“Where you been? Heerd you was chasin’ after the Holbrooks’ wench. Call that a right way to treat my daughter, eh?”
John stared; he burst into a roar of laughter.
“So that was what was the matter with Maggie, here!” he said, pleased. “Well, I’ll be damned!”
“You would have been if you hadn’t shown yourself here tonight!” said Peter grimly. “Well, what you got to say, eh?”
John still laughed, and looked at Margaret, but she was eying her father as though she wished to annihilate him.
“Well, that’s a good un!” John went on. “Jealous o’ that bit of cheap town silk! I’ll be damned!” he exclaimed, more and more delighted. “I ain’t sayin’ the gal didn’t try to ketch me. She did. But she ain’t the first gal’s set her cap for John Hobart, and prob’ly won’t be the last, neither, until me and Mag gets hitched!”
“Yes, that’s just it,” broke in Peter, glowering again. “What’s behind all this ’bout not tellin’ anybody, and makin’ Mag the joke o’ the whole countryside? Eh?”
John looked stolidly at Magaret as he replied, “Tain’ my idea. Maggie, here, can tell you that, herself. I wanted to marry her a week ago, but, no, she wouldn’t have it ’till that cousin of hers left the county. Ain’t that right, Mag?”
Peter turned enragedly to his daughter. She nodded calmly. “That’s right, Pa. I won’t have Ralph hurt. He wanted to marry me; he’s goin’ away and I’m goin’ to have him go ’thout tellin’ him anythin’. He’ll learn soon enough.”
“Oh, so you won’t have him hurt, won’t you!” growled Peter dangerously. “Of all the damn foolishness! Wal, let me tell you, I’m goin’ to town tonight and tell ev’rybody I see that you agoin’ to marry John Hobart, and damn soon, too!”
“No, you won’t, ’less Maggie says you kin,” said John quietly.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Margaret did not repeat the incident of the little hollow despite urgings from John, and his baffled anger.
“You know there ain’t no one but you for me, Maggie,” he would urge. “You know how damned bad I want you, need you!”
“You’ll want me and need me more when we’re married, then,” she would answer.
Much excited conjecture went on in the county. John’s new house was already being built, not far from the old one, which was to be demolished. The best rough white stone was already standing in heaps about the site; five “town” builders and laborers worked with significant haste. Farmers gathered in the copper glow of the autumn evenings about the place, smoking and chatting, and guardedly rallying John, who was a hard-eyed taskmaster and watched every stone go into place.
The consensus was that the Holbrooks gal had “hooked” him. At any rate, she extended her visit well past the first week in October, and John was seen to be very attentive at every house where they met. He even went very frequently to visit old Holbrooks, ostensibly, but rumors were about that the visit usually ended up with John and Lydia whispering and laughing together in a dim corner, not too rigidly chaperoned by the grimly pleased Mis’ Holbrooks. When other women and girls teased Lydia about this, she would blush but say nothing. In reality, she was not satisfied; John flirted with her, led her on, but said nothing definite. In her own room, she would burst into irritable tears. Nevertheless, she was certain she would get him.
It was conceded by everyone, finally, that the wedding would take place very soon. Lydia began thinking of the trip she and her Mamma would take to New York for the trousseau. She drove out one day to look at the partially completed new house, and criticized prettily. John merely grinned. She went home with her aunt, pleased and elated, fluttering her dainty handkerchief at John as the carriage bore her off.
Peter heard all this, and roared angrily at Margaret when he returned home. She made no reply. His only consolation was the visits of John at night.
As for Margaret, her mental distress had reached a point of hot irritation and despair. For Ralph did not leave his home the first of October. It was well into the middle of the month, and he still did not leave. It was a matter of money. He had decided that with a wife he would need more than thirty dollars. He had not told his mother of his plans with regard to Margaret; he merely urged her to try to squeeze extra money away from Silas Rowe, whom he hated passionately.
Things, therefore, were in a universally dissatisfied state. John, balked, became increasingly resentful, Peter more unmanageable, Margaret more desperate. She was torn with furies.
One fury was the returned love for her cousin when she was not with John. A thousand times her decision wavered. Tossed to and fro by her storms of physical desire when with John, and overcome with tenderness when with Ralph, her life was miserable.
