Читать книгу Rose O'Paradise - Grace Miller White - Страница 11

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Virginia turned into the Merriweather gate, went up the small path to the kitchen, and rapped on the door. There was no response, so she turned the handle and stepped into the room. It was warm and comfortable. A teakettle, singing on the back of the stove, threw out little jets of steam. Jinnie placed the pail on the floor and seated herself in a low chair with her fiddle on her lap. Molly would be back in a minute, she was sure. Just as she was wondering where the woman could be, she heard the sound of voices from the inner room. A swift sensation of coming evil swept over her, and without taking thought of consequences, she slipped under the kitchen table, drawing the pail after her. The long fringe from the red cloth hung down about her in small, even tassels. The dining room door opened and she tried to stifle her swiftly coming breaths. Virginia could see a pair of legs, man’s legs, and they weren’t country legs either. Following them were the light frillings of a woman’s skirts.

“It’s warmer here,” said Miss Merriweather’s voice.

Molly and the man took chairs. From her position Virginia could not see his face.

“Your father’s ill,” he said in a voice rich and deep.

“Yes,” replied Molly. “He’s been near death for a long time. We’ve had to give him the greatest care. That’s why I haven’t told him anything.” 36

The man bent over until Jinnie could see the point of his chin.

“I see,” said he. … “Well, Molly, are you glad to have me back?”

Molly’s face came plainly within Jinnie’s view. At his question the woman went paler. Then the man leaned over and tried to take one of her hands. But she drew it away again and locked her fingers together in her lap.

“Aren’t you glad to see me back again?” he repeated.

Molly’s startled eyes came upward to his face.

“I don’t know—I can’t tell—I’m so surprised and––”

“And glad,” laughed the stranger in a deep, mesmeric voice. “Glad to have your husband back once more, eh?”

Virginia’s start was followed quickly by an imploration from Molly.

“Hush, hush, please don’t speak of it!”

“I certainly shall speak of it; I certainly shall. I came here for no other reason than that. And who would speak of it if I didn’t?”

Molly shivered. There was something about the man’s low, modulated tones that repelled Virginia. She tried in vain to see his face. She was sure that nowhere in the hills was there such a man.

“You’ve been gone so long I thought you’d forgotten or—or were dead,” breathed Molly, covering her face with her hands.

“Not forgotten, but I wasn’t able to get back.”

“You could have written me.”

The man shrugged himself impatiently.

“But I didn’t. Don’t rake up old things; please don’t. Molly, look at me.”

Molly uncovered a pair of unwilling eyes and centered them upon his face.

“What makes you act so? Are you afraid?” 37

“I did not expect you back, that’s all.”

“That’s not it! Tell me what’s on your mind. … Tell me.”

Molly’s white lids fell, her fingers clenched and unclenched.

“I didn’t—I couldn’t write,” she whispered, “about the baby.”

“Baby!” The word burst out like a bomb. The man stood up. “Baby!” he repeated. “You mean my—our baby?”

Molly swallowed and nodded.

“A little boy,” she said, in a low voice.

“Where is he?” demanded the man.

“Please, please don’t ask me, I beg of you. I want to forget––”

“But you can’t forget you’re married, that you’ve been the mother of a child and—and—that I’m its father.”

Molly’s tears began to flow. Virginia had never seen a woman cry before in all her young life. It was a most distressing sight. Something within her leaped up and thundered at her brain. It ordered her to venture out and aid the pretty woman if she could. Jinnie was not an eavesdropper! She did not wish to hear any more. But fear kept her crouched in her awkward position.

“I just want to forget if I can,” Molly sobbed. “I don’t know where the baby is. That’s why I want to forget. I can’t find him.”

“Can’t find him? What do you mean by ‘can’t find him’?”

Molly faced about squarely, suddenly.

“I’ve asked you not to talk about it. I’ve been terribly unhappy and so miserable. … It’s only lately I’ve begun to be at all reconciled.”

“Nevertheless, I will hear,” snapped the man angrily. 38 “I will hear! Begin back from the letter you wrote me.”

“Asking you to help me?” questioned the girl.

“Yes, asking me to help you, if you want to be blunt. Molly, it won’t make you any happier to hatch up old scores. I tell you I’ve come to make amends—to take you—if you will––”

“And I repeat, I can’t go with you!”

“We’ll leave that discussion until later. Begin back where I told you to.”

