Ann Boyd: A Novel

by Will N. Harben

These reflections were suddenly disturbed by a most unusual sound at that time of night. It was the sharp click of the iron gate-latch. Ann's heart sprang to her throat and seemed to be held there by taut suspense. She stood up, her hand on the mantel-piece, bending her ears for further sounds. Then she heard a heavy, even tread approaching. How could it be? And yet, though a score of years had sped since it had fallen on her ears, she knew it well. "It can't be!" she gasped. "It's somebody else that happens to walk like him; he'd never dare to—"

The step had reached the porch. The sagging floor bent and creaked. It was Joe Boyd. She knew it now full well, for no one else would have paused like that before rapping. There was silence. The visitor was actually feeling for the door-latch. It was like Joe Boyd, after years of absence, to have thought to enter her house as of old without the formality of announcing himself. He tried the latch; the door was fast. He paused another moment, then rapped firmly and loudly. Ann stood motionless, her face pale and set almost in a grimace of expectancy. Then Boyd stalked heavily to the window at the end of the porch; she saw his bushy head and beard against the small square of glass. As one walking in sleep, Ann stepped close to the window, and through the glass their eyes met in the first visual greeting since he had gone away.

"Open the door, Ann," he said, simply. "I want to see you."

"Huh, you do, do you?" she cried. "Well, you march yourself through that gate an' come round here in daytime. I see myself opening up at night for you or anybody else."

He pressed his face closer to the glass. His breath spread moisture upon it, and he raised his hands on either side of his head that he might more clearly see within.

"I want to see you, Ann," he repeated, simply. "I've been riding since dinner, and just got here; my hoss is lame."

"Huh!" she sniffed. "I tell you, Joe Boyd, I'll not—" She went no further. Something in his aging features tied her tongue. He had really altered remarkably; his face was full of lines cut since she had seen him. His beard had grown rough and bristly, as had his heavy eyebrows. How little was he now like the once popular beau of the country-side who had been considered the best "catch" among young farmers! No, she had not thought of him as such a wreck, such an impersonation of utter failure, and even resignation to it.

"I reckon you'd better open the door an' let me in, Ann," he said. "I won't bother you long. I've just a few words to say. It's not about me. It's about Nettie."

"Oh, it's about the child!" Ann breathed more freely. "Well, wait a minute, till I make a light."

He saw her go to the mantel-piece and get a candle and bend over the fire. There was a sudden flare of bluish flame as the dripping tallow became ignited in the hot ashes, then she straightened up and placed the light on a table. She moved slowly to the door and opened it. They stood face to face. He started—as if from the habit of general greeting—to hold out his rough hand, but changed his mind and rubbed it awkwardly against his thigh as his dumb stare clung to hers.