heart? He could think of no other explanation than that afforded by the unconscious girl over whom Clancy watched. He had heard of the young man's devotion to Miss Ainsley, and, from what he had seen, believed that they were affianced. He was too just and large in his judgment to think Mara's course toward him was due to pique and wounded pride, and he was not long in arriving at a very fair explanation of her motives and action. Keenly intelligent and mature in years he was beyond the period of passionate and inconsiderate resentment. Moreover his love for the orphan girl was so true, and the memory of her father and mother so dear to him, that he was able to rise nobly above mere self, and resolve to become the most loyal of friends, a protector against her very self. "Now I think of it," he mused, "she has never said she loved me, although she permitted me to think she did. Even when I declared my love she only said, 'Life offers me nothing better than to be your wife.' That no doubt was true as she meant it, for she then thought this man here was lost to her. She did not welcome my love when she first recognized it, but soon her spirit of self-sacrifice came in, and she reasoned that since she could not be happy in herself, she would make me happy. From the very first I believed that this spirit could lead her to deception for the sake of others, and I have not been sufficiently on my guard against it. Yet how could I suspect this Clancy, whom she so repelled and contemned, and who was devoting himself to another woman? Perhaps she partially deceived herself as well as me. The affection probably struck root years since when she and Clancy were friends. He outgrew it; she has not, as she has learned to night, if not before. He went to her aid because he was friendly in spite of her apparent bitterness toward him, which perhaps he understood better than I. Possibly Mrs. Hunter may have broken their relations, for there is no doubt about her feelings. Well, time must unravel the snarl. It would now seem that he is devoted to this girl here, and she to him as far as she can be to any one. What he will think when he learns that she ran shrieking away and left him, while Mara, reckless of life itself, stood by him to the last, I cannot know. If he loves her he will forgive her, for no man can blame a woman for succumbing to the terror of this night. Possibly at some distant day Mara may still think that life offers her nothing better than to be my wife; but she shall be free, free as air, and know, too, that I know all."
Thus Bodine communed with himself after a habit learned long ago in the presence of danger.
Clancy also was confronted by possible results of his action, the fear of which enabled his cool, resolute nature to rise above all other fear. He resolved to go at once to Aun' Sheba, and caution her against speaking of the scenes in which she, with Mara, and himself had taken part.
CHAPTER XLIV
HOPE TURNED INTO DREAD
Clancy was guided by the voice of Aun' Sheba, the wailing of Sissy, and the groans and unearthly sounds to which Uncle Sheba was giving utterance. The adjacent fire was so far subdued that only a red glow in the sky above marked the spot. The stars shone in calm, mocking serenity on the wide scene of human distress and fear. "Alas," he thought, "what atoms we are; and what an atom is this earth itself! It would seem that faith is the simplest, yet mightiest effort of the mind at such a time," and he paused till Aun' Sheba should be more free to listen to him.
Mr. Birdsall, with his youngest child in his arms, had been exhorting those of his people near him, but his words had been of little effect in quieting Sissy and Uncle Sheba. The latter had concluded that he would not wait till the coming winter before again "'speriencin 'ligion," and his uncouth appeals to Heaven were but the abject expression of animal fear. Aun' Sheba had lost her patience with both him and her daughter, and was expostulating vigorously. "I'se asham on you, Sissy," she said. "Wot good de 'ligion you 'fess do you, I'd like ter know? Ain't Vilet in Hebin? Ain't you got de bes husban bawn? Ain't de oder chil'n heah? Now ef you'se 'ligion any good 'tall, be quiet an tankful dat you bettah off dan hun'erds. Unc., you kin pray all you wants, but ef you specs de Lawd ter listen you'se got ter pray like a man an not like a hog dat wants his dinnah. You'se 'sturbin everybody wuss dan you did wen you got sot on. I won hab it said my folks made a rumpus in dis time ob trouble. You'se got ter min me, Mr. Buggone, or I'se hab you took out de squar."
Uncle Sheba was never so far gone in his fears but that he shrunk from facing anything worse, and so he subsided into low inarticulate groans. Sissy was not so tractable, for her weeping was largely nervous and hysterical. She had an affectionate emotional nature, but was far from being gifted with the strength of mind and character possessed by her mother and husband.
"Aun' Sheba," said Clancy kindly, "your daughter needs something to quiet her nerves. I will bring it to her." He soon returned with medicine from the doctor, and under its influence the bereaved mother became calmer and wept softly by her dead child.
Clancy drew Aun' Sheba a little apart so that others could not hear, even if any were disposed to listen at this time of intense preoccupation. "You have been a friend indeed to-night," he said. "I must ask another proof of your good-will. The earthquake has brought trouble enough, but I fear that Mara and I have brought greater trouble upon ourselves. Probably you've seen enough to explain what I mean."