_ In the gray dawn Cynthia came softly downstairs and, passing her
mother's door on tiptoe, went out into the kitchen to begin
preparations for her early breakfast. She wore a severe black
alpaca dress, made from a cast-off one of her mother's, and below
her white linen collar she had pinned a cameo brooch bearing the
head of Minerva, which had once belonged to Aunt Susannah. On the
bed upstairs she had left her shawl and bonnet and a pair of
carefully mended black silk mitts, for her monthly visits to the
little country town were endured with something of the frozen
dignity which supported Marie Antoinette in the tumbrel. It was a
case where family pride was found more potent than Christian
resignation. When she opened the kitchen door, with her arms full
of resinous pine from the pile beside the steps, she found that
Tucker had risen before her and was fumbling awkwardly in the
safe with his single hand. "Why, Uncle Tucker!" she exclaimed in
surprise, "what on earth has happened?" Turning his cheerful face
upon her, he motioned to a little wooden tobacco box on the bare
table. "A nest full of swallows tumbled down my chimney log in
the night," he explained, "and they cried so loud I couldn't
sleep, so I thought I might as well get up and dig 'em a worm or
two. Do you happen to know where a bit of wool is?" Cynthia threw
her bundle of kindling-wood on the hearth and stood regarding him
with apathetic eyes. "You'd much better wring their necks," she
responded indifferently; "but there's a basketful of wool Aunt
Polly has just carded in the closet. How in the world did you
manage to dress yourself?" "Oh, it's wonderful what one hand can
do when it's put to it. Would you mind fastening my collar, by
the way, and any buttons that you happen to see loose?" She
glanced over him critically, pulling his clothes in place and
adjusting a button here and there. "I do hate to see you in this
old jean suit," she said; "you used to look so nice in your other
clothes." With a laugh he settled his empty sleeve. "Oh, they're
good for warm weather," he responded; "and they wash easily,
which is something. Think, too, what a waste it would be to dress
half a man in a whole suit of broadcloth." "Oh, don't, don't,"
she protested, on the point of tears, but he smiled and patted
her bowed shoulder. "I got over that long ago, honey," he said
gently. "I kicked powerful hard with my one foot at first, but
the dust I raised wasn't a speck in the face of God Almighty.
There, there, we'll have a fine sunrise, and I'm going out to
watch it from my old bench--unless you'll find something for a
single hand to do." She shook her head, smiling with misty eyes.
"You'll have breakfast with me, I suppose," she said. "I got up
early because I couldn't sleep, but it's not yet four o'clock."
For an instant he looked at her gravely. "Worrying about the
day?" "A little." "If I could only manage to hobble along with
you." "Oh, but you couldn't, dear--and the worst of it is having
to wait so long in town for the afternoon stage. I get my sewing,
and then I eat my lunch on the old church steps, and then there
are four mortal hours when I walk about aimlessly in the sun."
"And you wouldn't go to see anybody?" "With my bundle of work,
and in this alpaca? Not for worlds!" He sighed, not
reproachfully, but with the sympathy which projects itself into
states of feeling other than its own. "Well, I wish all the same
you'd let Lila go in with you. I think you make a mistake about
her, Cynthia; she wouldn't feel the strain of it half so much as
you do."
"But I'd feel it for her. No, no, it's better as it is; and she
does walk to the cross-roads with me, you know. Old Jacob
Weatherby brings her back in his wagon. Christopher can't get
off, but he'll come for me at sundown." "Are you sure it isn't
young Jim who fetches Lila?" She frowned. "If it were young Jim,
her going would be impossible--but the old man knows his place
and keeps it." "It's a better place than ours to-day, I reckon,"
returned Tucker, smiling. "To an observer across the road I dare
say the odds would seem considerably in his favour. I met him in
the turnpike last Sunday in a brand new broadcloth."
"Oh, I can't bear to hear you," returned Cynthia passionately.
"If we must go to the dogs, for heaven's sake, let's go
remembering that we are Blakes--or Corbins, if you like."
"Bless your heart, child, I'd just as lief remember I was a Blake
or even a Weatherby, for that matter. Why, Jacob Weatherby's
grandfather was an honest, self-respecting tiller of the soil
when mine used to fish his necktie out of the punch bowl every
Saturday night, people said."
She lifted her black skirt above her knees, and pinned it tightly
at her back with a large safety pin she had taken from her bosom.
