by Grey, Zane
Next morning Lucy was ready early for her departure. She had entirely overlooked what kind of an occasion it might be, but she soon discovered that it was not to be joyous. The children were pitiful in their grief. Lucy felt as if she had died. They were inconsolable. Mary was the only one of them who bade her good-bye. Mrs. Denmeade said she was glad for the sake of the Claypools.
"Wal, Miss Lucy," said Denmeade, with his rugged grin, "reckon by the time you get through with the Claypools an' Johnsons you'll find us all gone to seed an' needin' you powerful bad."
"Then I'll be happy to come back," replied Lucy.
Clara, however, gave Lucy the most thought-provoking surprise of this leave-taking. Evidently she had cried before getting up, and afterward she was pale and silent. When Edd and Joe arrived with saddle horses and the burros, Lucy, after taking out her baggage to be packed, returned to find Clara had broken down. Lucy could not understand this sudden weakness. It was not like Clara. They had a most affecting scene, which left Lucy shaken and uncertain. But she had the sweet assurance of Clara's love and reliance upon her. For the rest, her sister's emotion seemed a betrayal. Lucy felt that in Clara's clinging hands, her streaming hidden eyes, her incoherent words. But in the few moments of stress left her before departure she could neither comfort Clara nor find out any adequate reason for this collapse.
"Hey!" called Edd for the third time. "Reckon the burros are rarin' to go, if you ain't."
Lucy left Clara face down on the bed. Before she closed the door she called back softly: "Don't be afraid to trust me with your troubles. I'll share them....Good-bye."
Lucy had seen the Claypool clearing, but she had never been inside the cabins. There were two families and many children, all assembled to greet her. Allie and Gerd still lived there, pending the clearing of a new tract of forest near by. They took charge of Lucy and led her to the little hut that had been constructed for her use. It had been built of slabs fresh from the sawmill, and these boards, being the outside cut from logs, still retained the bark. The structure was crude, yet picturesque, and it pleased Lucy. The inside was the yellow hue of newly cut pine, and it smelled strongly of the woods. Lucy had to laugh. What a wonderful little playhouse that would have been--if she were still a little girl! It had one window, small, with a Wooden shutter, a table, and a closet, a shelf, and a built-in box couch, full of fragrant spruce. A deer skin with the fur uppermost lay on the floor. In the corner nearest the door was a triangular-shaped shelf, three feet above the floor, and under it sat a bucket full of water and on it a basin and dipper and lamp.
Allie and Gerd were plainly proud of this lodging house for Lucy.
"It's pretty far from the cabins," concluded Gerd, "but there's a big bar for your door. Nothin' can get in."
"I am delighted with it," declared Lucy.
Edd and Joe drove the pack burros over to Lucy's new abode and carried her bags in. She noted that Edd was so tall he could not stand upright in her little room.
"Wal, I reckon Gerd shore didn't figure on your entertainin' me," drawled Edd with a grin.
"It's pretty nice," said Joe practically. "With your rugs an' pictures, an' the way you fix things up, it'll be Jake."
Edd lingered a moment longer than the others at the door, his big black sombrero turning round in his hands.
"Wal, Lucy, do I go get me some white mule an' hunt up Bud Sprall?" he queried with all his cool, easy complexity.
Lucy felt the sting of blood in her cheeks. When she stepped toward him, as he stood outside and below, one foot on the threshold, his face was about on a level with hers. Lucy looked straight into his eyes.
"No, you don't, unless you want me to call you again what hurt you so once."
"An' what's that? I disremember."
"You know!" she retorted, not quite sure of herself.
"Wal, I reckon you won't need do that," he said, simply. "I was only foolin' you about the white mule. I wouldn't drink again, no matter what you did. An' I reckon I wouldn't pick a fight, like I used to."
Lucy had been subjected to a wide range of emotions through the last twenty-four hours, and she was not prepared for a statement like this. It wrought havoc in her breast. In swift impulse she bent forward and kissed Edd on the cheek. Then as swiftly she drew back, slammed the door, and stood there trembling. She heard him gasp, and the jingle of his spurs, as slowly he walked away.
