CHAPTER ELEVEN
FRANCES sat in her cabin door that evening. The air was unusually mild and the moonlight lay on the hills; beyond great wastes of shadow the peaks shone with a white unearthly glory. The spring, the delicate, evanescent spring of the mountains, had vanished, and Frances, whose imagination had been quickened by living in the vast solitudes, had pictured an airy maiden who stood for a moment on the shining summits and then sped downward, flowers springing where her light feet brushed the hillsides, down, down to the valleys of mist.
It was summer now, the summer of golden days of an ineffable freshness, of long clear evenings, when the primroses opened their white-petalled cups and filled the air with their enchanting and exotic fragrance; but even the healing balm of the earth's beauty could not restore the Missionary's soul. Since morning she had sat in that abasement of spirit, that profound depression she always experienced when she had, as she phrased it, "denied her Lord" and "failed to live up to the light."
"Here I sat dreaming of the universal love," she reproached herself in bitter scorn, "and when I was called on to prove it to Mrs. Thomas, I had nothing to give her, because I dared to judge her and her way of loving. It makes me sick, it makes me sick! Oh," with a wave of impatient anguish, "do I always have to judge and manage? Won't I ever reach the 'neither do I condemn thee'?" Her tightly clasped hands, which she had raised to her heart with an habitual gesture, fell limply in her lap, and her head sank. She felt sore and spent, as if she had essayed to climb a high mountain and had slipped and fallen, bruised upon the rocks.
There she sat, until, hearing footsteps upon the little bridge, she lifted her head to see the tall figure of Garvin advancing through the moonlight. He came slowly, with down-bent head and, it seemed to Frances, with dragging steps, as if he lifted his feet with an effort.
"Don't get up, Miss Benson," he said, as she arose and stood in the doorway. "Don't get up; I'll just sit down on the step here, if you will let me. Please don't bother about a chair. I'd rather sit down here," suiting the action to the words. He rested his bare head against the lintel of the door, and she fancied she heard him sigh. Some instinct bade her hold her peace, and for a time they sat in silence; then he drew one hand across his brow.
"Miss Benson," he said slowly, "I don't know how I can ever thank you for your kindness to Lutie. You must never think that I underrate it. I know how busy your life is, and I know how many demands you have on your time and patience; and when I consider this, and think of all the hours you manage to give to Lutie, and that you have been not only friend and companion, but nurse as well, why—I haven't words to thank you."
"It is not necessary to thank me," she replied. "It has made me happy to do what little I can for her. Lutie is very lovable, Mr. Garvin."
"Yes, poor little thing!" he sighed. "But, Miss Benson, because you have already done so much, I have hated to come to you in this new perplexity, and yet"—sighing again—"what can I do? I have nowhere else to turn. You see, the doctors all agree that she has only a little while to live. Well, if they are right, and these are really her last days, why, I want them happy. If her fancy turns to jewels and clothes and that sort of thing, by God, she shall have them!" He brought his big brown hand with the long lean fingers down on his knee. "I want her last days happy at any cost. Ethel means well, and she's been a good friend to Lutie; but she's crazy about religion, and she's got some kind of a fixed idea that she's got to save Lutie's soul at any cost. I don't see"—with a short vexed laugh—"why she don't get enough excitement out of beating her tambourine and singing and praying in the streets without tormenting my poor girl.
"Every time Ethel talks to her about religion it brings on a nervous attack. Fortunately, she's taken rather a fancy to the lunger preacher—what's his name? Carrothers—and he hasn't bothered her much about her soul; he knows better, I guess. But then it's anything that's new with her now. She's so tired—the restlessness of disease, you know." He brooded moodily. "You will help me, won't you, Missioner?" falling for the first time into the familiar village term. "You are all I have to depend on. The new difficulty I spoke of? Oh!—it is this. The doctors insist that she must have nurses to care for her, and, indeed, she is so ill that it is absolutely necessary; and yet I can do nothing with her, she rebels so at the thought. It makes her feel that she is really ill, you see. Now, if you could help me persuade her it is necessary? I can't be with her all of the time. You see, there is a great deal of business which must have more or less attention, and then"—with a faint smile—"I've got to sleep a little."
Frances looked at him. This man, worn with vigils and spent with the endeavour to soothe the last days of a poor wreck of a woman, was that same Garvin of whom Ethel and Herries had spoken as the willing companion, the complaisant prey, of light women. It was an incredible, a horrible thought, and she put it from her.
"I will do everything that I can, believe that," she answered earnestly.
"Thank you. I was sure of it," he said simply.
True to her word, she did try, the next morning, and succeeded so well that without undue excitement Lutie was not only persuaded to permit the presence of nurses, but even looked forward to their arrival as a new interest.
