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_ At midnight they left him to watch alone in her chamber, and
while he sat in the shadow beside the tester bed his thoughts
encircled the still form on the white counterpane. On the mantel
two candles burned dimly, and the melted tallow dripped slowly
down into the tall brass candlesticks. The dimity curtains of the
bed fluttered softly in the breeze that blew through the open
window, and in his nostrils there was the scent of the single
rose standing in a glass vase upon the table. Tucker had brought
her the rose that morning and she had held it for a pleased
moment in her trembling fingers. Everything in the room around
him was ready for her use--her nightcap lay on the bureau, and in
the china tray beside it he saw her brush and comb, in which a
long strand of white hair was still twisted. On her hands, folded
quietly upon her breast, he caught the flash of Docia's piece of
purple glass, and he remembered with a throb of pain that she had
asked that her betrothal ring might be buried with her.
"Well, she knows all now," he thought in bitterness. "She knows
the theft of the diamond, and the deception that lasted nearly
thirty years." In the midst of his sorrow a sudden shame
possessed him, and he felt all at once that his heart was pierced
by the unearthly keenness of the dead eyes. "She knows all now,"
he repeated, and there was a passionate defiance in his
acknowledgment. "She knows all that I have hidden from her, as
well as much that has been hidden from me. Her blind eyes are
open, and she sees at last my failure and my sin, and the agony
that I have known. For years I have shielded her, but she cannot
shield me now, for all her wider vision. She can avert my fate no
more than I could hold her back from hers. We are each
alone--she, and I, and Maria, and the boy whom I have ruined--and
there is no love that can keep a man from living and dying to
himself."
It seemed to him, sitting there in the shadow, that he felt as he
had felt before in grave moments--the revolutions of the wheel on
which he was bound. And with that strange mystic insight which
comes to those who lead brooding and isolated lives close to
Nature, he asked himself if, after all, these things had not had
their beginning in the dawn of his existence so many million
years ago. "Has it not all happened before as it happens now--my
shame and my degradation, the kiss I placed on Maria's lips, and
the watch I keep by the deathbed of my mother? It is all familiar
to me, and when the end comes, that will be familiar, too."
A night moth entered, wheeling in dizzy circles about the candle,
but when it went so near as to scorch its wings he caught it
gently in his hollowed palms and released it into the darkness of
the yard. As he leaned out he saw the light shining clear in
Maria's window, and while he gazed upon it he felt a curious
kinship with the moth that had flown in from the night and
hovered about the flame.
As the days went on, the emptiness in the house became to him
like that of the grave, and he learned presently that the peevish
and exacting old lady who had not stirred for years from her
sick-bed had left a vacancy larger than all the rest of them
could fill. Cynthia, who had borne most of the burden, began now
to bear, in its place, the heavier share of the loss. Released
from her daily sacrifice and her patient drudgery, she looked
about her with dazed eyes, like one whose future has been
suddenly swept away. There was nothing for her to do any longer
--no risings in the gray dawn to prepare the day's stealthy work,
no running on aching feet to answer unreasonable complaints, no
numberless small lies to plan in secret, no stinting of herself
that her mother might have her little luxuries. Her work was
over, and she pined away in the first freedom of her life. The
very fact that deception was no longer necessary seemed to sweep
her accustomed moorings from beneath her feet. She had lied so
long that lying had become at last a second nature to her, and to
her surprise she found almost an indecency in the aspect of the
naked truth.
"I don't know how it is, Uncle Tucker," she said one day toward
the end of June, when the deadly drought which had kept back the
transplanting of the tobacco had ended in three days of heavy
rain--"I don't know how it is, but the thing I miss most--and I
miss her every minute--is the lying I had to do. It gave me
something to think about, somehow. I used to stay awake at night
and plan all sorts of pleasant lies that I could tell about the
house and the garden, and the way the war ended, and the
Presidents of the Confederacy--I made up all their names--and the
fuss with which each one was inaugurated, and the dresses their
wives and daughters wore. It's all so dull when you have to stop
pretending and begin to face things just as they are. I've lied
for almost thirty years, and I reckon I've lost my taste for the
truth."