"There! I've played hob at last!" whispered Lucy. "But I don't care...Now, my wild-bee hunter, I wonder if you'll take that for a Sadie Purdue trick?"
Chapter XIV
Congenial work with happy, eager, simple people made the days speed by so swiftly that Lucy could not keep track of them.
She let six weeks and more pass before she gave heed to the message Clara sent from the school-house by the Claypool children. From other sources Lucy learned that Clara was the best teacher ever employed by the school board. She was making a success of it, from a standpoint of both good for the pupils and occupation for herself.
Joe Denmeade happened to ride by Claypool's one day, and he stopped to see Lucy. Even in the few weeks since she left the Denmeades there seemed to be marked improvement in Joe, yet in a way she could hardly define. Something about him rang so true and manly.
During Joe's short visit it chanced that all the Claypools gathered on the porch, and Gerd, lately come from Cedar Ridge, narrated with great gusto the gossip. It was received with the interest of lonely people who seldom had opportunities to hear about what was going on. Gerd's report of the latest escapade of one of the village belles well known to them all was received with unrestrained mirth. Such incident would have passed unmarked by Lucy had she not caught the expression that fleeted across Joe Denmeade's face. That was all the more marked because of the fact of Joe's usually serene, intent impassibility. Lucy conceived the certainty that this boy would suffer intensely if he ever learned of Clara's misfortune. It might not change his love, but it would surely kill something in him--the very something that appealed so irresistibly to Clara.
The moment was fraught with a regurgitation of Lucy's dread--the strange premonition that had haunted her--that out of the past must come reckoning. It remained with her more persistently than ever before, and was not readily shaken off.
Some days later, one Friday toward the end of May, Lucy rode down the school-house trail to meet Clara and fetch her back to Claypool's to stay over Sunday. It had been planned for some time, and Lucy had looked forward to the meeting with both joy and apprehension.
This school-house trail was new to her, and therefore one of manifold pleasure. It led through forest and glade, along a tiny brook, and on downhill toward the lower country.
Lucy was keen to catch all the woodland features that had become part of her existence, without which life in this wilderness would have lost most of its charm. Only a year had passed since first it had claimed her! The time measured in work, trial, change, seemed immeasurably longer. Yet Lucy could not say that she would have had it otherwise. Always she was putting off a fateful hour or day until she was ready to meet it. Her work had engrossed her. In a few weeks she had accomplished as much with the Claypools as she had been able to do for the Denmeades in months. She had learned her work. Soon she could go to the Johnsons. Then back to the Denmeades! To the higher and wilder forest land under the Rim! But she was honest enough to confess that there were other reasons for the joy. Lucy lingered along the trail until a meeting with the Claypool and Miller children told her that school was out. They were riding burros and ponies, in some cases two astride one beast, and they were having fun. Lucy was hailed with the familiarity of long-established regard, a shrill glad clamour that swelled her heart with its message.
"Hurry home, you rascals," admonished Lucy, as she rode back into the trail behind them. Then she urged her horse into a lope, and enjoyed the sweet forest scents fanning her face, and the moving by of bright-coloured glades and shady green dells. In a short time she reached the clearing and t
he schoolhouse. She had not been there for a long time. Yet how well she remembered it!
At first glance she could not see any horses hitched about, but she heard one neigh. It turned out to be Baldy, and he was poking his nose over the bars of a small corral that had recently been erected in the shade of pines at the edge of the clearing. Lucy tied her horse near and then ran for the school-house.
The door was open. Lucy rushed in, to espy Clara at the desk, evidently busy with her work.
"Howdy, little schoolmarm!" shouted Lucy. Clara leaped up, suddenly radiant.
"Howdy yourself, you old backwoods Samaritan!" returned Clara, and ran to embrace her.
Then, after the first flush of this meeting, they both talked at once, without any particular attention to what the other was saying. But that wore off presently and they became rational.
"Where's Joe?" queried Lucy, desirous of coming at once to matters about which she had a dearth of news.
"He and Mr. Denmeade have gone to Winbrook to buy things for Joe's cabin."