Then kneeling on the hearth, she laid the knots of resinous pine
on a crumpled newspaper in the great stone fireplace.
"I don't mind your picking flaws in me," she said dryly, "but I
do wish you would let my great grandfather rest in his grave.
He's about all I've got."
"Well, I beg his pardon for speaking the truth about him,"
returned Tucker penitently; "and now my swallows are so noisy I
must stop their mouths."
He went out humming a tune, while Cynthia hung the boiler from
the crane and mixed the corn-meal dough in a wooden tray.
When breakfast was on the table Lila appeared with a reproachful
face, hurriedly knotting her kerchief as she entered.
"Oh, Cynthia, you promised to let me get breakfast," she said.
"Mother was very restless all night--she dreamed that she was
being married over again--so I slept too late."
"It didn't matter, dear; I was awake, and I didn't mind getting
up. Are you ready to go?"
"All except my hat." Yawning slightly, she raised her hands and
pushed up her clustering hair that was but a shade darker than
Christopher's. Trivial as the likeness was, it began and ended
with her heavy curls, for her hazel eyes held a peculiar liquid
beam, and her face, heart-shaped in outline, had none of the
heaviness of jaw which marred the symmetry of his. A little brown
mole beside the dimple in her cheek gave the finishing touch of
coquetry to the old-world quaintness of her appearance.
As she passed the window on her way to the table she threw a
drowsy glance out into the yard.
"Why, there's Uncle Tucker sitting on the ground," she said; "he
must be crazy."
Cynthia was pouring the hastily made coffee from the steaming
boiler, and she did not look up as she answered.
"You'd better go out and help him up. He's digging worms for some
swallows that fell down his chimney."
"Well, of all the ideas!" exclaimed Lila, laughing, but she went
out with cheerful sweetness and assisted him to his crutches.
A half-hour later, when the meal was over and Christopher had
gone out to the stable, the two women tied on their bonnets and
went softly through the hall. As they passed Mrs. Blake's door
she awoke and called out sharply. "Cynthia, is that you? What are
you doing up so early?" Cynthia paused at strained attention on
the threshold. "I'm going to the Morrisons', mother, to spend the
day. You know I told you Miss Martha had promised to teach me
that new fancy stitch." "But, my dear, surely it is bad manners
to arrive before eleven o'clock. I remember once when I was a
girl that we went over to Meadow Hall before ten in the morning,
and found old Mrs. Dudley just putting on her company cap." "But
they begged me to come to breakfast, dear." "Well, customs
change, of course; but be sure to take Mrs. Morrison a jar of the
green tomato catchup. You know she always fancied it." "Yes, yes;
good-by till evening." She moved on hurriedly, her clumsy shoes
creaking on the bare planks, and a moment afterward as the door
closed behind them they passed out into the first sunbeams.
Beyond the whitewashed fence the old field was silvered by the
heavy dew, and above it the great pine towered like a burnished
cross upon the western sky. To the eastward a solitary thrush was
singing--a golden voice straight from out the sunrise. "This is
worth getting up for!" said Lila, with a long, joyful breath; and
she broke into a tender carolling as spontaneous as the bird's.
The bloom of the summer was in her face, and as she moved with
her buoyant step along the red clay road she was like a rare
flower blown lightly by the wind. To Cynthia's narrowed eyes she
seemed, indeed, a heroine descended from old romance--a maiden to
whom, even in these degenerate modern days, there must at last
arrive a noble destiny. That Lila at the end of her twenty-six
years should have wearied of her long waiting and grown content
to compromise with fate would have appeared to her impossible--as
impossible as the transformation of young Jim Weatherby into the
fairy prince.
"Hush!" she said suddenly, shifting her bundle of sewing from one
arm to the other; "there's a wagon turning from the branch road."
They had reached the first bend beyond the gate, and as they
rounded the long curve, hidden by honey-locusts, a light spring
wagon came rapidly toward them, with Jim Weatherby, in his Sunday
clothes, on the driver's seat. "Father's rheumatism is so bad he
couldn't get out to-day," he explained, as he brought the horses
to a stand; "so as long as I had to take the butter over, I
thought I might save you the five miles." He spoke to Cynthia,
and she drew back stiffly. "It is a pleasant day for a walk," she
returned dryly. "But it's going to be hot," he urged; "I can tell
by the way the sun licks up the dew." A feathery branch of the
honey-locust was in his face, and he pushed it impatiently aside
as he looked at Lila. "I waited late just to take you," he added
wistfully, jumping from his seat and going to the horses' heads.
