He smiled again, but it was not the old smile which had set her to trembling with a flurry of doubt and shame. It was the smile of respect. Then it left him, and in its stead flashed instantly the old conquering light when he said:
“To-night, you know, you will be mine!”
The change of it all, the shock of it, numbed her. She tried to smile, but it was the lifeless curl of her lips instead—and the look she gave him—of resignation, of acquiescence, of despair—he had seen it once before, in the beautiful eyes of the first young doe that fell to his rifle. She was not dead when he bounded to the spot where she lay—and she gave him that look.
Edward Conway watched his two daughters go out of the gate on their way to the mill, sitting with his feet propped up, and drunker than he had been for weeks. But indistinct as things were, the poignancy of it went through him, and he groaned. In a dazed sort of way he knew it was the last of all his dreams of respectability, that from now on there was nothing for him and his but degradation and a lower place in life. To do him justice, he did not care so much for himself; already he felt that he himself was doomed, that he could never expect to shake off the terrible habit which had grown to be part of his life,—unless, he thought, unless, as the Bishop had said—by the blow of God. He paled to think what that might mean. God had so many ways of striking blows unknown to man. But for his daughters—he loved them, drunkard though he was. He was proud of their breeding, their beauty, their name. If he could only go and give them a chance—if the blow would only fall and take him!
The sun was warm. He grew sleepy. He remembered afterwards that he fell out of his chair and that he could not arise.... It was a nice place to sleep anyway.... A staggering hound, with scurviness and sores, came up the steps, then on the porch, and licked his face....
When he awoke some one was bathing his face with cold water from the spring. He was perfectly sober and he knew it was nearly noon. Then he heard the person say: “I guess you are all right now, Marse Ned, an' I'm thinkin' it's the last drink you'll ever take outen that jug.”
His astonishment in recognizing that the voice was the voice of Mammy Maria did not keep him from looking up regretfully at sight of the precious broken jug and the strong odor of whiskey pervading the air.
How delightful the odor was!
He sat up amazed, blinking stupidly.
“Aunt Maria—in heaven's name—where?”