Toward the end of October, Margaret suddenly awakened one morning with the knowledge that she was pregnant.
The realization appalled her. She dressed with wet hands, ran to the barn where she could be alone, away from the swarming of her family. She paced back and forth, pushing her hair vaguely from her face, sobbing under her breath. There could be no more delay now; she had to marry John.
Instantly, she was conscious of a surge of relief that the decision was finally out of her hands. With a calm face she returned to the house.
She and Ralph still met on odd nights when John did not come. This particular night, she told herself, she must settle things.
She met Ralph just as the shortening autumn twilight was settling on the hills. Watching him climb slowly up the other side of the hill, her heart failed her, and she ran down to him with her hands outstretched in despairing love.
He was surprised at the haggardness of her face. He let her assist him up the hill, then sat down beside her. She looked at him fixedly.
“Ralph, I can’t wait any longer. Aren’t you ready to go, yet?”
He flushed, dropped his eyes. “Not yet. But I’ll be ready in a couple of weeks, I think.”
She almost sobbed in her despair.
“Ralph, you’ve got to be ready, right away. Do you hear, right away? If you love me, as you say you do, you’ve got to be ready, now!”
“I’m sorry, I can’t just yet,” he said tightly.
A silence fell. The hills were ruddy with the last dying light. Margaret stared at them dully, her head fallen almost on her breast. Finally she looked at Ralph again, and her eyes filled with tears.
“Ralph,” she said gently, “what’s the trouble?”
“If you want to know,” he burst out, “I haven’t got enough money. Money! Everything is damned money!”
“Ralph,” she said softly. “Listen. I—I’ve got about twenty dollars of my own.” He turned to her in amazement, joy creeping into his face. “I—I’ll meet you here tomorrow night, and give it to you …”
“Margaret!” He seized her hand, kissed it. “Margaret! Then, we can go tomorrow night! Oh, thank God for that! Margaret, you don’t know what I’ve suffered!”
And you don’t know what I’ve suffered, she thought grimly. “See, Ralph,” she said aloud, “there’s a train for Williamsburg at ten o’clock tomorrow night. Bring all your things with you; be ready to start out. And I’ll meet you here, at about sundown. That’ll give you—us—about three hours to get to Whitmore and catch the train.”
His joy made him incoherent. He kissed her shyly and repeatedly like a delighted small boy. She let him hold her, and she returned his gentle caresses. When she left him, she felt that she had grown very old.
The next afternoon John came, and found Margaret digging the last of the potatoes out of the patch. She knelt in the earth, grimy and hot, and absorbed, apparently, in her work. When she saw him coming over the fields, she stood up and awaited him in silence.
He was hard to manage these days. Though she smiled at him, he merely looked at her stonily, then shifted his gaze to the ground. She took him playfully by the arm.
“John,” she said softly. “Would you like to tell everybody tomorrow that you and I ar
e going to be married next week?”
He stared at her unbelievingly. Then he caught her by the shoulders.
“D’ye mean it, Mag? By God, d’ye mean it?”
“Yes, I mean it. Tomorrow.”
He put his arms about her; she could feel that he was trembling through all his big body. She allowed him to kiss her bruisingly. Then she pushed him away a little.
“John,” she said soberly, “I—I’ve got to ask you a favor. Somethin’ you can do for me. Will you?”
John released her slowly. “What is it?”
“John. Listen to me. Ralph is goin’ to go away tonight; he won’t come back. But he hasn’t enough money—”
“So, the yeller dog sent you to ask me to give him money!” snapped John. “Wal, I’m damned if I—”
“No, that isn’t so! John, he doesn’t know I’m not goin’ with him; he doesn’t know I’m askin’ this of you. He’ll never know. But, if he doesn’t get the money, he won’t go; I told him I had it, myself. He wants to wait until he gets it. I can’t let him stay here and see me marry you. He’ll learn soon enough about us. Perhaps it won’t hurt so, then, when he’s in a strange place and has to stand on his own two feet, himself. He’ll learn to depend on himself—”
“He’ll never learn that!” exclaimed John harshly, but Margaret’s words had moved him. He gnawed his lip a moment. “You think he’ll get backbone when he gets away, but he won’t! He’ll never have that. He’ll get someone else to lean on.” He paused. “How much d’ye want?”
