During the last weeks the Cross-roads had existed in something like a state of delirium. People rode in from the mountains and returned to their homes after hours of conversation, semi-stupefied with enjoyment. Tom D’Willerby had won his claims. After months of mystified discouragement, in which the Cross-roads seemed to have lost him in a vague and distant darkness, life had seemed to begin again. Nobody was sufficiently analytical of mind to realise in what measure big Tom D’Willerby had been the centre of the community, which was scattered over miles of mountain road and wood and clearing. But when he had disappeared many things seemed to melt away with him. In fact, a large, shrewd humanity was missing.
“I’ll be doggered,” had been a remark of Mr. Doty’s in the autumn, “ef crops hes done es well sence he went.”
There had been endless talk of the villanous tendencies of Government officials, and of the tricks played whose end was to defraud honest and long-suffering claimants of their rights. There had even been dark hours when it had seemed possible that the vitiating effect of Washington life might cause deterioration in the character of even the most upright. Could Tom himself stand it, and what would be its effect on Sheba?
But when the outlook was the most inauspicious, Fortune’s wheel had swept round once and all was changed.
A letter brought the news—a simple enough letter from Tom himself. The claim was won. They were coming back to Hamlin County, he and Sheba and Rupert De Willoughby. Sheba and Rupert were to be married and spend the first weeks of their honeymoon on the side of the mountain which had enclosed the world the child Sheba had first known.
On this particular day every man and woman who had known and played with her appeared at the Cross-roads. There had not been a large number of them perhaps, but gathered together at and about the Post-office and about the house and garden, they formed a crowd, as crowds are counted in scattered communities. They embodied excitement enough to have exhilarated a much larger body of people. Half a dozen women had been helping Aunt Mornin for days. The house wore a gala air, and the cellar was stored with offerings of cake and home-made luxuries. The garden was a mass of radiant scented bloom of spring. Mis’ Doty sat at the open window of the kitchen and, looking out on nodding daffodils, apple-blossom, and pink peach-flower warmed in the sun, actually chuckled as she joyfully sniffled the air.
“The way them things smells,” she said, “an’ the hummin’ o’ them bees goin’ about as ef the world hadn’t nothin’ but flowers an’ honey in it, seems like it was all jest got up for them two young uns. Lordy, I do declar’, it’s a plum sight.”
“That bin a heap got up for ’em, seems like,” said Molly Hollister, smiling at the nearest apple-tree as if it were a particular friend. “Fust off, they’re dead in love with each other, an’ we uns all knows how that makes people feel—even in the dead o’ winter, an’ when they ain’t a penny in their pockets; they’re as good-hearted as they kin be—an’ es hansum’—an’ they’re rich, an’ they was married this mornin’, an’ they’re comin’ home with Tom D’Willerby to a place an’ folks that loves ’em—an’ the very country an’ the things that grows seems as if they was dressed out for a weddin’. An’ it’s Sheba as Tom took me to look at lyin’ in her little old wooden cradle in the room behind the store.”
She laughed, as she said it, a little hysteric laugh, with suddenly moist eyes. She was an emotional creature.
The road had been watched steadily for many hours before any arrival could have been legitimately expected. It gave restless interest—something to do. At noon one of Molly Hollister’s boys came running breathlessly up the road, waving his hat.