45. Coming Darkness
Jim McGowan had followed Nancy closely all the way to town. He kept so far behind that she did not see him, but at every hill-top he could see her. He watched her turn into the cabin of her brother Haz. Then he went to Dixon's corner and took a drink. After firing himself with yet other drinks he sallied out and on his way to a convenient post of observation he had the luck to meet Mother Tartrum looking about for a bit of news as eagerly as the early bird seeks a worm.
" Mr. McGowan, Mr. McGowan," shrieked the old lady, "what's the news? How do things get on out at Rocky Fork ? Are you married yet ?
" No," said Jim.
" That's curious. You brought me some wood two years ago and we talked about Mark Bonamy. He didn't go to Texas after all. He's tryin' to get to Congress. But they do say he aint very happy with his wife. I don't know what's the matter. I expect she's high tempered. These awful good people are generally highly-tighty at home."
" I'd be high tempered, too, ef I was Bonamy 's wife. I'd choke him, blame him."
'' Laws, now ! You don't say. Do you think he's bad to her ? "
" I wish I could get a good chance at him some time with my rifle."
" Oh, my ! " And with this Mother Tartrura fell to work with the eagerness of a gold miner who has " struck it rich," or a reporter who scents a " beat." Here was a lead worth the working, for Jim's whisky had made him communicative and he told Mother Tartrnm all he knew. When she was sure she had all his information she dropped off like a satisfied leech. She was now eager to tell what she had heard, and above all to tell it where it would make the most sensation, so that she might also have the sensation to talk about. So she went straight to Roxy's aunt, Mrs. Hanks, only scattering morsels of intelligence at two places on her road, as I have seen travelers drop sparks of fire into dry prairie-grass, and pass on, sure that a widespread conflagration would go on long after they were out of sight of it.
While Mother Tartrum was marching to the pleasar task of humbling the pride of Mrs. Hanks, Nancy Kirtley, unconscious that she was watched by Jim McGowan, was moving directly on Major Lathers.
" You've been a-foolin' weth me ! " she began. Lathers was very bland and persuasive in his replies ; but he could not remove from Nancy's mind the awful suspicion that she had been duped. She'd heerd that Mark denied " teetotal " that he had made any promise of departure with her for Texas, then the promised land of all absconding people. She shook her fist in Lathers's face. "You jest fool weth me oust, and you'll be sorry for it," she cried. As a last resort, Lathers read to her the paper that Mark had written the night before.
" Lemme see that air," said the girl.
" You can't read it," and Lathers drew back.
" I kin tell ef it's his'n. Ef you don't gin it to me now, I'll blow the whole thing all over town in an hour."
Lathers held it so she could see it.
"You're afraid to trust me take holt of it air you! Never mind ; I come to town to git even."
" Oh, take it and look at it," he said.
With a jerk Nancy took it and shoved it into her pocket. In vain Lathers coaxed and threatened. She backed toward the door.
" I'll l'arn folks to fool weth Nance Kirtley, dogged ef I don't," and with a sudden spring she swung the door wide and passed into the open air. " Now, I'm agoin' to have this read, an' ef I find it aint Mark Bonamy's writin', or thet you're foolin' weth me anyways, then I'll take the other way of gittin' even. Where's Bonamy ? "
" He's gone out of town this morning ; and if you don't give back that paper I'll have you took up and the like."
Lathers spoke from the door of his office, and Nancy, fearing that the sheriff would carry out his threat, started off hurriedly, but with hesitation and indecision. First ehe walked one way, then another, as though conflicting inclinations perpetually broke her resolutions. Once she had admitted suspicion, suspicion easily pervaded a mind so turbid as hers. Bonamy was probably getting ready to go off without her. That was why he did not see her himself. She did not believe he was out of the town. It was all a ruse, and he would take his wife and run away from Nancy's persecutions. If that were so, she would better go to Roxy herself, and " have it out with her." She would " show them whether they'd play gum gamoe oc her." She would find out from Roxy what was the matter, and then she would know how to " git even" with them all For her expanding and suspicious resentment now included Lathers also as one of the people in a con epiracy to thwart her.
She didn't know, however, whether to follow this impulse to go to Roxy or not. But she was seized with a sudden return of the terror with which the elder Bonamy had inspired her. She had a vague notion that the sheriff was after her. He might put her in jail, and then Mark would go off before she could get out. She must strike the worst blow at once.
Impelled thus by fear and revenge, the prey to conflicting passions that found no check either from her understanding or her will, she hurried toward the Bonamy house, clutching the writing she had captured from the sheriff, who, for his part, was at his wits' end.
Nancy came to the large gate of the Bonamy place, and fell back a moment in awe. Like other people of vulgai minds, she had great reverence for the externals of life, and the long rows of trim poplars back of the gate overawed her rustic mind. To assail the mistress of such a place was appalling.
While she hesitated, Twonnet passed her and went in at the gate.
*'I don't want to go in while that girl's thar," she said. So she went down the road a little way, and climbed over the fence into a vineyard. Crouching under the shelter of the vines, now pretty well in leaf, she could watch the house and be out of the way of Lathers or any of his men, if they should come to arrest her.