Margaret sighed with relief. “About twenty dollars,” she said.
“That’s a heap of money,” he said. He pulled out his sturdy old leather purse, counted out twenty dollars, handed them to Margaret. She took them; the money seemed to burn her fingers. When she glanced up at him, he was regarding her fixedly, his eyes speculative. She had an impulse to hurl the money into his face, to turn from him and run, and never see him again. Instead, she looked at him calmly.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. She put the money in her apron pocket. Then she began to dig the potatoes again.
Ralph was waiting for Margaret. The autumn twilight was setting over the valleys and the hollows, filling them with ghostly purple shadows. He waited restlessly. His carpetbag was lying under a young tree; sometimes he glanced at it uneasily.
He heard a faint sound below; he strained his eyes. Yes, there was Margaret climbing the hill below. She was only a shadow, but the sense of her nearness flowed over him, strengthened him. Laughing a little, he met her halfway down, and seized her hands.
“Hurry!” he whispered. “Hurry, hurry!”
It was not until they reached the top again that he saw that she was bareheaded and barefooted, as usual, and that she carried no luggage. He stared at her in the gloom; something cold took a grip on his heart.
“Why, you aren’t ready!” he said, his eyes on hers.
She held his hand tightly; its warmth and strength upheld him.
“Let’s sit down a minute, dear,” she said gently.
“But, you haven’t your bag!” The laughter had gone from his voice, he spoke tonelessly.
“Listen, Ralph, dear,” she said, stroking his fingers. “And don’t talk until I’ve finished. My Ma is sick, right sick. I can’t leave her right now.”
“You’re not coming with me?” he said, as if he did not hear the sound of his own voice.
“No, dear, I’m not,” she went on gently. “I can’t leave her. You see—”
“Then,” he cried violently, “I’m not going, either!”
She caught his hand again; held it tightly in both of hers.
“Yes, you’re going, Ralph. You’ve got to go. For more reasons than you know. You—you’ve got to be a man sometime. I’ve got to have a man to go to. You—you’ve got to make a place for me, Ralph. It won’t be long. You can do it better if you are free at first. You’ll go to Williamsburg and get yourself a job somewhere, and then you’ll send for me. It won’t be long. You’ll be strong, able to handle things for yourself.”
He turned his head from her and stared out over the valley.
“Ralph,” she said earnestly, “I believe in you. I’ve always believed in you. You’ve got to show me that I’m right. You’ve got to make a place for us. You’ve got to write me and tell me. I want to be proud of you.” Her throat closed up; she could hardly endure her anguish. I’m a dog, she thought. I’m a low, crawling dog.
Ralph wrenched his eyes from the black hills and looked at Margaret for a long time. It was as if he were memorizing her features.
“No, I can’t go without you,” he said quietly.
She pressed John’s money into Ralph’s palm; in the dim light he stared at it.
“I’m giving you—my money, dear,” she whispered. “You’ve got to help me out of here.”
“I can’t go, I tell you. I won’t go without you!” his voice began to rise. “You promised me! You lied to me! You never meant to go!”
“Ralph, don’t!” She caught him by the arms, forced him down again. He leaned his head against her, and she kissed him tenderly.
“Yes, I meant to go, Ralph. I really meant it But, you must see yourself that I can’t go just yet. Be strong; be a man! You can do it. You’ll always remember what I’ve said to you, Ralph. Always remember it. It’s important for you. No matter what happens, say to yourself ‘I am a man.’ Nothing can harm you, if you remember that. And when you go away, you’ll take me along with you, even if you don’t see me. You’ll always remember that I love you, and then, someday, you’ll understand; you’ll say, that’s all she could have done; she could have done nothing else.”
An ear less tuned inward to his own thoughts would have heard in her words a farewell. But his self-conceit drank up her words even in his despair.
However, he was still not reconciled. He kissed her, again and again and because of the strength she had infused in him, he became evanescently strong. She was very tired. Slowly she sank back on the damp soft leaves; his head blotted out the sky above her eyes; he kissed her lips repeatedly.
She did not know that she was crying until she heard his comforting words, uttered in a voice newly masculine.