"Well, it will come back, dear," responded Tucker reassuringly;
"but I think you need a change if a woman ever did. What about
that week you're to spend with the Weatherbys?"
"I'm going to-morrow," answered Cynthia shortly. "Lila is sick
with a cold and wants me; but how you and Christopher will manage
to get on is more than I can say."
"Oh, we'll worry along with Docia, never fear," replied Tucker,
hobbling into his seat at the supper table, as Christopher came
in from the woods with the heavy moisture dripping from his
clothes.
"It's cleared off fine and there's to be a full moon tonight,"
said the young man, hanging up his hat. "If the rain had come a
week later the tobacco would have been ruined. I've just been
taking it up out of the plant-bed."
"You'll begin setting it out to-morrow, I reckon, then," observed
Tucker, watching Cynthia as she cut up his food.
"Oh, I'm afraid to wait--the ground dries so quickly. Jacob
Weatherby is going to set his out to-night, and I think I'll do
the same. There's a fine moon, and I shouldn't wonder if every
farmer in the county was in the fields till daybreak."
He ate his supper hurriedly, and then, taking down his hat, went
out to resume his work. At the door he had left his big split
basket of plants, and, slipping his arm through the handle, he
crossed the yard in the direction of the field. As he turned into
the little path which trailed in wet grass along the "worm"
fence, Jacob Weatherby came stepping briskly through the mud in
the road and stopped to ask him if he had got his ground ready
for the setting out. "I've been lookin' for hands myself," added
the old man in his cheery voice, "for I could find work for a
dozen men to-night, but to save my life I can't scrape up more'n
a nigger here an' thar. Bill Fletcher has been out ahead of me,
it seems."
"Well, I'll be able to help you to-morrow, I think," answered
Christopher. "I hope to get my own work done to-night." Then he
asked. with a trifling hesitation: "How is Lila's cold?"
A sudden light broke over old Jacob's face, and he nodded in his
genial fashion.
"Ah, bless her pretty eyes, I sometimes think she's too good to
put her foot down on this here common earth," he said, "an' to
think that only this mornin' she was wantin' to help Sarah wipe
the dishes. Why, I reckon Sarah would ruther work her fingers to
the bone than have that gal take a single dishcloth in her hand.
Oh, we know how to value her, Mr. Christopher, never fear. Her
word's law in our house, and always will be."
He passed on with his hearty chuckle, and Christopher followed
the wet path and began planting his tobacco plants in the small
holes he bored in the moist earth.
It was the most solemn hour of day, when the division between
light and darkness seems less a gradation than a sudden blur. A
faint yellow line still lingered across the western horizon, and
against it the belt of pines rose like an advancing army. The
wind, which blew toward him from the woods, filled his nostrils
with a spicy tang.
Slowly the moon rose higher, flooding the hollows and the low
green hills with light. In the outlying fields around the Hall he
saw Fletcher's planters at work in the tobacco, each man so
closely followed by his shadow that it was impossible at a little
distance to distinguish the living labourer from his airy double.
All the harsh irregularities of the landscape were submerged in a
general softness of tone, and the shapes of hill and meadow, of
road and tree, of shrub and rock, were dissolved in a magical and
enchanting beauty.
Several hours had passed, and he had stopped to rest a moment
from his planting, when Maria came in the moonlight along the
road and paused breathlessly to lean upon the fence beneath the
locust tree.
"It is the first time I've been out for two weeks," she said,
panting softly. "I twisted my ankle, and the worst part was that
I didn't even dare to send you word. What must you have thought?"
"No harm of you," he answered, and threw down the fence-rails
that she might cross. "Come over to me, Maria."
Putting her hands in his, she passed over the lowered fence, and
then stood at arm's length looking into his face, which the
moonlight had softened to a beauty that brought to her mind a
carving in old ivory.
"I still limp a little," she went on, smiling, "and I had to
steal out like a thief and run through the shadows. To find me
with you would be the death of grandfather, I believe. Something
has occurred to put him in a fresh rage with you."
