“He—he couldn’t bear to have lil’ Ann touch—the babies. I could see him—shiver! And lil’ Ann—she’s like a flower—she fades if you don’t love her. She grew afraid and—and hid, and it seemed like the soul of me would die; for, don’t you see, Burke thinks that Marg’s man is—is the father, and Marg and Jed lays the trouble to Burke and they think her—his! And—and it has grown more since the big road brought us-all closer. The big road brought trouble as well as good. Once”—and here the haggard face whitened—“once Burke and Jed fought—and a fight in the hills means more fights! Just then Bill Trim was hurt and told me before he died; it was like opening a grave! I ’most died ’long with Bill Trim—’til I studied about lil’ Ann! And then—I saw wide, and right far, like I hadn’t since—since before I hated. I saw how I must come and—tell you-all, and how maybe you’d take lil’ Ann, and then I could go back to—to my man and—there’ll be peace when he knows—at last! Will you—oh! will you be with me, kind lady, when I—tell your—your—man?” Nella-Rose dropped at Lynda’s feet and was pleading like a distraught child. “I’ve been so afraid. I did not know his world was so full of noise and—and right many things. And he will be—different—and I may not be able to make him understand. But you will—you will! I must get back to the hills. I done told Burke I—I was going to prove myself to his goodness—by putting lil’ Ann with them as would be mighty kind to her. I seemed to know how it would turn out—and I dared to say it; but now—now I am mighty—’fraid!”
The tears were falling from the pain-racked eyes—falling upon Lynda’s cold, rigid hands—and they seemed to warm her heart and clear her vision.
“Nella-Rose,” she said, “where is little Ann?”
“Lil’ Ann? Why, there’s lil’ Ann sleeping her tire off under your pillows. She was cold and mighty wore out.” Nella-Rose turned toward the deep couch under the broad window across the room.
Silently, like haunted creatures, both women stole toward the couch and the mother drew away the sheltering screen of cushions. As she did so, the little child opened her eyes, and for a moment endeavoured to find her place in the strangeness. She looked at her mother and smiled a slow, peculiar smile. Then she fixed her gaze upon Lynda. It was an old, old look—but young, too—pleading, wonder-filled. The child was so like Truedale—so unmercifully, cruelly like him—that, for a moment, reason deserted Lynda and she covered her face with both hands and swayed with silent laughter.
Nella-Rose bent over her child as if to protect her. “Lil’ Ann,” she whispered, “the lady is a right kind lady—right kind!” She felt she must explain and justify.
After a moment or two Lynda gained control of her shaken nerves. She suddenly found herself calm, and ready to undertake the hardest, the most perilous thing that had ever come into her life. “Bring little Ann to the fire;” she said, “I’m going to order some lunch, and then—we can decide, Nella-Rose.”
Nella-Rose obeyed, dumbly. She was completely under the control of the only person, who, in this perplexed and care-filled hour, seemed able to guide and guard her.
Lynda watched the two eat of the food Thomas brought in. There was no fear of Truedale coming now. There was safety ahead for some hours. Lynda herself made a pretext of eating, but she hardly took her eyes from little Ann’s face. She wanted familiarity to take the place of shock. She must grow accustomed to that terrible resemblance, for she knew, beyond all doubt, that it was to hold a place in all her future life.
When the last drop of milk went gurgling down the little girl’s throat, when Nella-Rose pushed her plate aside, when Thomas had taken away the tray, Lynda spoke: