Читать книгу: «Nobody's Child», страница 14

XXIX
"WHAT'S NOT KNOWN"

Later, when the hollows lay in shadow and only the crowns of the hills glistened in the departing sunshine, Coats Penniman came back through the woods.

Sue had gone about the house oppressed by the terror she tried to keep out of her face. She was gripped by the certainty that there was even worse trouble in store for them than merely the shame Ann had brought upon them. The thought of it made her weak-kneed and sick, yet she tried to do the usual things in the usual way. She persuaded her father to have an early supper and go to bed, and she sent Rachel to her cabin, gave her an unexpected evening off. They would have their wretchedness to themselves for one night at least. If only it did not end in tragedy! Coats' grimly purposeful look obsessed her. And in all her coming and going, from the kitchen landing, when she was down-stairs, from an upper window, while she waited for her father to go to sleep, she watched the woods.

Sue had watched Coats in terror when he went down to the woods; she watched in terror when she saw him coming back. He had gone quickly, but was coming back slowly, bent forward and walking as if each step was an effort. His coat was off, laid over one shoulder, and his free hand held it in place, so that it covered his other arm.

Sue ran down the spring-house path, and they met as he was dragging himself up to the willows. She did not need to ask if anything had happened, for Coats was ghastly pale, and, even before she reached him, she saw that he was walking so slowly because he could not walk any faster, though, from the strained look in his eyes and the effort he was making, it was plain that he wanted to hurry. They had fought and he was terribly hurt; they had tried to kill him, and suddenly rage sprang up in Sue, commingled with her fear that he was mortally wounded.

Even before she reached him, she cried, "Coats, they've hurt you – "

"I've been shot," Coats said, in a voice that was not his it was so lifeless.

He spoke with great difficulty, as if he were about to faint, yet at her horrified exclamation he frowned and looked about him. "Hush!" he said thickly. "It's just my arm – but I've bled so I'm almost done… Get me a drink of water."

Sue obeyed him instantly and in silence. He looked grim and determined – in spite of his exhaustion; somberly excited and at the same time fearful of something, of being overcome by weakness, for one thing. Sue visioned the worst as she hurriedly filled the tin cup she took from one of the jutting logs of the spring-house. He was not fatally hurt; her greatest terror had been quieted, and the fighting blood of the Pennimans lifted in her, giving her courage. If he had killed a Westmore it was that Westmore's due. Hatred of their hereditary enemy nerved her. No matter what Coats had done in his righteous anger, she would stand by him; she would stand and fall with Coats – no matter what came. Even the sight of his blood-soaked coat did not turn her faint.

Coats was leaning against the spring-house, and she put her arm about him, holding the cup to his lips, for he kept his uninjured hand pressed to his shoulder. "Don't you worry, Coats," she said resolutely. "I'm not frightened now. Just you drink this, an' then let me help you up to the house. I've got father to bed an' I've sent Rachel home an' Ben's not about. Just you tell me – I'll stand by you no matter what it is, Coats."

Evidently he did not mean to tell her, or else his haste was too great to waste precious moments. The water had revived him somewhat. "I'm not going to the house," he said more clearly than he had spoken before. "Go up and get something soft to wrap my arm in. Bring it to the barn – I'll manage to get up there and wait for you – in the wagon-shed. Don't let anybody know what you're about – just come to the barn to me… Has Ann come back?"

"No. Ain't you seen her, Coats?"

"No." He paused to think, intently, though his face was twitching from pain. Then he went on hurriedly, "It's just as well – it's better she shouldn't know… She'll come back. Put a note where she's sure to find it – just say that we've gone driving and won't be back till late, and that she's to look after her grandfather; that she's not to leave the house; that Ben will be there, so she needn't feel nervous. Say that and nothing more. Then get your hat and things and something to put around my arm and another coat for me – I want you to drive me into the city as fast as you can. I'd not take you with me, but I can't manage by myself."

"Coats! You can't go all that way with your arm like that! You've got to have a doctor!" Every word he had uttered made her the more certain that there had been a tragedy, something so terrible that he was afraid of arrest. He was afraid to tell her, and she was afraid to ask him. "You can't go like that," she reiterated helplessly. "You'll bleed to death." The thought of it made her sick.

Coats broke into sudden impatience. "I'm going to a doctor! We can't have a doctor from the Ridge! I want to get to the city as fast as I can. It's the only way. I know what I'm about – I'm trying to do what's best for us all – I've had time to think. Ann and your father mustn't know – what's not known can't be told. I'll explain while we're on our way. Go and do what I told you, then come and hitch up Billy – he's the best traveler… Hurry, Sue – God knows what I'd do if I hadn't you to help me." His voice failed at the end; he was panting from exhaustion.

Sue obeyed without a word.

XXX
CONTENT

Twenty minutes later, when Ann came out from beneath the pines at the edge of the woods and started down through the fields to the house, she saw Sue and Coats driving away from the barn. She could not see distinctly, they were too far away, but she noticed that they were going fast. Evidently they had had supper and were going somewhere together, as they so often did.

Ann had not realized how late it was until the sun touched the horizon. She was reminded then that it was past the supper hour and that they would wonder what had become of her. She must have sat for two hours there, under the pines, simply thinking of her happiness. She had wanted to be alone with it, just as long as she could be. Once she had carried her grief and her desolation to that place; it seemed the right place to come with her joy.

Ann was glad she was going to have the evening to herself, just to sit on the porch and think. The farm and everything connected with it had faded into distance since that hour with Edward. They belonged to each other. The joy of it! During those two weeks of anxious thought over Garvin, she had realized that Edward was more to her than any one else in the world. And she knew now that he loved her as she loved him. She was solemnly, gratefully happy. He was wise and loving and wonderful; he filled the place of friend, father and lover. The ache of loneliness she had carried about with her since she was a little thing was stilled.

Ann had thought of Garvin many times that afternoon. Edward had talked about him while they sat together in the hollow. The first time she and Edward had met after she had given Garvin her promise, she had gathered up her courage and had told Edward of her engagement to his brother. Ann had felt that she must tell him. She had given Edward every detail of her acquaintance with his brother.

Edward had listened to her, never taking his eyes from her face, and when she had finished he was a little gray about the lips, as he had been while she handled the runaway horse, but all he had said was, "You don't love Garvin, Ann."

"I'm fond of him," Ann had said in deep distress.

"You don't love him – you have been spared that," Edward had repeated quietly.

"I don't love him as he loves me – I promised to marry him when I was angry and wretched," Ann had confessed.

"Yes, I understand that," Edward had said in the same steady way. "You neither love him nor will you marry him. Before long you will collect courage to write Garvin exactly how you feel. I'd rather have it that way. Then he will accommodate himself to it without going mad over it, which will be the best solution for him. And in the meantime he shall not come near you." Then he had smiled at her as he often did. "You love to be loved too well to love easily, my little Ann. But it won't always be so."

"I am so sorry for him," Ann had said.

"We are all sorry for him," Edward had answered. "By and by you will understand why."

It had been Edward's last word on the subject. In their following meetings, he had held his peace, listening intently to Ann's troubled thoughts – until that afternoon, when she had told him that she had written to Garvin, and what she had written. Then, in that steady way of his, Edward had told her what she was to him, and heaven had opened to Ann. He had filled her heart completely.

Edward had gone back over the years and had told her about his life; about his leaving Westmore; about his marriage; about their future together. And then he had told her about Garvin, and Ann had understood why she had been drawn to Garvin and had pitied him, and yet had felt repelled. He was one of the unfortunates of the world.

Edward had not even hinted at what he knew had been Garvin's endeavor and that she had been walking on the edge of a precipice over which many would have fallen; that her elusiveness and her innocence, and, more than anything else, the quality of her affection for Garvin had probably saved her. He allowed her to think affectionately and pityingly of his brother; when he took Ann unto himself, Garvin would necessarily be part of her inheritance.

Ann was still absorbed when she came slowly down from the woods and into the house. Sue's note was lying on Ann's plate, and she read it somewhat vaguely: she was to take care of her grandfather while they were away; they would not be back until very late, but Ben would be there so she need not feel anxious… Ann turned away from the table; she did not want anything to eat. She went up, dutifully, to see whether her grandfather needed anything, and, finding him asleep, went to her room. Then she saw her gaping trunk, Edward's books flung out on the floor … and that Garvin's letters were not there.

At first she was terrified, for the spell of secrecy was still upon her, and the fear of harm to Edward and to Garvin. But then it came to her as a tremendous relief that Edward would know how to guard himself and how to shield Garvin. He was very wise and careful. He had said to her, "I mean to tell Garvin everything just as soon as I feel it is wise to do so. I shall write to Coats Penniman at once, but I am afraid the Penniman enmity is insurmountable. If it is, we must wait until you are of age, and that will be in October." Edward would know what to do and what to say to them; she need not be frightened.

As she sat on the porch, listening to the night sounds, Ann kept repeating to herself that she need not be frightened, and her faith in Edward's wisdom was so complete that she slipped into visions of the future. It was a dark night illumined only by the orange-red glow in the west, and it was fading rapidly. It was going to be a black night, misty with the prescience of rain.

It grew so dark that even the outlines of the nearest objects faded into the enveloping blackness, but Ann did not move; she was still dreaming with eyes wide, quite alone yet content.

XXXI
THE FAMILY NAME

It was after sundown when Judith lifted from her work over the flower-bed on the terrace and looked at the glow in the western sky. It was twilight; time for Garvin to come from the city, and Edward from his daily ride to the club; another long evening before her without the relief of active work.

Would Baird come that evening? Since her visitors had gone, there had been significant intervals between his calls, and she was quite helpless in the matter. She was filled with a passionate revolt against what she felt was woman's helplessness. If she had a man's opportunities, how long would she remain quiescent at Westmore, a slave to a routine that had begun to gall her intolerably! And any day she might be set aside.

Judith had endlessly pondered Edward's tense championship of Ann, and Baird's interest in the girl. What was going to grow out of it all? Something certainly that would make Westmore unendurable to her. After fifteen years of mental and physical toil, she was a dependent, unskilled in any direction – except as a housekeeper – the spinster adjunct to a family that would not need her. It was the fate of most women who conserved and conserved. It was her rearing that had made her what she was. If she had defied the family conventions and had gone out into the world, she could easily have made a life for herself. It was men who held the winning cards… Judith's gardening had been a relief. She could look her thoughts while she worked; the warm earth her strong hands had prodded and pressed was a safe confidant.

She stood with hand shading her face, looking at the sunset glow, her lips shut in a straight line, her eyes smoldering. When the thud of steps on the porch above warned her that some one was coming, she turned with her usual swift decision, but first she had wiped expression from her face, a resolute downward movement of her hand from which her eyes emerged, level and questioning.

It was Ben Brokaw who was hurrying down to her, his long arms hanging and his body bent, his usual position when running and which was oddly suggestive of primordial locomotion. The smile that grew in Judith's eyes as she watched the grotesque creature changed quickly into a frown when she saw his face. He had evidently run some distance, for there was about him the steaming heat of a hard-driven animal. But his ridged and mottled face was curiously drawn and tense. He had brought up within a few feet of her, had paused and straightened.

With the instant alarm of one inured to apprehension, Judith asked, "What has happened?"

Ben could express himself only in the way natural to him. "Miss Judith, there ain't no time fo' me to come around slow to what I've got to tell, an' you ain't one to go under, you're Westmo' through an' through… Miss Judith, the Mine Banks is claimed another Westmo'."

"Garvin?" Judith asked through suddenly blanched lips.

"Not him, tho' there's no tellin' about him. It's Edward, Miss Judith."

"Edward … not Edward – " Judith's voice was entirely without modulation.

Ben hurried over his explanation. "I were watchin' over Ann, like Edward had told me to do – it's Edward I've been workin' for this spring, not Coats Penniman. I had found out that Garvin was meeting Ann, an' Edward had told me not to let Garvin come near Ann again. Edward knowed that Ann were safe if I watched over her. This afternoon Edward had been talkin' with Ann, down by the Back Road, an' when he went and Ann went up in the woods, I was clost to her. When she went down to the house I went to the Banks. I'd heard shootin' there, but that's always goin' on about here, I didn't think nothin' of that, but I was scart by things I seen when I got to the Banks, an' I looked about. I found him, Miss Judith, he's lyin' like one gone peaceful to sleep – the little thing what killed him done its work quick."

"You mean – he's been shot – to death – ?" Judith whispered with pauses.

"Yes." Ben looked down at the flower-bed.

"By whom?" She had straightened, flung back her head.

Ben was silent.

Judith went to him, laid her steel grip on his shoulder. "You tell me!.. There's only one man in the world would do that… You know who did it – tell me this instant what you know!"

Ben looked at her, a glance that dropped away from the fire in her eyes. "It weren't the man you think. Coats Penniman's knowed nothin' of what's been goin' on. An' I don't know nothin' either – that's my answer to any who may ask, an' always will be," he said doggedly, "but there's things I'll tell you an' no one else… Edward loved Ann, Miss Judith. He loved her very dear, an' he's seen her pretty constant. An' Garvin, he were mad over her, like it's in him to be. Edward made him keep away from Ann – there were hard feelin' between them because of it. But Edward didn't tell Garvin about Ann and hisself. 'Tain't a thing Edward would confide to Garvin – there ain't many things you or Edward ever has trusted to Garvin. I think Garvin suspicioned Edward to-day – that Edward were seein' Ann – and – " He stopped, then went on. "An' Edward come back by the Banks – " he stopped again.

Judith had drawn back as if the sight of him burned her. "You're wrong!" she said passionately. "Garvin was in the city to-day!"

Ben looked at her, pity and affection and respect struggling together in his eyes and in his voice. "He were at the Banks, Miss Judith. The traces of him was there. He had hid Black Betty, but I run acrost her, an' up to Crest Cave I foun' the letter Ann had wrote him, sayin' she wouldn't have him. An' he'd been drinkin' – I foun' the bottle. An' then, when I stood up by Crest Cave, I seen Garvin go acrost from the Mine Banks Road to the creek. It scart me the way he went – like he was hidin' hisself. I was so scart I went down to the road an' first I saw Edward's horse, an' then I foun' where he lay."

Judith's hand had covered her lips, as if to smother a shriek; over it her eyes stared at him.

"There weren't no one else at the Banks but Garvin when I was there – I'd have knowed it jest so quick as a dog, if there had been. I'd already took the letter – I run to you then… Miss Judith, I don't need to tell you what all this'll come to. Garvin's jest gone mad, but if he comes to hisself like he does, who'll believe it? The law'll get him, Miss Judith. An' that ain't all – every bit of all your family history will be gone into. And Ann's name will be ruined. It will be the end of Westmo'. I never come up against nothin' like this befo' – I'm jest helpless!" The big creature looked both helpless and desperate.

Judith turned abruptly, faced God's half-acre, and Ben stood still with eyes on her rigid shoulders and carven profile. He knew Judith Westmore well; there was no room for grief, no limit to her capability when the family name was at stake.

It was not for long; she faced him again. "Where was he shot?" she asked stiffly.

Ben lifted a finger to his forehead.

Her mask-like face twitched, then was controlled. "Where is he – lying?" she asked, with the same difficulty over her words. "In the road?.. Where some one may pass?"

"No – off the road – in the hollow – near the first ore-pit."

"In the bushes and grass?"

"Yes."

"Did you search around – him?"

"No. I saw he were gone – then I come quick."

Judith nodded. "Go to the barn and put the horses in the light wagon. There's no one there – the men have gone. Saddle another horse for yourself. I'll get some things from the house and come out to you. Go quick – I'll be quick."

"Are you goin' to the Banks?" Ben asked.

"I'll tell you when I come back. Go put the horses in," and she turned and walked rapidly to the house.

She returned to Ben's side before he had finished harnessing the horses. She was laden with blankets and a pillow, and, after she had put them into the wagon, her skilful hands helped him. She worked swiftly and accurately, her hard, short-drawn breathing alone indicative of tense emotion and desperate haste. She spoke low and decidedly.

"We'll have to face it the best way we can… I want you to ride to the Copeleys'. Tell Cousin Copeley just that you found Edward – shot at the Banks, and that you came straight off to me – just that and nothing more… Tell any one who asks – just that. Tell Cousin Copeley to come quick to the Banks to meet me. Then have him send one of the boys for the doctor and have him bring him to Westmore… I'm going down through the woods to the Smiths'. I'll get Allen Smith and his son to go with me to the Banks – they're the nearest men I can reach, and they're not relations – I'd rather have them with me."

Judith said no more until they were ready. Then she put her hands on his huge shoulders. Even in the dim light he could see that her eyes were brimming. "Ben, you are our friend?" she asked very low. "You will stand by me?"

"I'd die befo' I hurt a Westmo' – or a Penniman," he said as huskily as she.

"I believe it, Ben… Do this for me then: find Garvin and bring him to Westmore. It's the place where he'll be safest. Tell him I said so. He'll listen to you when he wouldn't to any one else. And there's no one who can find him in the night as you can. And, Ben, have him come back on Black Betty, if you can, and if you can't – " She paused and thought a moment. "If you can't, get Betty into the club stables during the night… You're not afraid to do that for me, Ben?"

Ben's growl was sufficient answer.

Her hands dropped. "We'll go then," she said more clearly.

Ben held her back a moment. "Miss Judith, you'll not put this on a Penniman, an' you'll keep Ann's name out of it if you can?"

"No – I'll not accuse a Penniman. The dead can't speak – or suffer – let them bear the blame."