"Are you riding the trails alone?" asked Lucy quickly.
"I haven't yet," replied Clara, with a laugh. "Joe has taken good care of that. Edd rode down with me this morning. He went to Cedar Ridge to get the mail. Said he'd get back to ride up with us."
"You told him I was coming after you?"
"Shore did, an' reckon he looked silly," drawled Clara.
"Oh Indeed?..." Lucy then made haste to change the subject. She had not set eyes upon Edd since the day she had shut her door in his face, after the audacious and irreparable kiss she had bestowed upon his cheek. She did not want to see him, either, and yet she did want to tremendously.
"Let's not wait for him," she said hurriedly.
"What's wrong with you?" demanded Clara. "Edd seems quite out of his head these days. When I mention you he blushes...Yes!"
"How funny--for that big bee hunter!" replied Lucy, essaying a casual laugh.
"Well, I've a hunch you're the one who should blush," said Clara dryly.
"Clara, sometimes I don't know about you," observed Lucy musingly, as she gazed thoughtfully at her sister.
"How many times have I heard you say that!" returned Clara, with a mingling of pathos and mirth. "Lucy, the fact is you never knew about me. You never had me figured. You were always so big yourself that you couldn't see the littleness of me."
"Ahuh!" drawled Lucy. Then more seriously she went on: "Clara, I'm not big. I've a big love for you, but that's about all."
"Have it your own way. All the same, I'm going to tell you about yourself. That's why I sent word by the children. You didn't seem very curious or anxious to see me."
"Clara, I was only in fun. I don't want to--to know any more about you--unless it is you're happy--and have forgotten--your--your trouble," rejoined Lucy soberly.
"That's just why I must tell you," said her sister, with swift resolution. "I did forget because I was happy. But my conscience won't let me be happy any longer until I tell you."
Lucy's heart contracted. She felt a sensation of inward chill. Why had Clara's brown tan changed to pearly white? Her eyes had darkened unusually and were strained in unflinching courage. Yet full of fear!
"All right. Get it over then," replied Lucy.
Notwithstanding Clara's resolve, it was evidently hard for her to speak. "Lucy, since--March the second--I've been--Joe Denmeade's wife," she whispered huskily.
Lucy, braced for something utterly different and connected with Clara's past, suddenly succumbed to amaze. She sat down on one of the school benches.
"Good heavens!" she gasped, and then could only stare.
"Darling, don't be angry," implored Clara, and came to her and knelt beside her. Again Lucy felt those clinging, loving hands always so potent in their power.
"I'm not angry--yet," replied Lucy. "I'm just flabbergasted. I--I can't think. It's a terrible surprise...Your second elopement!"
"Yes. And this made up for the--the other," murmured Clara.
"March the second? That was the day you took the long ride with Joe? Got back late. On a Saturday. You were exhausted, pale, excited...I remember now. And you never told me!"
"Lucy, don't reproach me," protested Clara. "I meant to. Joe wanted to let you into our secret. But I couldn't. It's hard to tell you things."
"Why? Can't I be trusted?"
"It's because you do trust so--so beautifully. It's because you are so--so good, so strong yourself. Before I did it I felt it would be easy. Afterwards I found out differently."
"Well, too late now," said Lucy sadly. "But how'd you do it? Where? Why?"
"We rode down to Gordon," replied Clara hurriedly. "That's a little village below Cedar Ridge. We hired a man to drive us to Menlo. More than fifty miles. There we were married...Came home the same way. It was a terrible trip. But for the excitement it'd have killed me."
"March the second! You've kept it secret all this time?"
"Yes. And want still to keep it, except from you."
"Clara--I don't know what to say," rejoined Lucy helplessly. "What on earth made you do it?"
"Joe! Joe!" cried Clara wildly. "Oh, let me tell you. Don't condemn me till you hear...From the very first Joe Denmeade made love to me. You could never dream what's in that boy. He loved me. My refusals only made him worse. He waylaid me at every turn. He wrote me notes. He never let me forget for an hour that he worshipped me...And it grew to be sweet. Sweet to my bitter heart! I was hungry for love. I wanted, needed the very thing he felt. I fought--oh, how I fought! The idea of being loved was beautiful, wonderful, saving. But to fall in love--myself--that seemed impossible, wicked. It mocked me. But I did fall in love. I woke up one morning to another world...Then I was as weak as water."
