Stubble Part 28

"What was that?" she whispered.

"Don't know. Sounded like the closin' of a door."

Both stood listening intently, but the sound was not repeated.

"Well, good-bye," he said, holding out his hand. "See you again sometime."

She took the hand and held it for a moment. "Joe," she began, "let's be friends." She was forcing herself to talk. "I've made some mistakes but--I want everybody to like me here--especially you. You understand things, and you will overlook some of the things that have happened?"

Spectres of uncharitableness were disturbing her and she sought to be shriven.

He thought she was alluding to Claybrook and moved uneasily so that she dropped his hand.

"Surely. Surely I will. Good-night," he said again. Then he turned and walked briskly away.

He had got but ten yards or so when out of the stillness came the sound again. He paused there on the sidewalk and listened. A faint, musical, metallic clang came surging toward him in clear beating waves. It sounded as if it were miles away, and the echo lingered pulsing on the silence. Slowly it died away to a whisper and then he heard distant shouts and footsteps echoing hollow. Men were running toward him down the brick sidewalk, their voices sounding nearer. At the corner they turned and went, westward, the sound of them growing fainter and fainter. He looked back, and at the gate he could see a shadow standing there waiting. There was a faint nimbus about the head and the face, turned toward him, was in the darkness.

He paused a moment in indecision and then turned and walked rapidly down the street westward, toward the camp.

CHAPTER XIX

Mary Louise walked back to the house. At the side porch she paused and looked behind her. High overhead sailed the moon, a day or two past the first half. There was a tremulous movement in the leaves of the maples along the sidewalk, producing an indistinct, vibratory s.h.i.+mmer and shadow. By contrast the patches of darkness were jet black; the overhanging portico of the house was as yawning as a cavern. She listened, stood, her head bent slightly forward, listening. Not a sound could be heard. The sharp, crisp clack of Joe's footsteps had been swallowed up by the distance. She could hear the sound of her own breathing. An uneasiness came gradually upon her, a vague sort of dread of being left alone, entirely alone. How aloof he had seemed; how aloof everything seemed, and unreal! Those sinister trees waving there without a breath of wind; the lowering shadows of the summerhouse and the barn; that greasy moonlight that came slipping up to the very edge of the porch and lay there fearful and cold--were they all remembering her scorn and coming back to mock her loneliness?

Softly she opened the door and went inside. Something scurried off into a corner and she fancied it turned about there and watched her in the darkness. The room seemed hot and close and there was a rhythmic rise and fall like the rising and falling of some vast invisible bosom, oppressed. She tiptoed over to the far door and stood listening. Not a sound could she hear. Old Landy was most probably asleep in his bed in the room up over the stable. She balanced on her feet and stood waiting, in indecision. She could not go back, so she opened the door softly and peered in.

A glaring white patch caught her eye. The moonlight through the window lay cold and bright upon the counterpane. Just above the patch was a jumble of shadows, from which protruded, bare and yellow and weazened, an arm. She caught her breath and fought down the sudden rising of her heart. It was nothing--only lying there so detached in the moonlight, thrust up out of the shadow out of nowhere, it did look gruesome, like something dead, something completely and irrevocably dead. It lay without a sign of movement, with the fingers slightly curled up under the palm and clutching at the coverlet. Gradually, her calm returning, she listened with her head thrust around the corner of the door, and directly she caught the very faint sound of breathing, a far-away, fine-drawn, eerie whisper. Slowly she backed away and closed the door.

She groped over to a chair in the sitting room and sat down. Through the squares of the window panes she could see the milky white patches of moonlight flooding the world outside, and the silence came creeping up all around until it seemed to squeeze the very walls inward.

"I wonder what's going on?" she thought. Because of its very soundlessness, the universe about her seemed to be teeming with vague suggestions. That distant clamour, the hurry of footsteps, and then Joe, slipping away from her into the shadow. And now the deathlike stillness.

She began to rock slowly to and fro. With an effort of the will she forced herself to think of cheerful things, housework and cooking, and sunlight and people. Suddenly she realized that there was no reason for her sitting up. She might just as well go to bed. She started to her feet, but something held her, something forced her back into her chair. There had been footsteps fading off into the darkness. She must wait until they came back again--out of the darkness. Something in the idea strangely excited her, left her tense. In all this silence she knew she could not sleep; she would be lying there waiting, waiting for something, she knew not what. So she settled back and rocked and waited, staring with wide-open eyes at the steel-blue patch that was the door. And the night settled down and drew close to her with its uncertainties.