After having accomplished her mission, Frances returned through the village and stopped at two or three houses. Everywhere she heard discussed the one topic on which Zenith was, for the moment, concentrating its interest: Myrtle Swanstrom's mischievous skirmishes with the invincible Mrs. Evans, the match game which was being played between them with the hazard at stake—the lunger preacher.
All Zenith agreed that the game, as it stood, had been played by experts, and in a masterly manner, and that it was a contest well worth putting one's money on.
To show a few of the moves—Mrs. Evans it was who kindly offered to assist the preacher in planning the arrangement of his cabin, and, as they sat about the kitchen table in the evening studying his drawings, would appeal to the shy and silent Susie for advice: "Mr. Carrothers," explanatorily, "she's such a housekeeper as never was. When the cabin's finished, we'll come over, and Susie shall get up one of her suppers for you. My Lord! They're simply great! Susie, lift the coffee off the stove and hand down Preacher a piece of pie."
But it was Myrtle who would inadvertently and innocently meet him as he came whistling down the hill at sunset. Myrtle, who would at first refuse to turn back, protesting that she had "an errand further along," and would then be reluctantly persuaded to postpone the errand and go for a stroll.
It was Myrtle who would innocently meet him
And if Carrothers was frequently invited to supper at the homes of those Myrtle called "the Evans click," with Susie invariably and ostentatiously seated beside him, a proceeding which caused the retiring girl a more obvious embarrassment on each occasion—why, the preacher, on the other hand, was more and more frequently to be seen sitting on the step of the Swanstrom cabin through the summer evenings; and Frank McGuire's frown daily grew deeper, his expression more sullen.
"I do' know, Mis' Evans," remarked Mrs. Thomas frankly at the Wednesday afternoon meeting of the Ladies' Aid Society; "I do' know if you're just on the right tack. 'Course," sighing deeply, "we got to recognise that bacon an' greens is more to a brute of a man than the gentle influence of woman; but you got to remember that he's young and ain't made such a god of vittles as they do when they're older. Now, Susie is always showed off to him bakin', or sewin', or scrubbin,' while Myrtle comes saunterin' along his path in a white dress, the sun shinin' on her yellow hair an' a sprinklin' of musk on her handkercher'. If you notice, for the last three Sundays, he's been rantin' about the lilies of the field. Always watch the straws, I says, an' then bimeby you'll get to know somethin'."
"Myrtle had ought to be remonstrated with," said Mrs. Evans decisively, "an' I think Missioner here is the one to do it."
"Do you? Well, I'm not at all sure that I do," replied Frances. Nevertheless, she pondered considerably if a word in season were not her duty and also as to the best methods of approaching Myrtle.
Opportunity, however, arranged the matter without her lifting a finger; for one afternoon, a few days later, as she sat sewing by her cabin door, occasionally lifting her eyes to watch the magpies flutter their black and white wings through the pines, or the chipmunks whisk silently up to snatch a bit of food from the pan that she always placed for them, Myrtle came panting up the trail, her pink face glowing in the depths of her pinker sunbonnet.
"Howdy, Missioner," she called blithely. "I ain't seen you for a long time."
"No, indeed, and I'm very glad to see you," returned Frances, reflecting that this might be a good chance to speak that word in season which was weighing upon her mind.
"You see," said Myrtle explanatorily, "we got company. Aunt Ella and Uncle Hiram from the East. Company's lots of trouble, Missioner. 'Fore they come, it was gettin' the house all cleaned, an' tidies an' throws an' pincushion covers done up; an' between times workin' on Paw to let Maw cut his hair, an' makin' him promise to wear a collar while they're here.
"Uncle Hiram, he's well off, an' Aunt Ella, she always was that airy an' set up, Maw says. So Maw can't bear for her to think that because we live up here in the mountains, we don't know what's what, an' don't have things right. Yes, company's lots of trouble."
For a moment Myrtle's gaze sought the sun-washed valley, and then her voice was lifted again, anxiously and withal hesitatingly.
"Say, Miss Benson, the worst is about Frank McGuire. You see," pleating the ruffle on her apron, a flush rising on her soft cheek, "Frank an' me was goin' to be married this summer, an' Paw was tickled to death, an' then Maw, she put her foot down because she wanted to show off to Aunt Ella and act like I could get Preacher. An' to please her, I told Frank I wanted to put off the wedding till fall. Well, he wouldn't believe it was just on account of Maw's pride before Aunt Ella. He suspicioned all the time that I was going to throw him over for the preacher, an' he took on something awful; and now," two large tears rolling down her cheeks, "we ain't hardly on speakin' terms, an' he says he won't be played with no longer, an' that I've got to tell folks at the raspberry social they're goin' to have before long that we're goin' to be married or he'll track out over the range and never come back."