This arrangement, however, was a very exasperating one to McGowan, who had watched Nancy all the way from the sheriff's office. He was sure of some conference between her and Bonamy, under cover of the vineyard. So he began to look up and down the rows of vines, with his hand on the lock of his gun, searching for Mark with the same keen hunter's gaze that was trained in the search for wild beasts, and looking for him with no more of scruple about killing him than he would have had about shooting a wolf.
Among those whom Mother Tartrum had spoken briefly uf the scandal was Mr. Highbury. She had only told him vaguely that there was something awful about to come out about Mr. Bonamy's private character. She hadn't time to say more ; but there would be trouble. She had seen a man from Rockv Fork waiting with a gun. And, having thus piqued Highbury's curiosity, she departed with that air of reserved information so satisfying to the gossip. It chanced that Mr. Highbury met Mr. Whittaker immediately after, and forthwith launched into a strain of moralizing over Mark's fall and the danger of these exciting revivals. The approved and pious way of gossiping is to sweeten scandal with the treacle of homilizing inferences.
Whittaker, from his previous knowledge of Nancy, guessed more of the fact than Highbury could tell him. He was grievously uneasy during Mr. Highbury's somewhat protracted moralities, and at last broke away rather abruptly. He was thinking of the thunderbolt hanging over the head of Roxy. Ought he not to do something to protect her ? He could not go himself. Whom co'ild he send ? He thought of fat, inane, little Mrs. Highbury, and almost smiled at the idea of her consoling anybody. He could not send Mrs. Adams, the Miss Moore of other times. She was well not a fool ; bivi she was what she was. Mrs. Hanks was Eoxy's aunt ; but he thought, from the little he knew of her, that she would not do.
But there was Twonnet, giddy, nonsense-loving, railing Twonnet ! With a glow he thought of her. What a fountain of comfort that child had in her ! He walked more briskly. He did not know how long this rumor had been afloat, and he might be too late to shield Hoxy by the presence of her friend. He found Twonnet coming from the garden, carrying a wooden bowl full of freshly plucked lettuce, and singing gayly :
" Then buy a little toy,
A little toy a little toy,
From poor Rose of Lucerne !
I've crossed the ocean blue,
From Swiss-land a stranger,
For a brother dear to me,
From Swiss-land a ranger,
Then buy a little toy," etc.
The air was lighter than vanity ; the words were nothing ; but the gay heart of the girl poured out in the childish song its own joyousness, with all the delicious abandon of a catbird's early morning melody. Seeing Whittaker, she colored slightly; but, quickly assuming an entreating air, she held out her bowl of lettuce as though offering wares for sale, turned her head of pretty brown curls on one side, and plaintively, even beseechingly, repeated the refrain :
"Oh! buy a little toy,
From poor Rose of Lucerne I "
There was so much dramatic expression in the action, so mush of tenderness in the mercurial eyes and ruddy brown cheeks and soft pleading voice, so much of something in himself that drew him to " the child," as he called her, that he could hardly keep back the tears. For a moment he almost forgot his errand, but the sudden recollection of Roxy's peril sent a counter-current of feeling through him. He put his hands upon the bowl which she held out to him, and said :
" Dear girl, don't. I want to speak to you."
The eagerness of his manner, and the unwonted tenderness of his speech, swept away the rollicking mood, and gave to Twonnet's face a flush and an air of solemn selfconstraint, at strange variance with her previous playfulness.
" Dear Twonnet,"' the kindly form of address came from the complex feelings of the moment, " some great calamity is about to happen to Roxy."
Twonnet breathed a sigh, and regained something of her composure.
" There are painful rumors about Mark. I can't explain it to you. There is no one else that can help her. Ton are the wisest woman in town. You are " Here Mr. Whittaker checked himself. The returning flush in the face of the young woman reminded him that such flattering words were hardly what he wanted to say at that time. He recovered his customary reserve of manner, and aided: "Go! Be quick. I'll explain to your mother."
" But what shall I say ? "
"Nothing, unless you think best. God help the poor woman ! "
Twonnet pulled down the sleeves of her dress, donned her sun-bonnet and hurried off. She was full of alarm for Roxy ; but how many emotions can exist in the soul at once ! In her heart of hearts there was a melody made by the words of commendation that Mr. Whittaker had uttered. He had spoken kindly, even tenderly. But aa she drew near to Roxy's house, the undercurrent of pleasurable excitement had vanished. The shadow of gome great sorrow of Roxy's fell upon her.
When she went in, she found Roxy impassively looking out of the window. The millions upon millions of pigeons were still flying, and she was watching them in the same numb fashion as in the morning. She greeted Twonnet with a silent embrace. Then Twonnet sat down by her with no words. Roxy scanned Twonnet's face. Then she looked out at the pigeons again. They kept coming over the southern hills and flying so steadily to the north in such long and bewildering flocks of countless multitude. The very monotony of the apparition of new myriads when the other myriads had swiftly disappeared, suited Roxy's numb state. She had eaten no dinner. A deadly apprehension of disaster filled her thoughts, and she read a confirmation of her fear in Twonnet's face, and in her silence, but she did not ask anything. She kept on watching foi the next great iio jk of swift-flying birds to come out of the horizon.