Time pa.s.sed.

Suddenly she was aware of sound. So gradually it had come that she realized she had been hearing it for some time. It was coming back.

She riveted her gaze upon the door, watched it unblinking, waiting for it to open upon her with its secret any moment.

Slowly she rocked to and fro. Gradually nearer and nearer came the sound. Rolling upward, gathering round and round into a ball, it took the shape of footsteps and a confused murmur of voices. On it swept.

They were pa.s.sing the house, would pa.s.s it, away into the darkness and silence again. Whither?

She rose to her feet and hurried to the door. She groped for the k.n.o.b and stumbled blindly out upon the porch. The sudden glare of the moonlight dazzled her and she could only make out dimly a little knot of black shadows moving along the pavement past the gate. There was a confused murmur of voices as of several persons trying to make themselves heard at once, and yet be quiet about it. As she watched, tried to get her eyes to focus, the little group pa.s.sed on and was gone.

She walked slowly to the gate and stood there looking into the darkness after it. Gradually she was recovering her sight; sounds sprang up, little normal sounds, and she began to feel cold. She turned and was about to go back to the house when the echo of footsteps again caught her ear, and she waited.

It was a single person, apparently in a great hurry. She could hear him shuffling and stumbling along. She peered down the street into the darkness and directly could distinguish the shadow of a man hurrying toward her. On he came. He pa.s.sed the fence corner--now he had reached the tree with the big fork--he was pa.s.sing the gate. She saw it was Zeke.

"What's going on?" she called to him.

He started, stopped, and then came over to the gate.

"Mist' Burrus's bahn done cave in," he said, the whites of his eyes gleaming at her in the darkness.

The sound of his voice cheered her greatly. She felt suddenly so relieved that it was with difficulty that she kept herself from laughing out loud. "How do you mean? It didn't fall down of itself?"

"Yas'm, hit did. Hit's de waehouse. Folks say he done load hit up too full and hit plum' give out." His voice sounded excited.

"Anybody hurt?" She was beginning to enjoy it all, feeling exhilarated over the drama of it.

"Mist' Joe--Mist' Joe Hoopah. He done fell offen de bridge into de ditch. Speck he done broke his laig."

She caught her breath.

"Dey done sen' me to git my cah. Said dey would lemme ketch up wid 'em. But Lawsy, de cah won' run."

"Was that him they were carrying past the house?" she managed to ask.

"Yas'm, I reckon. Dey aim to take him to Mis' Mosby's. Reckon I better hurry on."

She reached over and seized him by the coat. "Was he much hurt? Did he seem much hurt?"

"Well, yas'm. No'm. Leasewise, he say he ain'. But he cain't stan' up.

Hit's his laig. Dey done pull him outen de ditch, wid it dubble unner him."

She let him go and listened to his retreating footsteps down the street into the darkness. She felt suddenly faint and weak. She walked back to the house, entered the sitting room, and lit a candle. Then she went to Miss Susie's door and opened it.

Miss Susie's eyes were looking calmly at her from the bed as she entered. "What's the matter?" said Miss Susie's voice.

"He was here just an hour ago. I saw him go down the street. And now they're bringing him back, broken. Just an hour! G.o.d knows what happened to him."

"Who do you mean, child?" Miss Susie moved forward and raised up a little on her elbow.

"It just seems as if the hand of Fate was stretching out over this place, reaching down over us. It makes no difference what we do--we're helpless--all of us." She seemed to steady herself. She came over to the bedside and laid her hand on Miss Susie's forehead.

"Don't you want me to bring you a drink of water?" she asked.

CHAPTER XX

Directly after breakfast she went to the Mosby place. The sunlight was making glaring white patches on the pavement, of which she was but dimly conscious as she walked along. The house looked very peaceful, with the mellowness of respectable old age, that fresh October morning. She climbed the steps to the front door, feeling a little self-conscious as she stood and waited. It was possible that she was borrowing trouble; the accident might not prove to have been a serious one at all and she might seem too solicitous.

The door opened and a very old Negro woman in a stiff, white, starched ap.r.o.n stood and peered forth at her.