Silas Rowe had just set his lantern down in the acridly pungent barn when he heard a step behind him. It was barely half-past five of a raw gray morning, drifting with vapors. He was amazed to see Margaret Hobart, fully dressed and bonnetted behind him. She smiled at him in the yellowish lantern light.
“Si, will you harness my horse for me? I’m leaving right away.”
“Eh?” he grunted. He put a thick hand to his ear and scratched it.
“Please hurry, Si. I’ve got to go home. I can’t wait another minute.”
Silas glanced involuntarily at the house. There was not a glimmer of light showing in its slumbering huddle.
“Ain’t you stayin’ for breakfast?” he asked.
“I’ve been in the kitchen and I drank well onto a quart of milk, ate five cold biscuits and butter, and a piece of pie. Isn’t that enough?”
“Susie know you’re agoin’?” he persisted.
“Oh—what does it matter?” she demanded impatiently. “No, she doesn’t know I’m going! You tell her I had to go. Tell that to Ralph, too. He’ll understand.”
“Bet Susie won’t,” muttered Silas, with a half leer at Margaret.
He hitched the horse for her. She swung into the trap lightly and caught up the reins. Silas lifted the lantern; she looked like a young girl, he thought, all asparkle and aquiver, instead of a woman going out before dawn into a desolate and dangerous country.
“Been rainin’ a lot last night,” he said warningly. “Mebbe the cricks are up agin and the bridges down. Then what’ll you do?”
“Swim!” she laughed. She cracked the whip and the horse, his breath rising in clouds, felt his way carefully in the half darkness. The trap crept out toward the public road. Moisture drummed ceaselessly on the roof; Margaret could hear the sucking of the mud around the horse’s hoofs. Beyond these sounds, and the sound of the horse and the creaking wheels, there was nothing. It gave Margaret a sense of unreality, as though she alone were alive in a dead world. She passed the dark angular shapes of farmhouses; no lights showed in them, though in the east the muddy skies were turning a faint yellow.
A fever was burning in Margaret, running along her flesh. Her body felt rigid and too intensely alive. She lost a sense of her surroundings, thought only of her return. She would go to John and look at him simply and put her hand in his, saying “Forgive me, John. I’ve been a fool.” And he would look at her in his steady way, and then he would take her in his arms. He would ask nothing, say nothing, but she would lay her head on his strong shoulder, close her eyes, and be at peace. All at once she began to sing wordlessly, in a wild, improvised tune, her voice muffled in the fog. She laughed aloud, whistled as she had not done since her marriage, laughed again when rain dashed into her face.
It can’t be more than seven, she thought at last. If I keep on this way without any accidents I’ll be homebefore three o’clock. She passed over a small wooden bridge. The horse was obviously frightened, and had to be whipped to go over it. The waters washed over the rotten boards, and the bridge shook and wavered under the weight of horse and vehicle. It was full daylight now, but a dark and threatening one. She passed farmhouses where disspirited chickens huddled on stoops and even more disspirited men sloshed about in barnyards and fed dejected cattle.
Alive, now, she was full of pity and sudden heaviness of heart. The damage was too great to be alleviated much by individual effort. But she and John would do their part; whatever they had would be at the disposal of these poor wretches. She felt a surge of impersonal love and compassion. She could hardly bear the poignancy of her awakened emotions.
I might have been dead for these past years, she thought bitterly. I’ve let these years mean nothing to me. I’ve robbed myself and I’ve robbed John of living. I’ll make it up! I’ll live as I never lived before. I’ll think only of making John happy, and the children.
At twelve o’clock, she reached higher land. The hills were crowding close. They were a darker brown than the muddy earth, but here and there they showed, on higher levels, the green of late grass, the thinning scarlet of small trees. And then, suddenly, the sun came out, splendid and overpowering, bursting its way through dun clouds. The hills became tawny with running light, and the earth shone and sparkled in all its small false lakes of flood water. The air became warmer, quivering with promise, and sparrows began to chirp on every tree.