Her supine lassitude, the attitude of surrender she made, aroused passion for the first time in Ralph, a weaker shadow of John’s passion, but a strong passion just the same. Awakened now to amazement, Margaret felt his breath in her face, felt the beating of his heart against her own. New, too, was the power in his possessing arms, the iron strength of them.
She thought, He wants me, poor Ralph. He wants me for the first time in his life. But, how can I? I don’t feel anything; not a thing. But if I do, I shall send Ralph away, strong and satisfied, so that when he hears about me and John, he’ll still be strong.
And yet, as she thought this, she was conscious of a sudden physical revulsion. It amazed her dully; she loved him, but she wished he would stop kissing her. She felt a guilt as though she were about to do something indecent, something that violated her, and her amazement rose again that contact with John had never shamed her.
Then, because of her compassion, she gave herself to Ralph, with a queer sorrow that she could not return his ardor, could only lie in his arms, cold and unresponsive. Shame overwhelmed her, and because of this she simulated surrender and love, so that he might not guess.
The moonless sky was quite dark, sharp with brilliant stars, when Margaret finally murmured that he must go, that it was late. He helped her to her feet; she could feel the assured grip of his hand.
He put his arms around her, held her close.
“You’re mine, Margaret, all mine, now. You could never belong to anyone else. I’ll come back for you, Maggie, dear. I’ll come back soon.”
“Yes, you’ll come back,” she said gently. She kissed him slowly.
He gave her a last kiss, strong and forceful; she could feel joy in him, an anticipation of conquest. She watched him go. In the starlight, she co
uld see him for quite a distance when he reached the valley. She waved to him; he waved back.
She continued to wave long after she knew he could no longer see her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
All of Wayne County, and even Jefferson County was electrified. John Hobart, the richest man in three counties, was going to marry that Maggie Hamilton, Peter Hamilton’s wild zany of a Maggie!
John had “jilted” Lydia Holbrooks; no, Lydia had jilted John. No! There’d never been anythin’ between the two, it was only Maggie; John said so himself.
Lydia had great fortitude for so little a creature. When her uncle, Seth Holbrooks, came in and whispered the news to his wife, and she had then gently broken it to Lydia, the girl had merely become stiff and white for a moment, and then she had smiled.
“I don’t believe it!” she had said lightly, but her stricken eyes told that she believed it. She immediately began to pack her bags; she would have none of her aunt’s comforting; her manner repelled sympathy.
“Seth says they’re asayin’ over the county that you jilted John,” urged Mrs. Holbrooks, “and that he’s marryin’ Maggie Hamilton now, out of spite. You’ve got to stay, Lydia, so that they’ll believe it.”
“But it isn’t true!” cried the girl bitterly, not looking at her aunt. “It isn’t true! And no one’ll believe it, even if I do stay.” She began to cry, chokingly.
“If you run away, lovie, they’ll know it ain’t true. But if you stay and smile like you can and pretend to be gay, they’ll never know.”
And so she stayed.
Most agitated of all was Susan Blodgett. She had hardly heard the news from Si Rowe, when she had made him hitch up the horse and drive her over to her sister’s. She found Melinda triumphant and smug. Susan burst in on her like a thin torrent of icy rain, weakly raving and furious. Peter happened to be home at the time, eating his midday meal, and he listened with a broad grin. But after a few moments, his face became grim.
“T’was only yesterday, Melindy, mind you, only yesterday, and Ralph tells me, ‘Ma, I’m agoin’ away, and Maggie’s comin’ with be. We’re goin’ away together.’ I didn’t believe it; if I’d believed it, I would’ve come right over, and tried to stop it. But Si says, ‘Let him shoot his mouth off; he’s only a boy. That gal wouldn’t go with him.’ I knowed Ralph was goin’, but I didn’t know just when, and then this mornin’ I found him gone, and a note sayin’ he was agoin’ with your Maggie. I nigh had a stroke, and Si had to throw water in my face, and right when I was ascreamin’ for him to hitch up and take me over here, in walks Ezra King, grinnin’ from ear to ear, and he says, ‘Hear the news? Johnny Hobart’s weddin’ Pete’s Maggie!’
Maggie—Her Marriage Page 6