Molly’s face was very white, and her lids drooped wearily. Virginia wanted so much to help her! She made a little uneasy movement under the table, but Molly’s tragic voice was speaking again.

“My father’d kill me if he knew about it, so I never told him or any one.”

“Including me,” cut in the man sarcastically.

“You didn’t care,” said Molly with asperity.

“How do you know I didn’t care? Did you tell me? Did you? Did I know?”

Molly shook her head.

“Then I insist upon knowing now, this moment!”

“My father would have killed me––”

“Well!” His voice rushed in upon her hesitancy.

“When I couldn’t stay home any longer, I went away to visit a cousin of my mother’s. At least, my father thought I’d gone there. I only stayed with Bertha a little while and father never knew the truth of it.”

“And then after that?”

“I didn’t know what to do with my baby. I was afraid people’d say I wasn’t married, and then father––”

“Go on from the time you left your cousin’s.”

Molly thought a minute and proceeded.

“I looked in all the papers to find some one who wanted a baby––” 39

“So you gave him away? Well, that’s easy to overcome. You couldn’t give my baby away, you know.”

“No, no, indeed! I didn’t give him away. … I boarded him out and saved money to pay for him. I even took summer boarders. The woman who had him––”

Molly’s long wait prompted the man once more.

“Well?” he said again. “The woman what?”

“The woman began to love the baby very much, and she wasn’t very poor, and didn’t need the money. Lots of times I went with it to her, and she wouldn’t take it.”

A thought connected with her story made Molly bury her face in her hands. The man touched her.

“Go on,” he said slowly. “Go on. And then?”

“Then once when I went to her she said she was going to take the baby on a little visit to some relatives and would write me as soon as she got back.”

“Yes,” encouraged the low voice.

“She never wrote or came back. I couldn’t find where she’d gone, and father was terribly ill, and I’ve hoped and hoped––”

“How long since you last saw him?”

Molly considered a moment.

“A long time,” she sighed.

“How many years?”

“One!”

“Then he was almost seven years with the woman?”

“Yes,” breathed Molly, and they lapsed into silence.

The man meditated a space and Jinnie heard a low, nervous cough come from his lips.

“Molly,” he said presently, “I’m going to have a lot of money soon. It won’t be long, and then we’ll find him and begin life all over.”

“Oh, I’d love to find him,” moaned Molly, “but I couldn’t begin over with you. It’s all hateful and horrible now.” 40

The man leaned over and touched her, not too tenderly. When Molly’s face was turned to him, he tilted her chin up.

“You care for some one else?” he said abruptly.

The droop of the girl’s head was his answer. He stood up suddenly.

“That’s it! That’s it! What’s his name?”

A shake of her head was all the answer Molly gave him.

“I asked you his name. Get up! Stand up!”

As if to force her to do his will, he took hold of her shoulders sharply and drew her upward.

“What’s his name?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“What’s his name?”

Virginia did not catch Molly’s whisper.

A disbelieving grunt fell from the stranger’s lips.

“I remember him as a boy. Weren’t they one summer at the Mottville Hotel? He’s years younger than you.”

Molly gathered courage.

“He doesn’t know how old I am,” she responded, “and his mother loves me, too. They were with me three summers.” Then, remembering the man’s statement, she added, “Ages don’t count nowadays. And I will be happy.”

“You’ll get happiness with me, not with him,” said an angry voice. “Has he ever told you he loved you?”

“No, no, indeed not. But he was here to-day! His mother’s ill and wanted me to come as her companion, but I couldn’t leave father right now.”

“Does he know you love him?”

An emphatic negative ejaculation from Molly brought a sigh of relief from the man.

“Forget him!” said he. “Now I’m going. I shall come back to-night, and remember this. I’ll leave no stone unturned to find that boy. I’ve always longed for one, and I’ll move Heaven and earth to find him.” 41

Virginia saw him whirl about, open the door, and stride out.

Molly Merriweather stood for a few minutes in silence, trembling.

“I didn’t dare to tell him the baby was blind,” she whispered, too low for Jinnie to hear.

Then she slowly glided away, leaving the girl under the table, with her pail full of cats, and the fiddle. Presently Virginia crawled out cautiously, the pail on her arm, and hugging her fiddle, she opened the door swiftly, and disappeared down the road, running under the tall trees.

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