"But, Myrtle," said Frances gently, "why wait until then? Why not decide now?"
"No," her blue eyes flashing through the drops which still clung to her lashes, "Frank's got to 'pologise first for the way he spoke. I ain't forgot some of the things he said; callin' me 'heartless flirt.' Well, I've showed him what flirtin' is."
"Ah, Myrtle," remonstrated Frances, "wouldn't it make you happier to forgive him? It is easy to forgive those we love."
"No, it ain't," said Myrtle sharply. "They're the ones it's the hardest to forgive." She shut her lips with a toss of her head.
"Say, Missioner," after an interval of silence and in a burst of what Frances regarded as reprehensible levity, "Preacher's awful nice, ain't he?"
"He is very pleasant," was the cold response.
"Frank's terrible jealous of him." Myrtle made the statement with undisguised pride.
The Missionary was genuinely shocked. "Myrtle! How can you accept Mr. Carrothers's attentions if you really care for Frank?" she exclaimed.
"Oh, that's nothing," said Myrtle indifferently. "Seems like there's a-plenty reasons for my carrying on with him—to please Maw, an' spite Mis' Evans an' her click, an' help out Susie Hazen. Don't you tell none of 'em, Miss Benson, but Susie's that mortified that she don't know what to do; an' she don't dare to speak up, 'cause Mis' Evans is that set. You know her. Why, all these tea-parties they're havin', an' settin' Susie beside Preacher, makes her so pizen shamed she don't know what to do. Susie's fellow is Tom Eagen, over to Black Snake, an' she's goin' to marry him in September; but she don't want Mis' Evans to know it, 'cause she'd stick her foot in it, sure. That click just think they can boss everything here in Zenith, but I'm a-goin' to show them that they can't boss me."
"But, Myrtle, is it worthy of you to encourage Mr. Carrothers and torment poor Frank just to spite someone?"
"Oh, it don't hurt the boys, really it don't," asserted Myrtle, anxious to retain the Missionary's good opinion. "Preacher, he don't care a snap about me. He's got the picture of a girl from Illinois in his watch an' he just wants to talk about her an' take on about how lonely he is; and as for Frank, it won't hurt him none. Why, Missioner, some of the boys have told me they'd drown themselves in the creek, or jump over the Pass, or go up above timber line and live like recluses; but they never did, not one of 'em. And you just see," rising to go home, "if I don't teach Frank McGuire what flirting is."
Frances looked anxiously after the girl as she started down the hill, then she ran down the road after the younger woman. "Myrtle," she said in a voice which trembled, "don't try to get even with Frank; remember his provocation. Sometimes whims like this spoil a woman's whole life. Make it up, Myrtle."
Myrtle put her hands affectionately on the Missionary's shoulders and laughed. "I'll teach him," she said emphatically. "Don't you worry none, Missioner; I got to teach him."
Frances turned away discouraged, and with a sigh retraced her steps.
That evening, while yet the daylight lingered, she was hastily summoned to Lutie's bedside. After she had entered the house she passed quickly to the red boudoir; there she was arrested by the sight of the crouching figure of Ethel, who sat with her head bent upon the table, her slight form shaken by suppressed but hysterical sobs, while Carrothers stood beside her, his lips compressed, his face pale, and fright, it struck Frances, in his eyes.
"Oh, Missioner," gasped Ethel at the sight of her. "Oh, Missioner, it's the awfullest thing that ever happened. We've been drove out again, an' she's dyin'—she's dyin' in her sins." She dropped on her knees, her hands clutching the folds of Frances's skirt. She swayed back and forth, her face was distorted with weeping, and her fair hair falling wildly about it. "Missioner, it's up to you. It's up to you. We can't do nothing more. Walt's drove us out; but it's up to you to save her."
Frances drew her hand heavily across her eyes. She had known days of perplexity and nights of prayer on this subject, and Ethel's appeal was like a blow struck on quivering nerves. She drew one deep involuntary sigh, and looked above Ethel's head, beyond Carrothers to the scarlet, smiling, unctuous cardinals, the pink and blue maidens dancing on the startlingly green sward, upon the walls.
Without waiting for an answer, Ethel again broke into hysterical, incoherent appeals, which died into sobbing silence as Garvin appeared at the door.
His face was dead white, a dark, toneless pallor; there were new and deeper lines about his eyes, and his mouth, as he glanced quickly at Ethel and Carrothers, became set in a grim expression of satiric scorn.
"Lutie is waiting for you, Miss Benson." And Frances, stooping a moment to smooth back Ethel's hair and gently unclasping her hands, turned to him with a sense of relief. Here, at last, was strength and self-control.
