Chapter 22. "There Are Some Things We Have To Settle For Ourselves"

________________________________________________
_ CHAPTER XXII. "THERE ARE SOME THINGS WE HAVE TO SETTLE FOR OURSELVES"

John's being away from home those first days of Hugh's illness--he had gone to Colebyville to dispose of Patsie's body and secure a new team to finish harvesting--kept him from getting the run of the affairs of the sickroom, and enabled Elizabeth to assume the care of the invalid in her own way. An idea once fixed in John Hunter's head was fixed, and having accepted the plan of Doctor Morgan that Elizabeth was to be in sole charge of care and medicine, he went his way without thrusting his suggestions upon her, and Elizabeth, having learned not to discuss things with him, did not speak of her work nor of anything connected with the invalid. In fact, as soon as John entered the sickroom she went out, as one of the best ways she knew of to avoid accidents of conversation. John came to Hugh's bedside but little, supposing that he needed rest, and willing to sacrifice his all to the comfort of the pale invalid. With the tears of a woman in his heart if not in his eyes, John watched from afar the face of the man he had been the unconscious means of injuring, and tiptoed about the outer rooms with a fear of death which only John could feel. Another thing kept him out of the sickroom: impressed with the idea that his carelessness in the purchase of the first team had led up to this trouble, he had gone to the other extreme in replacing them, and had paid three hundred and twenty-five dollars for one of the best and most thoroughly proven teams in the country. There were no available funds and he had been obliged to give a note for them; this must in time come to Hugh's notice, and John had a distinct remembrance of a former note, and did not wish to repeat the experience. Luther, who came often to see Hugh, had spoken to John of Patsie's death in Elizabeth's presence, and after the first pained expression of surprise and grief, Elizabeth had never mentioned it again. John had noticed also that Elizabeth had never asked the price of the last team, nor seemed to take any interest in them, and he hoped by the same means to avoid confessing to Hugh.

John Hunter was glad at this time to escape discussions of an unpleasant nature; he was more broken by the accident than he ever admitted; he accused himself more bitterly than any one would ever accuse him; he had broken up a working team, he had killed his best horse, and he had been all but responsible for the death of his best friend, and when John Hunter's own misdeeds hit hard enough, he would face things squarely, and no matter how hard he worked to avoid owning up to others, would acknowledge to himself that he was in the wrong. Hugh's white face grew whiter each day and accused him enough without further words. To escape it, John worked busily, and there was need of work, for the rapidly drying fields required his entire attention during the day, and he left Hugh to his wife's care, glad to do so.

There were times, however, when John was alone with Hugh, and at such times, because he was full of self-blame and humiliation, he listened to what Hugh said with a peculiar attention. Hugh saw that John worried himself half sick over his misfortune, and reached out the hand of love and fellowship for which John hungered at this time. He talked of his possible death as if it were but a journey, which always convulsed John's face with child-like emotions. He talked of the farm work, and kept close track of what was done. He knew that John had had to go into debt for the team, and he wanted John to tell him, without being asked, that a note had been given. When he did not, Hugh passed the matter over without reference and with a sigh. Hugh Noland was not criticising John Hunter or any of his actions these days, but Hugh studied John and found his weaknesses, and tried to give him such help as he thought possible. Hugh had long days to think, and he began to yearn over this man to whom he had been a sort of traitor. He saw John's wilfulness with Elizabeth--heard many things without being able to avoid hearing them, being pinned to his bed--he saw where John's irritability lost good help during the busy season and left double duty for faithful Jake, his supercilious attitude toward Luther, and his illy concealed contempt for the farmers about them, and one of his ways of keeping his mind off John's wife was to keep it on John and John's needs. Hugh kept Luther with him whenever Luther could be spared from his home in the evenings, and he spoke to John of Luther with growing affection. When he grew stronger, he discussed farm work and farmers with John in a way that savoured of interest in their problems; he asked Nathan and Silas and Carter and Bob Warren in and talked to them of fertilizers and drainage, and when John insisted that those things were in the future, he said:

"Yes, but they will come up in our time; you see I come from a place where those things were already a necessity to the farmers. I am a farmer myself now and I think about those things."