"Won't you get in?" "You will be so tired, Cynthia," Lila
persuaded. "Think of the walking you have to do in town." As Jim
Weatherby glanced up brightly from the strap he was fastening,
the smile in his blue eyes was like a song of love; and when the
girl met it she heard again the solitary thrush singing in the
sunrise. "You will come?" he pleaded, and this time he looked
straight at her.
"Well, I reckon I will, if you're going anyway," said Cynthia at
last; "and if I drive with you there'll be no use for Lila to go
she can stay with mother."
"But mother doesn't need me," said Lila, in answer to Jim's
wistful eyes; "and it's such a lovely day--after getting up so
early I don't want to stay indoors."
Without a word Jim held out his band to Cynthia, and she climbed,
with unbending dignity, to the driver's seat. "You know you've
got that dress to turn, Lila," she said, as she settled her stiff
skirt primly over her knees.
"I can do it when I get home," answered Lila, laying her hand on
the young man's arm and stepping upon the wheel. "Where shall I
sit, Jim?"
Cynthia turned and looked at her coldly.
"You'd be more comfortable in that chair at the back," she
suggested, and Lila sat down obediently in the little
splitbottomed chair between a brown stone jar of butter and a
basket filled with new-laid eggs. The girl folded her white hands
in the lap of her faded muslin and listened patiently to the
pleasant condescension in Cynthia's voice as she discussed the
belated planting of the crops. As the spring wagon rolled in the
shade of the honey-locusts between the great tobacco fields,
striped with vivid green, the June day filled the younger
sister's eyes with a radiance that seemed but a reflection of its
own perfect beauty. Not once did her lover turn from Cynthia to
herself, but she was conscious, sitting quietly beside the great
brown jar, that for him she filled the morning with her
presence--that he saw her in the blue sky, in the sunny fields,
and in the long red road with the delicate shadowing of the
locusts. In her cramped life there had been so little room in
which her dreams might wander that gradually the romantic
devotion of her old playmate had grown to represent the measure
of her emotional ideal. In spite of her poetic face she was in
thought soundly practical, and though the plain Cynthia might
send a fanciful imagination in pursuit of the impossible, to Lila
the only destiny worth cherishing at heart was the one that drew
its roots deep from the homely soil about her. The stern class
distinctions which had always steeled Cynthia against the
friendly advances of her neighbours troubled the younger sister
not at all. She remembered none of the past grandeur, the old
Blake power of rule, and the stories of gallant indiscretions and
powdered beaux seemed to her as worthless as the moth-eaten satin
rags which filled the garret. She loved the familiar country
children, the making of fresh butter, and honest admiration of
her beauty; and except for the colourless poverty in which they
lived, she might easily have found her placid happiness on the
little farm. With ambition--the bitter, agonised ambition that
Cynthia felt for her--she was as unconcerned as was her blithe
young lover chatting so merrily in the driver's seat. The very
dullness of her imagination had saved her from the awakening that
follows wasted hopes.
"The tobacco looks well," Cynthia was saying in her formal tones;
"all it needs now is a rain to start it growing. You've got yours
all in by now, I suppose."
"Oh, yes; mine was put in before Christopher's," responded Jim,
feeling instantly that the woman beside him flinched at his
unconscious use of her brother's name.
"He is always late," she remarked with forced politeness, and the
conversation dragged until they reached the cross-roads and she
climbed into the stage.
"Be sure to hurry back," were her last words as she rumbled off;
and when, in looking over her shoulder at the first curve, she
saw Lila lift her beaming eyes to Jim Weatherby's face, the
protest of all the dust in the old graveyard was in the groan
that hovered on her lips. She herself would have crucified her
happiness with her own loyal hands rather than have dishonoured
by so much as an unspoken hope the high excellences inscribed
upon the tombstones of those mouldered dead.