"It was the field by the pasture," he told her frankly. "You know
it belongs to me, and pure justice made me throw down his fence;
but if you wish it I will put it up again. I'll do anything you
wish."
She thought for a moment with that complete detachment of
judgment from emotion which is so rarely a part of a woman's
intellect.
"No, no," she said; "it is right that you should take it down. I
would not have you submit to any further injustice, not even a
little one like that."
"And this will go on forever! Oh, Maria, how will it end?"
"We must wait and hope, dear; you see that."
"I see nothing but that I love you and am most miserable," he
answered desperately.
A smile curved her lips. "Oh, blind and faithless, I see only
you!"
He was still holding her hands, but, dropping them as she spoke,
he threw his arms wide open and stood waiting.
"Then come to me, my dearest; come to me."
His voice rang out in command rather than entreaty, and he stood
smiling gravely as, hesitating a breathless instant, she regarded
him with eyes that struggled to be calm. Then slowly the radiance
which was less the warmth of colour than of expression flooded
her face, and she bent toward him as if impelled by some strong
outside force. The next moment the storm swept her roughly from
her feet and crushed back her pleading hands upon her bosom;
bewildered, flushed, and trembling, she lay upon his breast while
their lips clung together. "Oh, my friend, my lover," she
murmured faintly.
He felt her resistance dissolve within his arms, and it was a
part of the tragedy of their love that there should come to him
no surprise when he found her mouth salt from her tears. The
shadow of a great evil, of a secret anguish, still divided them,
and it was this that gave to their embraces the sorrowful passion
which he drew from her despairing kiss.
"You cannot love me, Maria. How can it be true?"
Releasing herself, she put her hand upon his lips to silence him.
"You have made your confession," she said earnestly, with the
serene dignity which had impressed him in the first moment of
their meeting, "and now I will make mine. You must not stop me;
you must not look at me until I finish. Promise."
"I promise to keep silent," he answered, with his gaze upon her.
She drew away from him, keeping her eyes full on his, and holding
him at arm's length with the tips of her fingers. He felt that
she was still shaken by his embrace--that she was still in a
quiver from his kisses; but to all outward seeming she had
regained the noble composure of her bearing.
"No, no. Ah, listen, my friend, and do not touch me. What I must
tell you is this, and you must hear me patiently to the end. I
have loved you always--from the first day; since the beginning.
There has never been any one else, and there has never been a
moment in my life when I would not have followed you had you
lifted a finger anywhere. At first I did not know--I did not
believe it. It was but a passing fancy, I thought, that you had
murdered. I taught myself to believe that I was cold, inhuman,
because I did not warm to other men. Oh, I did not know then that
I was not stone, but ice, which would melt at the first touch of
the true flame ."
"Maria!" he burst out in a cry of anguish.
"Hush! Hush! Remember your promise. It was not until afterward,"
she went on in the same quiet voice; "it was not until my
marriage--not until my soul shuddered back from his embraces and
I dreamed of you, that I began to see--to understand."
"Oh, Maria, my beloved, if I had known!"
She still held him from her with her outstretched arm.
"It was the knowledge of this that made me feel that I had
wronged him--that I had defrauded him of the soul of love and
given him only the poor flesh. It was this that held me to him
all those wretched years--that kept me with him till the end,
even through his madness. At last I buried your memory, told
myself that I had forgotten."
"We will let the world go, dearest," he said passionately. "Come
to me."
But she shook her head, and, still smiling, held him at a
distance.
"It will never go," she answered, "for it is not the world's way.
But whatever comes to us, there is one thing you must
remember--that you must never forget for one instant while you
live. In good or evil, in life or death, there is no height so
high nor any depth so low that I will not follow you."
Then waving him from her with a decisive gesture, she turned from
him and went swiftly home across the moonlit fields. _
Read next: Book V - The Ancient Law: Chapter VI. Treats of the Tragedy Which Wears a Comic Mask
Read previous: Book V - The Ancient Law: Chapter IV. In Which Mrs. Blake's Eyes are Opened
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