Hugh knew that his consideration of fertilizers was superfluous in a country that was hardly past the sod-corn stage, but he longed to dignify this work to John Hunter, since John would give his formative years here and be unable to do other things if he ever made money enough to get away, as he hoped. Hugh had had enough work in the agricultural department of an eastern university before he had come to Kansas, to make it possible for him to interest these men in the future development of their state. Doctor Morgan, who had been rather unwilling that serious subjects should be discussed in the sickroom, asked curiously one day:

"What the devil do you want to prate such nonsense as that to these folks for? They won't need any kind of fertilizers in this country for twenty years. You'd better be resting instead of shooting such useless stuff as that at them."

"I want to talk farming to John Hunter as if it were a respectable business to engage in, Doctor. I don't have to tell you how he views it."

"What in Sam Hill's the difference how he views it?" the doctor asked in astonishment. "He's nothing but a cheap skate, and you can't make anything else out of him."

Hugh Noland looked at the doctor and made no reply; he understood that the unfortunate vision of John Hunter which Doctor Morgan had got would prevent him from seeing the point he was trying to make, and so let the matter drop, but he kept John with him evenings and worked along on his own lines and with persistence. He wanted to feel right about his stay in John's home, and one of the ways of doing it was to get close to John's heart on important matters. He spoke of Jack as a future farmer, and when John indignantly resented the implication and said that he expected his son to be an educated man, Hugh replied:

"Why, of course you do, but an educated farmer is exactly the thing to make of him. Look at the clean life you'd place him in."

And so the days ran on in the sick-chamber. If John was with Hugh, Elizabeth busied herself about the house elsewhere, and John rarely saw them together, unless there was medicine to administer, and then the girl gave it without remark. A growing fear had taken possession of her lest John should fly out at her in unpleasant fashion before Hugh. The situation between the two had been made so much more acute by Hugh's accidental reference to it when he had thought that she was crying about him, that she was supersensitive regarding her half-formed complaint in explanation. But for that reference, they could have gone along indefinitely with a pretence of indifference, but enough had been said to tear away the veil and leave them self-conscious and mutually humiliated. Their little avoidances of touch or tenderness spoke in a language not to be misunderstood, and their eyes told unconsciously all that they refused to say with their tongues.

Elizabeth, in her own way, worried herself half sick in her endeavours to care for him gently and yet give him no cause to think she was making a demand for a love of which neither approved, but which having once been put into words was a constant factor in their association. Once when she was bathing his face, Hugh thought she lingered longer over it than was necessary and drew himself back on his pillow suddenly, saying:

"Don't Elizabeth. I should have my arms about you in a minute if you did that, and you are John's wife--and I couldn't look him in the face if I did a thing of that sort."

Elizabeth turned away without replying, her eyes full of tears. He had misunderstood her cruelly. The one thing Elizabeth Hunter was trying to do was not to show her affection for this man who was not her husband, but as she became worn and tired from duty at the sick-bed it became more and more evident that she could not accomplish it.

Hugh had the daily fear of her peritonitis coming back upon her; Doctor Morgan had warned him while John was away. Unable to lift his head from his pillow without assistance, Hugh saw her growing thin and discouraged, and knew that it was the enforced condition of caring for him which made her so; yet when she tried to avoid his sympathetic eyes, he instantly misunderstood her and was hurt. That she was not really strong enough to assume the care of him added to his uneasiness, and often when he was on the point of saying so, she mistook his glance and was so distant that it died on his lips. And so the days ran into each other with the pair. If for any reason one advanced, the other retreated, and at last the condition became unbearable.

Elizabeth gave much and consuming thought to the issue brought about by the fact that her husband, still living in the house with her, had no idea that she could be in love with another man, even though her husband no longer loved her. Any sort of love-making was a violation of her marriage vows, and for her to put love for another man into words was to fall to a level to which she had never in her life thought of doing.

What was she to do? John never saw anything except in the light of his own instincts and emotions, and an idea or a prejudice once fixed in his mind could be uprooted by nothing but death; therefore to confess to him and thereby make it possible to get away from Hugh would prejudice him against Hugh, whom he would be certain to think had stolen something to which he alone had the right, and against her whom he felt that he possessed, and upon whom he could wreak almost any form of public revenge. Hugh had tried to get away and John had himself held him, but John could not remember that nor listen to it if told. Every effort had been made by Hugh to avoid Elizabeth since he had found out the true situation, but nothing would convince John of that. Had John Hunter the right then, being the kind of man he was, to a confession from her that would confuse the whole issue and do vital wrong to everybody concerned, including the baby, who must suffer with the mother who would be made to seem much worse than she was. This Elizabeth Hunter asked herself daily, and with the fear that her conscience would force her to confession should she permit any demonstration of affection, and to avoid any possibility of it, she became colder and colder in her manner toward the sick man.

The effort to keep off dangerous ground was disastrous, for Hugh instantly misunderstood it, and the gloom which settled over him increased the difficulties with which Elizabeth had to contend. Doctor Morgan saw that his patient, who had seemed slightly better, fell back again, and he worried about his despondent condition.

"Cheer him up, Mrs. Hunter! Read to him! Anything!" he would exclaim. "He's got to have peace of mind, or there's no hope in the world of his recovery. Something more 'n staved-in ribs is keeping him down," the doctor urged, not knowing that he laid impossible burdens on shoulders too young to bear them.

The two duties, the one to her husband and the one to her patient, stared her in the face, and she had no one with whom to advise or consult.

"I don't care! His life's worth more than for me to approve of myself as a wife," she decided at last, and yet when she gave Hugh his next dose of medicine she was colder and more on her guard than ever.

Luther Hansen came to see Hugh that afternoon. Elizabeth received an inspiration when he started away and followed him out of the house.

"Luther, will he die?" she asked.

"I don't know, Lizzie," Luther said quietly, not knowing what to say to such a question, and too honest to evade.

At the time of the accident to the binder, when Elizabeth knelt, broken with exhaustion and terror, looking at the man she loved who lay under the mass of machinery with the colour of death upon him, no one but a blind man could have mistaken the utter abandonment of her grief, and certainly of all men Luther was not blind. Now he recognized the heartache back of Elizabeth's question and with an instinct to cheer was almost persuaded to answer in the negative. In his heart he thought Hugh would die. The rapidly failing strength of the man indicated that he would do so unless something came to buoy him up.

"I don't know, Lizzie," he added, as if squaring his conscience, "he looks so weak and troubled like."

Luther realized the moment it was out of his mouth that he had said the wrong thing. Elizabeth's lips grew white and she held her breath a moment as if preparing to accept what she knew must be the truth.

"Lizzie," asked Luther gently, "would you like to talk to me about it?"

The girl's face tensed strangely and her quivering lips refused to do her bidding for a full minute, the relief was so great.

"I--I came out for that," she said simply when she could speak. "It's so good of you to understand and make it easy for me. I'll walk over toward home with you."

They walked slowly through the barnyard, across the creek, and over the pleasant pasture land. Neither spoke. Elizabeth, now that she had decided to talk to Luther about the circumstances with which she contended, could not bring herself readily to do so. Luther had always the insight of true wisdom, which let others gauge their own inclinations. When they came to the fence which was the boundary line between Luther's and John Hunter's farms, they stopped. There was a line of willow trees running at intervals down the fence, and Luther waved his hand in the direction of a shady spot beside them.

"Set down, Lizzie," he said, seating himself half-facing her.

Elizabeth Hunter crumpled up on the grass with her back against a fence post, and thought while Luther got out his knife and looked for something to whittle.

"Tell me about it," he said at last. "You want to--and--and I'm a safe person."

She looked up at him, glad that he had assumed it, and smoothed the path to confession.

"I know you're safe, Luther. You're more than that, God bless you!"

And to this man whom she had always trusted Elizabeth poured out all her fears, her feelings, and her frantic cry for help.

"I've had no one to talk to, Luther," she ended, "and I don't believe a human being can go on always and not put things into words."

They talked on and on. Having started, she let him see the consuming struggle between right and wrong which she waged every day.

"Doctor Morgan says, 'Cheer him up! Cheer him up,' and what am I to do?" she closed in desperation.

Elizabeth Hunter had told far more than she supposed. She had bared a yearning, struggling heart to Luther's gaze, a soul seeking a right path where there seemed no sure road, nothing but confusion.

Luther longed to help, but the problem presented insurmountable difficulties; to adopt a rigid code of morals as such was to come out at the end of the journey with something in herself and society satisfied, and Hugh Noland's life sacrificed, as Doctor Morgan had said; to adopt a sympathetic attitude would spare the life of a useful man, but with her code shattered. If only she could take John into her confidence both might be possible.

"Lizzie, you couldn't tell Hunter, could you?" Even as he asked it he knew it could not be done.

"I would tell John instantly if he were like you, Luther," was her reply. "I think Hugh himself would have been glad to. If he could have explained, he could have got away. No--John isn't the kind of man. He wouldn't understand, and he'd make it a great deal worse than it is to everybody. He'd accuse me and spoil Jack's life, and----"

The hopelessness of it left her silent for a minute, and then Doctor Morgan's warnings came up to be reckoned with.

"The doctor says he'll die if he's worried, Luther. What am I to do?" she demanded, wanting him to settle the question for her, and letting the tears run unrestrained down her cheeks.

Luther Hansen looked at her pityingly and shook his head.

"There are some things we have to settle for ourselves, Lizzie, and this is one of them for you. I do know," he said trustfully, "whatever you do 'll be right."

The interview was ended. Luther helped Elizabeth to her feet, and went away to his own house and waiting chores, leaving the question with her--Elizabeth Hunter--whose life had been punctuated with interrogation points.

Elizabeth walked back slowly, going over every hint and suggestion to be gained from Luther's discussion of her situation. Nothing was clear except that whatever her decision, it must be the nearest right of anything she was able to understand. She remembered as she stopped to fasten the barnyard gate behind her that Luther had said as he left her:

"He'll go away as soon as he is able, you say, Lizzie," and she remembered the lingering tones of fondness in Luther's voice when Hugh's name was mentioned.

It was not easy for Luther to say, let him die, either.

Elizabeth remembered at that point that Hugh's medicine was long overdue, that medicine was more important just now than any of the questions with which she had been struggling. With a frightened little cry she ran to the house and to the sick-chamber.

"Never mind, Elizabeth," Hugh said when he saw her shuffling the papers about in search of the bottle. "Jack came in and I had Hepsie give it to me. I've decided that it isn't a good plan to have it there, and I'll keep it under my pillow hereafter."

"I--I went out with Luther, Hugh, and I didn't realize that I was gone so long. You've missed two doses!" She noticed that Hugh called her by her given name altogether now.

Hugh laughed a sad little laugh.

"Well, I've had the one for this hour at least. I--I tried to take it alone. I guess I won't try that again. It stuck in my throat and I got a strangling spell. I coughed till--well, I thought I was going to get out of taking medicine altogether. It's a terrible fear that grips a fellow when he gets something stuck in his throat and knows that he can't lift his head off his pillow. It isn't so much that he's afraid to die--it's the death struggle he's afraid of."

Absorbed in his own thoughts, Hugh Noland closed his eyes and did not see the effect his words produced upon Elizabeth. By some sort of psychological process he had placed that death struggle before her very eyes. Hugh, all unconscious that he had made any impression, unconscious that her attitude toward death differed from his own, or that his death could mean much more to her than deliverance from the presence and care of him, lay with his eyes closed, thinking his own bitter thoughts.

There was indeed enough in Hugh Noland's appearance to terrify the girl as he lay before her, wasted and woebegone, his low forehead blue-veined and colourless, his hands blue-veined and transparent, and all his shrunken figure sharply outlined under the thin summer covering of the bed with ghastly and suggestive significance. Instantly she wanted to go down by his side and with her arms about him give him the sympathy and comfort his lonely heart craved, but because it was so deliciously tempting she distrusted the impulse and, turning hastily, walked out of the room and out of the house, going on a run to her refuge in the willows. But though she agonized till dark she found herself no nearer a solution than before.

Hugh felt the distance Elizabeth maintained and also the fact that she was not well. How he hated it when she had to lift him for his medicine. Doctor Morgan had especially talked about her lifting when she was at first convalescing. His heart was very bad that night.

About three o'clock the next afternoon Elizabeth tiptoed in to see if he slept.

"I'm awake," he said without opening his eyes.

Always when Hugh did not open his eyes Elizabeth was filled with premonitions. He was very pinched and wan to-day. With a pain at her own heart, Elizabeth brought a fresh glass of water for his medicine. She had to speak to him to get him ready to take it from her hand. Kneeling, she put her arm under the pillow to raise his head while he drank.

Hugh fumbled with the little bottle as he tried to return the extra disks he had accidentally poured out into his hand. Elizabeth waited till he had the cork in place, with her arm still under the pillow. He turned his face toward her as he thrust the bottle back, and accidentally touched her hand under his head. He glanced up consciously. Her breath, fresh, warm, full of the life man adores, came to him from her parted lips, and to get away from the impulse to say things he was resolved not to say, he closed his eyes and turned his head feebly.

A gasp of fright came from the girl as she saw the contortion of his haggard face.

"Hugh!" she exclaimed.

The glass she held fell from her fingers and rolled to the foot of the bed, scattering its contents abroad unobserved, as she threw her other arm across him and lifted him for the air she supposed he needed. Their breaths mingled. Human nature is but human nature, man is but man and woman is but woman in the final analysis: they were in the hands of a fate stronger than either of them at that moment.

Elizabeth struggled no more; right or wrong, it had happened, and she brought her rocking chair and with her free hand clasped in his, read and took life as it came. After that, sin nor sickness could keep them from being happy. If the girl talked of the better course of restoring the old reserve, Hugh's hand would reach out imploringly:

"Only till I get well, dearest; I won't trouble your conscience after that. I know you don't feel right about this, but I can't go back to a life without any affection again while I'm here," and Elizabeth always responded to that call. She reflected that even Luther could not condemn her for it.

Yet when John was in the house or whenever she was obliged to be careful about Hepsie, as she often was, she was outraged in her own sight, and her colours trailed in the dust of humiliation, for she saw that the path she was treading was one of unaccustomed duplicity.

"If I could only approve of myself," she said to Hugh, and then was sorry she had spoken, for Hugh Noland's face grew more white and he closed his eyes with a little sob.

"Oh, my darling," he said when he could speak again, "you long for that and I like you for it too, but I'm weak. I want to be loved and petted, and--I'm so tired that I don't want to think about it at all. Kiss me, sweet," and Elizabeth kissed him, and was glad in spite of herself.

"You shall not have to think till you're well," she promised, and the days ran on throughout the blazing summer, and Hugh improved, and Elizabeth won Doctor Morgan's admiration as a nurse.

In the midst of the deceptions which Elizabeth Hunter was called upon to practise, however, she followed the natural trend of her character in ways which proved how fundamental truth and outrightness were in her make-up. Having discussed Hugh with Luther, she told Hugh that she had done so. This gave Hugh a wrong impression of affairs between the two which she was obliged to set right.

"No, Luther never loved me--that is, he never said that he did. That isn't the way we feel about each other. We've just been good friends always. We herded cattle together and told each other things all our lives. I could tell Luther anything."

"Well, he couldn't love that black-eyed thing he lives with," Hugh said.

"I don't know how it is myself, but he does, and Luther never lies. You can see that he's square with her. He gives her a kind of companionship that will keep her out of the position I'm in, too," she said with conviction, and then saw the kind of blow that she had dealt, and covered her face with her hands for shame.

Elizabeth heard the invalid sigh deeply. When she could speak again, she slid down on her knees by his bed and, laying her arm across the shoulders of the man she had hurt, faced herself and her deeds squarely, as was her way.

"It's of no use, Hugh. We've got to face it. I didn't intend to hurt you, but I'm in a serious position. I must think of this thing all my life--and I shall shrink whenever I do. I shall see everybody in the light of my own life. I made no comparison between you and Luther. There's love and love in this world, as I've found out. John thought he loved me and I thought I loved him--and look at us! I don't know what Luther would do if he were placed where we are, but that is not the question. I hurt you just now; but, oh, Hugh! I love you too--God help me, and in the midst of it all I want my self-respect back till I could almost die to get it. Sometimes I think I'll go and tell John yet."

When for sheer want of breath Elizabeth stopped and looked at Hugh Noland inquiringly, he asked eagerly:

"Could we?"

And for a long time she looked at him, till her eyes took on a faraway look which said that she was going over details and experiences of the past. In the light of those experiences she finally shook her head.

"No," she said with simple conviction. "You don't know John. He'd never understand that---- Well, he'd mix everything uselessly. It would fall hardest on Jack; his future would be spoiled by the humiliation of having everybody think I was worse than I----"

Elizabeth could not finish her sentence for the pain on the face before her, and hid her face on the same pillow and cried out her grief and heartache till Hugh had to warn her that Hepsie might come in.

It was well that Elizabeth's mind was occupied with Hepsie while she bathed and cooled her swollen eyelids. Long afterward she remembered Hugh had laid his arm across his white face at that moment, but she was never to know the fulness of the self-reproach nor the depths of the despair which Hugh Noland suffered--Hugh, who loved her. For himself, he did not so much care, being a man and accustomed to the life of men in those things, but he saw the endless round of her days, carrying with her through them all the secrecy and shame of it; she who loved openness! If she had been a woman who looked herself less squarely in the face it would have been less hard.

"I think I'll talk to Luther too," he said at last. "You couldn't drive Patsie over for him this evening, could you?" he asked.

Elizabeth looked down at him in surprise as she wiped her hands.

"Why--why, I thought you knew about Patsie," she said hesitatingly. "Patsie's dead."

"Dead?"

"Yes. She died the night you were hurt. John drove her for Doctor Morgan," the girl said, wishing that she could keep the news from him.

After that first startled exclamation Hugh did not remark on the mare's death; he noticed that Elizabeth never blamed John for things when talking of him, and he liked her for it.

"What became of the horses that day--the ones on the binder? You kept me so stupefied at first that I sort of forgot about them."

He forced from her all the vital details of the purchase of the new horses. After he had received the answers she felt obliged to give he did not comment upon any feature of the story. They never criticised anything John did between them; in fact, they rarely mentioned his name, but Hugh was struck with the necessity of knowing methods and facts regarding the business and asking such simple questions as he was warranted in asking. When the discussion was finished he asked again for Luther, and she promised to get him as soon as possible.

Hugh Noland had a long afternoon to think out the situation into which he had thrust Elizabeth, for when Elizabeth arrived at Luther's house he had gone to town and the sun was so hot that she rested before starting home. Hugh was only disturbed by Hepsie, who came once an hour to give him the drink necessary when medicine time came around. It was lonesome with Elizabeth away, but it let him think more clearly. Hugh saw that he had entangled Elizabeth in a life which contained something altogether extraneous to her whole character. Because she was perfectly open, the greater would be the damage which must result to her if this life went on. One wild moment of hope had been granted him when they had discussed the possibility of telling John. How well Hugh remembered the searching thought Elizabeth had given his question before she had shaken her head. The time taken to think soberly of confession told more plainly than all her words how much she desired it. The one thing in life which Elizabeth most disliked was duplicity, and yet so long as he remained an invalid their relations would be kept up. For this alone he would have been glad to crawl on his knees to Colebyville, though he died on the way. Something must be done to free the girl and put her back into a life of which she could approve. With self-respect restored, Elizabeth was the kind of woman who would take hold of the merely unpleasant features of her life, and in time find a way of overcoming them. A plan began to formulate in Hugh Noland's head.

The next morning Hepsie came and asked for a few days off to get some needed sewing done. With Hugh's illness and the extra work of it she had let her own work drag till she felt that she could neglect it no longer. Elizabeth let her go, thinking guiltily that there would be less danger of the discovery she seemed to be ever fearing these days. How they had gone so long without it she could not understand. To get her dinner dishes out of the way early she put Jack to sleep immediately after they were through eating and then hurried the dishes so as to get in a long afternoon's reading. The dishes took a long time in spite of her efforts to hurry. When at last she did finish she hastened to the bedroom with a glass of water in her hand. Hugh had been thinking seriously and was worn out with the tangle of wrongdoing in which he found himself, the solution of which involved such unsatisfactory changes, and now just weakly wanted to be loved. He did not speak, but after the tablet was swallowed invited a kiss by a glance of the eye, and when it was given, drew her head down on his breast and lay patting it.

Jack had wakened and toddled into the room on his sleepy little legs. The child staggered over to his mother and laid his head against her arm, murmuring sleepily:

"Love oo too!"

Elizabeth Hunter sprang to her feet as if a clap of thunder had unexpectedly sent its report through the hot afternoon air. Her guilty eyes sought Hugh's. Jack encircled her knees with his fat little arms and, standing on his tiptoes to be taken, repeated:

"Love oo too!"