Lucy took the palpitating Clara in her arms and held her close. After all, she could not blame her sister. If no dark shadow loomed up out of the past, then it would be well. Then as the first flush of excitement began to fade Lucy's logical mind turned from cause to effect.
"Clara, you didn't tell Joe about your past," asserted Lucy, very low. She did not question. She affirmed. She knew. And when Clara's head drooped to her bosom, to hide her face there, Lucy had double assurance.
"I couldn't. I couldn't," said Clara brokenly. "Between my fears and Joe's ridiculous faith in me, I couldn't. Time and time again--when he was making love to me--before I cared--I told him I was no good--selfish, callous little flirt! He would only laugh and make harder love to me. I tried to tell him about the cowboy beaux I'd had. He'd say the more I'd had, the luckier he was to win me. To him I was good, innocent, noble. An angel! He wouldn't listen to me...Then when I fell in love with him it wasn't easy--the idea of telling. I quit trying until the night before the day we ran off to get married. Honestly I meant seriously to tell him. But I'd hardly gotten a word out when he grabbed me--and--kissed me till I couldn't talk...Then--I was sort--of carried away--the--second time."
She ended in a sobbing whisper. All was revealed in those last few words. Lucy could only pity and cherish.
"You poor child! I understand. I don't blame you. I'm glad. If you love him so well and he loves you so well--it must--it shall come out all right...Don't cry, Clara. I'm not angry. I'm just stunned and--and frightened."
Clara responded to kindness as to nothing else, and her passion of gratitude further strengthened Lucy's resolve to serve.
"Frightened! Yes, that's what I've become lately," she said. "Suppose Joe should find out--all about me. It's not probable, but it might happen. He would never forgive me. He's queer that way. He doesn't understand women. Edd Denmeade, now--he could. He'd stick to a girl--if--if--! But Joe wouldn't, I know. At that I can tell him now, if you say I must. But it's my last chance for happiness--for a home. I hate the thought that I'm not the angel he believes me. I know I could become anything in time--I love him so well. Always I remember that I wasn't wicked. I was only a fool."
"Dear, regrets are useless," replied Lucy gravely. "Let's face th
e future. It seems to me you should tell Joe. After all, he hasn't so much to forgive. He's queer, I know--"
"But, Lucy," interrupted Clara, and she looked up with a strange, sad frankness, "there was a baby."
"My God!" cried Lucy, in horrified distress.
"Yes...a girl--my own. She was born in Kingston at the home of the woman with whom I lived--a Mrs. Gerald. She had no family. She ran a little restaurant for miners. No one else knew, except the doctor, who came from the next town, and he was a good old soul. In my weakness I told Mrs. Gerald my story--whom I'd run off with--all about it. She offered to adopt the baby if I'd help support it. So we arranged to do that."
"That was the debt you spoke of," replied Lucy, huskily. "Why you needed money often."
"Yes. And that's why I was in such a hurry to find work--to take up this teaching...She had written me she would return the child or write to its--its father unless I kept my part of the bargain. I was so scared I couldn't sleep...I was late in sending money, but I'm sure it's all right."
"You married Joe--with this--hanging over you?" queried Lucy incredulously.
"I told you how that came about. I know what I felt. I suffered. But it all came about. It happened," answered Clara, as if driven to desperation.
"Only a miracle can keep Joe from learning it some day."
"Miracles sometimes happen. For instance, your giving me a home. And my love for this boy!...You can never understand how close I was to death or hell...Kingston is a long way off. This is a wilderness. It might happen that God won't quite forget me."
"Oh, the pity of it!" wailed Lucy, wringing her hands. "Clara, how can you repudiate your own flesh and blood?"
"I had to," replied Clara sadly. "But I've lived with the memory, and I've changed...I'll meet Mrs. Gerald's demands, and some day I'll make other and happier arrangements."