In her shabby black dress, with her heavy bundle under her arm,
she passed, a lonely, pathetic figure, through the streets of the
little town. The strange smells fretted her, the hot bricks tired
her feet, and the jarring noises confused her hazy ideas of
direction. On the steps of the old church, where she ate her
lunch, she found a garrulous blind beggar with whom she divided
her slender meal of bacon and cornbread. After a moment's
hesitation, she bought a couple of bananas for a few cents from a
fruit-stand at the corner, and coming back, gave the larger one
to the beggar who sat complaining in the sun. Then, withdrawing
to a conventional distance in the shadow of the steeple, she
waited patiently for the slow hours to wear away. Not until the
long shadow pointed straight from west to east did the ancient
vehicle rattle down the street and the driver pull up for her at
the old church steps. Then it was that with her first sigh of
relief she awoke to the realisation that through all the trying
day her heaviest burden was the memory of Lila's morning look
into the face of the man whose father had been a common labourer
at Blake Hall.
Three hours later, when, pale and exhausted, with an aching head,
she found the stage halting beneath the blasted pine, her
pleasantest impression was of Christopher standing in the yellow
afterglow beside the old spring wagon. The driver spoke to him,
and then, as the horses stopped, turned to toss the
weather-beaten mail-bag to the porch of the country store, where
a group of men were lounging. Among them Cynthia saw the figure
of a girl in a riding habit, who, as the stage halted, gathered
up her long black skirt and ran hastily to the roadside to speak
to some one who remained still seated in the vehicle.
That Christopher's eyes followed the graceful figure in its
finely fitting habit Cynthia noticed with a sudden jealous pang,
detecting angrily the warmth of the admiration in his gaze. The
girl had met his look, she knew, for when she lifted her face to
her companion it was bright with a winter's glow, though the day
was warm. She spoke almost breathlessly, too, as if she had been
running, and Cynthia overhearing her first low words, held her
prim skirt aside, and descended awkwardly over the wheel. She
stumbled in reaching the ground, and the girl with a kindly
movement turned to help her. "I hope you aren't hurt," she said
in crisp, clearcut tones; but the elder woman, recovering herself
with an effort, passed on after an ungracious bow. When she
reached Christopher he was still standing motionless beside the
wagon, and at her first words he started like one awaking from a
pleasant daydream. "So you came, after all," he remarked in an
absent-minded manner. "Of course I came." She was conscious that
she almost snapped the reply. "Did you expect me to spend the
night in town?" "In town? Hardly." He laughed gaily as he helped
her into the wagon; then, with the reins in his hands, he turned
for a last glance at the stage. "Why, what did you think I was
waiting for?" "What you are waiting for now is more to the
purpose," she retorted, pressing her fingers upon her aching
temples. "The afterglow is fading; come, get in."
Without a word he seated himself beside her, and as he touched
the horses lightly with the whip the wagon rolled between the
green tobacco fields. "How delicious the wild grape is!"
exclaimed Cynthia, drawing her breath, "I hope the horses aren't
tired. Have they been at the plough?" "Not since dinner time." It
was clear that his mind was still abstracted, and he kept his
face turned toward the pale red line that lingered on the western
horizon. "This is a queer kind of life," he said presently, still
looking away from her. "We are so poor and so shut in that we
have no idea what people of the world are really like. That girl
out there at the cross-roads, now, she was different from any one
I'd ever seen. Did you hear where she came from?" "I didn't ask,"
Cynthia replied, compressing her lips. "I didn't like the way she
stared." "Stared? At you?" "No, at you. I'm glad you didn't
notice it. It was bold, to say the least." Throwing back his
head, he laughed with boyish merriment; and she saw, as he turned
his face toward her, that his heavy hair had fallen low across
his forehead, giving him a youthful look that became him
strangely. At the instant she softened in her judgment of the
unknown woman at the cross-roads. "Why, she thought I was some
queer beast of burden, I reckon," he returned, "some new farm
animal that made her a little curious. Well, whoever she may be,
she walked as if she felt herself a princess." Cynthia snorted.
"Her habit fitted her like a glove," was her comment, to which
she added after a pause: "As things go, it's just as well you
didn't hear what she said, I reckon." "About me, do you mean?"
"She came down to meet another girl," pursued Cynthia coolly. "I
was getting out, so I don't suppose they noticed me--a shabby old
creature with a bundle. At any rate, when she kissed the other,
she whispered something I didn't hear, and then, 'I've seen that
man before--look!' That was when I stumbled, and that made me
catch the next 'Where?' her friend asked her quickly, and she
answered...." There was a pause, in which the warm dusk was
saturated with the fragrance of the grape blossoms on the fence.
"She answered?" repeated Christopher slowly. Cynthia looked up
and down the road, and then gave the words as if they were a
groan: "In my dreams." _