There was a noise at the well and Elizabeth, glad of a chance to escape from the room, went out. John was pumping water over a jug to cool it before he filled it. The sight of the man who was her husband had a curious effect on Elizabeth; everything in her, mentally and physically, became chaotic, her ears buzzed, her temples throbbed, and there was an inner shrinking which could scarcely be controlled. John had seen her and waited for her to come out to the well.

When the jug was full, John leaned forward to kiss Jack and a sick sort of fear took hold of her lest he would offer to kiss her also. His breath fell hot on her neck as he sought Jack's face on her shoulder, but he did not offer to kiss her, and she turned away with an unspeakable relief.

"Take Jack and I'll carry the jug out to the boys while you have a chat with Hugh," Elizabeth said suddenly.

John was very tired, the field where they had been cutting shock corn was very hot, and the house looked cool and inviting.

"Well, I guess I will."

The jug was heavier than Elizabeth had thought and she sat down to rest on the way, observing as she did so that Doctor Morgan was driving into the lane.

"I am not absolved from blame because he scolds," she told herself.

As she thought of her duties in life, Jack's affectionate little speech of half an hour ago came to mind. Aye! there was the crux of the whole difficulty. She was Jack's mother! A line of Emerson's which she had read with Hugh once came to her mind: "In my dealings with my child, my Latin and my Greek, my accomplishments and my money, stead me nothing. They are all lost upon him: but as much soul as I have avails." Her whole mind was taken up with the quotation as soon as it came before her.

"As much soul as I have avails!" Over and over she repeated it, and when she at last saw John bearing down upon her she got up guiltily and waited instead of going on with the jug alone.

"Was it too heavy?" he asked. "I'll take it over and come back for you. Doctor Morgan wants to see you. I'll come back; it's too hot for me; I'm going to rest."

The cool house had appealed to John Hunter.

At the house Hugh Noland was asking searching questions of the old doctor.

"When do you intend to let me get out of here, Doctor?" he asked.

"Out of here?" the doctor exclaimed. "Not till you're well enough. Just what do you mean by 'out of here?'" he asked in return.

"Just what I said. When will I be well enough to go to Mitchell County?"

There was an intensity about it which caught the doctor's attention.

"Now look here, Noland, you won't go to Mitchell County for a year with such a heart as that--it's too far from your friends, my boy. Be good and don't you get to worrying. You've got to stand it. Be a man."

Had Doctor Morgan shown any tenderness Hugh Noland would have told him the real reason for wanting to get away, but something in the banter of being admonished to be a man took away the thing which made it possible.

"Then can't I be taken into town?" Hugh asked when he had had time to swallow the bitter pill.

"Into town? Now? Well, not that anybody knows of at this time. Now look here, you've got a splendid place to stay; why can't you be sensible and lay here and get well? You worry till I might as well go and turn this medicine down the gullet of one of Hunter's pigs. Be a man," he repeated, hoping to whip the discouraged patient into line with good sense.

"It isn't a case of being a man, when a woman's got to take care of you that had better be taking care of herself," Hugh said bitterly.

"Is Mrs. Hunter getting down on our hands too? That won't do. I'm glad we sent for her."

Hugh Noland knew that he had played his last card, and he knew that he had lost. Elizabeth walked in at that moment, followed by John. Doctor Morgan addressed himself to her, taking her aside while they talked.

"All moonshine, Noland, old boy," he exclaimed when he followed Elizabeth back to the sickroom a few minutes later. "This girl's as sound as a dollar. Noland's been thinking he's too much trouble, Mrs. Hunter."

Doctor Morgan saw Hugh Noland's colour die out, and dropped his finger on the patient's wrist apprehensively. Neither spoke. To change the subject, and also to get a chance to observe the sick man under less conscious circumstances, Doctor Morgan addressed John:

"By the way, Hunter, that man you bought the team of got in a pinch and asked me to shave the note for him. It's all right, is it?"