Lutie lay propped high upon her pillows. Her eyes were wide and wild, her face terror-stricken. Her gaze held Frances like the clutch of a drowning man; but she did not speak until the Missionary bent above her and took both the weak, fluttering hands in hers.
"Ethel says I'm a-going to die, Missioner," she muttered in her hoarse, almost inaudible voice, "and I got to know something, I got to know the truth. Walt here, he says anything to please me. He'd lie his head off for me; wouldn't you, Walt?" There was a touch of the old, pathetic pride she took in any evidences of his affection for her. "But you"—it was as if the words were expelled from her by the force of a passion which overrode the difficulties of speech—"you wouldn't lie to save my soul from hell; would you, Missioner?"
A weight as of thousands of tons fell upon Frances's heart. She looked across the bed at Garvin. He was gazing at her with such profound intensity, such concentrated appeal, that she caught his prayer as readily as if it had been expressed in words. It was: "Promise anything, anything that will spare this tortured child. Soothe her. Give her peace. In human pity, let your beliefs and standards go. These are her last conscious moments." But there was no acquiescence, no promise in the Missionary's eyes; and it was with difficulty that he suppressed a groan.
And Frances suddenly felt an overwhelming pity for him; her strength, moral and physical, lapsed in a moment to weakness; she longed to assure him again of her co-operation and sympathy. His unspoken appeal stirred the depths of her nature; but the dying girl upon the bed was asking a greater thing than he. She was asking with all her seeking soul for the one thing that love would deny her, and her appeal struck deeper than his.
All the finer forces, the trained spiritual forces of Frances's nature rose to a decision. Lutie had asked for the truth, as Frances knew it; by her soul's light, the dying girl should have it; and having thus determined, she felt her weakness disappear and strength flow to her from infinite sources.
"You wouldn't lie to save my soul fr" the hoarse plea failed.
"I wouldn't lie to save your soul from hell," came the steady answer.
Garvin's head dropped on his hands.
"Ethel and Preacher say I'm a-going to die. Am I?"
And Frances, hesitating a moment, answered according to her lights, her eyes fixed on the dying woman's.
"I don't know, Lutie. Only God knows."
And they say that to save my soul I got to repent. I got to give up Walt an' never see him again in another world, 'cause I been living with him in sin. Is that true? And if I don't repent livin' with him and being happy, I'm a-goin' to hell—maybe to-night. Is it true? Is it true? For I can't repent; I can't. I'm glad." Through the tortured anguish of her voice there sang a note of triumph.
As she listened, Frances felt herself as one alone on a midnight sea, moonless, starless; the waters rose blacker and higher, the great waves threatening to engulf her. The truth, that rock on which she must plant her feet—where was it? Did it lie in the dogmas and doctrines she had unquestioningly accepted, the moral and religious axioms which she had taken without thought or reflection to be the eternal verities? She had condemned Mrs. Thomas from the narrowness of her standards; was this new distrust of those standards a mere reaction from a too rigid but nevertheless correct ideal, and therefore a subtle form of temptation?
Lutie had asked for the truth and she had promised to give it. Oh, God! What was the truth? There was nowhere to turn, no one to turn to. The answer must come from herself, from her own deep, eternal convictions, from the depths of her soul. She looked downward at the girl on the bed, the butterfly, the glory of her iridescent wings shrivelled by burning suns and torn by beating rains, and there welled up from the depths of her soul a great wave of love, which rolled out over the black waters of her doubt and stilled their clamour.
"The truth, Missioner, the truth! Am I goin' to hell—maybe to-night?"
"No." Frances's form seemed to dilate, her voice rang like a trumpet. "That's a lie. A cruel, hard, wicked lie. You're going to have your chance, Lutie. Something you've never had before." She dropped on her knees and pressed the frail hands in hers. "Be glad, Lutie. It's all love and beauty; there's nothing else."
For a moment the girl gazed at her fearfully, not daring to believe, and then she reflected the white transfiguration of the Missionary's face, the mystic rapture of her eyes. A change so swift as to seem a miracle passed over her face, the lines faded, the furrows of her brow were smoothed out as if by the touch of a healing hand; on her lips was a smile like a child's.
She turned to Garvin and was about to speak, when she paused and listened. Frances and Garvin, surprised, listened, too; but there was no sound save the sigh of the perpetual wind about the house.
"Don't you hear it, Walt—the whistle of that train—the train you took me away on—straight into heaven—straight—into"
Her voice failed; but in her dimming eyes lingered the ecstatic vision; on her lips was the dreaming child's smile. And in the first sweep of that strange and solemn wind which blows before the dawn, the veering, faint flame of Garvin's light-o'-love was snuffed out.