“Look around us in these hills,” said he, his lips quivering. “Think of what’s in them coves back fer fifty mile yan way, and yan, and yan, up the Bull Skin, up the Redbird, up Hell-fer-Sartin an’ Newfound an’ the Rattlesnake an’ the Buffalo—houses like ours—whisky—killin’—cousins.”
“Cousins?” Her voice was hoarse. “Why not?”
“Whisky—killin’—cousins!” he repeated. “I don’t know which is the wust, but I reckon the cousin part is. We was cousins! Thar’s cousins back in our family, both sides, as far as we know. Those children—thank God! Thar’ll be no more.”
Now indeed a long, long silence fell between them. The woman was pale as death as she turned to him at last, to hear his self-accusing monotone.
“God knows what I’m a-goin’ to do. But one thing shore, if I’ve sinned I’ve got to pay. I reckon it’s a-goin’ to be a right big price I’ve got to pay. Thar’s a wall around us—hit’s around these mountings—hit shets us all out from all the world. Do ye reckon, Meliss’, if I was able to make a way through—do ye reckon they’d say I’d paid?”
“Ye talk like a fool, man!” said she with sudden anger, “like a fool! Ye let a limpy, glass-eyed doctor stir ye all up and fill yer haid with fool idees. Ye say ye’re a-goin’ to quit me, that had our babies—because of what? Yore duty’s to me—to me—me! Ye married me. I want live children—hit’s a disgrace when a womern don’t have none. Hit’s yore business to take care of me, an’ now ye say ye’re a-goin’ to quit me. Ye’re a coward, that’s what ye air, the wustest coward ever was in these mountings. I don’t want furrin ways myself—I don’t want to go Outside—I don’t want ary of them new doctors comin’ in here, fetched on from Outside. This is our country, an’ it’s good enough. Ye talk about leavin’ me. Thar’s some other womern somewhars—that’s what’s the matter with ye, Dave Joslin, an’ I know it!”
He rose now, gray, pallid, half-tottering as he stood under her tirade.
“That’s not true,” said he at last “I don’t reckon ye understand me, er what I mean, er what I think. The only question is, what’s right. We hain’t livin’ the way folks orter do to-day. The new doctor tolt me what’s Outside. Why, womern, that’s the world—that’s life! More’n that—a heap more’n that—that’s duty! If I stay here an’ make a little corn an’ raise a couple of hogs a year, livin’ with ye an’ raisin’ a couple more of childern, I hain’t livin’ the way I’d orter. If we wasn’t cousins—if I didn’t know now it’s a sin to live on this way—I wouldn’t quit ye—I’d die first. I hain’t a-goin’ to quit ye now. As long as I got a dollar in the world it’s yores. I’ll hep ye more by goin’ out. An’ I’m a-goin’ out—I’m a-goin’ Outside.
“I’m sorry fer ye, Meliss’,” said he presently, as she sat stone-cold. “I’m sorry fer all of the wimern like ye in these mountings, sorry fer us all. God knows I don’t want to make it harder fer ye—only easier. Hit’s just a question o’ what’s the right thing to do.”
There was a vast softness, a great pity in his voice as he spoke now. He stood irresolute, and his eyes, in spite of himself, turned sideways to where once had lain two small bundles at the foot of the unkempt bed.