A sort of electric thrill ran from each to all in the room. Doctor Morgan understood that he had unwittingly opened Pandora's box; Hugh gave no sign, but though John answered promptly and positively in the one word, "Surely," a warning was somehow conveyed to John that this was more than a merely unfortunate moment. He had been uncomfortable about the note, and under ordinary circumstances would have been glad to have the first knowledge of it come to Hugh in the presence of a third party, but now, by some indefinable thing which was neither sight nor sound, he knew that the news was not news to Hugh, and by the same intangible, vague thing, by some prophetic premonition, John knew that this matter of the note was a disaster.

There was a long pause, finally broken by Hugh.

"Will you be going home by Hansen's to-night, Doctor?"

"I can as well as any other way," the doctor said, glad to hear voices again.

"Will you ask Hansen to come over in the morning, then?" Hugh asked.

Both Doctor Morgan and John Hunter looked over at Hugh sharply, wondering what he could want of Luther, but the sick man closed his eyes as a way of ending the argument. Doctor Morgan dropped his finger on the patient's wrist again and looked at John warningly:

"I think I'll be going. You stay with Noland, Hunter. I want a word with Mrs. Hunter before I go. I'll stop at Hansen's, Noland."

Doctor Morgan took Elizabeth out and questioned her closely about the diet and other important matters, but was able to elicit nothing new.

"I've been encouraged of late," the old doctor said, shaking his head, "but here he is as bad as ever--that is, as discouraged and restless. Have you been reading to him lately? What's on his nerves, anyhow?"

When the doctor could get no additional information regarding Hugh's condition from Elizabeth, he gave it up and turned his attention to the girl herself.

"I told him you were as fine as a dollar, but I'm not sure about you. I'm going to bring you a tonic to-morrow. I'll be out in the morning, early, and I'll try and see him to-morrow night late. I don't like the way he looked to-night. Say, you don't know what he wants of Hansen do you?"

"No. He asked me to go over yesterday afternoon after him, but Luther wasn't there and hasn't come in since. It's a busy time and he probably thought very little of it. Hugh often sends for him. Do you think he's worse, Doctor?" she asked anxiously.

"No, not specially," the old doctor answered gruffly, as he turned toward Luther Hansen's house. He was a bit annoyed because he thought Hugh showed too little backbone, as he termed it.

John Hunter sat long beside the invalid, cut to the quick by the languid air and shrunken frame. He wanted to talk about the note now that it was not a secret, but Hugh lay absolutely silent and did not open his eyes until the lamp was brought in. At that he shifted uneasily and asked that it be kept in the other room till needed at medicine time. John finally gave it up and went softly out, convinced that Hugh wanted rest and quiet. John was broken in many ways by the continued illness for which he felt himself responsible, and had particularly wanted a chance to talk to-night.

When all had gone to bed but Elizabeth, Hugh called her to him.

Elizabeth answered the call, but stood at a distance from the bed. It had come. Hugh had always known it would, but now that it was here it was hard to face.

"You mean it, I know you do, Elizabeth," he said. "I want you to do it, but--O God! how hard it's going to be!"

He held out his empty arms to her for a last embrace.

Elizabeth shook her head.

"Now's the time to begin, Hugh. 'Too,' Jack says. That tells the whole story. I shall pollute his life also. I shall stand, not for what I think I am, but for what I am, in that child's sight. I reasoned it out when you were so ill, and I thought this was justifiable, and oh, Hugh! I've dragged myself down in my own sight and I've dragged you down with me. It isn't enough for me to seem to be right, I've got to be right," she said in a low tone, and with added shame because she had to keep her voice from John's ears--John who slept upstairs and trusted them.

"It would be easier for you, Elizabeth, if I were not here," Hugh Noland said sadly. "You could kill it out alone."

"But I am not alone. You are here, and have got to help me. Tell me that you will--at any cost," she leaned forward, and in her eagerness raised her voice till he pointed upward warningly.

When she had given his medicine without a touch of tenderness, he said to her:

"You have bid my soul forth. I will give you that help, at any cost."

He made the last sentence stand out, but in her earnestness she did not notice it or think of it again till it was significant. She went back to her bed on the sitting-room couch and to the broken rest allowed to those who watch with the sick. _

Read next: Chapter 23. "At Any Cost"

Read previous: Chapter 21. Bound To The Stake

Table of content of Wind Before the Dawn


GO TO TOP OF SCREEN

Post your review
Your review will be placed after the table of content of this book