After death comes life, thought Margaret, and was not ashamed to discover that she was crying. She stopped the horse and looked at the transfigured country. The standing horse dropped his head and moisture steamed from him.
The sun continued to shine, at first intermittently, and then steadily. Its joyous influence brought people out from the houses; they stared about at the ruins stupidly, then new hope showed in their quickened steps.
Margaret was coming to the higher land that marked the last miles of home. She passed whole pastures that were untouched by water, many farmhouses that were still dry and snug. The horse knew he was approaching his stable, and began to trot without the urge of the whip. The road was still terrible, full of holes and treacherous stones, but the shining countryside diverted Margaret’s attention from the constant swaying and grinding of the trap. She noticed a new sweetness in the air.
She was less than a mile from home, and recognized familiar landmarks. Three men were standing talking excitedly at a gate, with agitated gestures that were alien to a reserved people. They heard Margaret approaching, and stared at her. Then they glanced at each other, and stared again.
She waved her whip at them gaily, and called, “Hi, Elmer. Hi, Tom, and Charlie!”
“Hi, Miz Hobart,” they mumbled. She beamed upon them and drove on. But something made her look back; Elmer was shaking his head vociferously. “G’wan, I won’t!” she heard him say. “Time enough when she gits there.”
What did he mean? She turned again and looked; they were staring after her as though fascinated. A small nagging uneasiness began to gnaw at her.
She emerged now on the broad floor of the valley. In the distance she could see the white glimmer of the house. The horse began to throt again. She was passing over her own land, her own rich acres, her own earth. The high waters had retreated completely; because they had never risen very high here. The grass was in its last greenness; even the hills were a soft green. She saw everything with new eyes. She was like someone who had been away from home for many years and was returning, noticing every detail with tenderness and affection. She felt herself at last, again, one with the earth, with all things.
Half a mile, a quarter of a mile. She saw a group of men and women standing in the road ahead. They heard the wheels of the trap and turned. Immediately they were silent, staring at her emptily. She wanted to call out to them, I’ve come home! See, I’m home! She waved her whip at them.
When she came abreast of them, she saw that one of the women was crying, and that she hid her face from Margaret. The other women glanced aside, wetting their lips. The men fumbled in their pockets, reddened.
Sudden fear fell upon her. “What’s the matter?” she demanded, leaning out of the trap, her face going white. “Is someone hurt?”
For several long seconds there was only silence. Then one of the women came toward Margaret. Her expression was sad and fearful.
“You been away, Miz Hobart. Ain’t you heard?”
“Heard what?” cried Margaret. “What’s the matter?”
The woman glanced at her companions as though asking help, and then she mumbled, “Miz Hobart, I ain’t likin’ to tell you this, but seems like nobody else will. Johnny Hobart’s been hurt—bad. You’d best go home right quick.”
Margaret stared at her dumbly. “Hurt?” she whispered, swallowing hard. No, dear God, this was not true! She was coming home to him! “Hurt? Do you mean—”
“No, Miz Hobart. He ain’t dead. Yet.” Helplessly, she looked at the others. “But that ain’t all. You’d best go home and find out, yourself.”
Still gazing at the woman Margaret lifted her whip and struck the horse. The horse leapt, the trap almost turned over, then animal and vehicle ran and bumped wildly, madly, down the road. They looked after her; she was crouching, slashing at the horse; they could see the insane rise and fall of her whip, the leaping, straining back of the tired animal.
The countryside, so beaming with light only a moment ago, now became a hell-lit nightmare land to her; it seemed to her that the horse ran only in one spot. She was not conscious that she was making that raw and groaning noise she heard dimly. Her arm did not tire in its flailing.
She could see nothing but old Margot’s face, and a loud cry burst from her.
“Granny, don’t let anything happen to him! Hold him; don’t let him go! Granny, please!”
The house was only a hundred yards away. As in a dream she saw the knots of men and women, and children. When the horse and trap roared up, they looked at Margaret somberly. Reaching the gate, she leapt down, flung aside the reins. Someone opened the gate for her; she saw only a monstrous vision of pitying faces. She ran toward the house, caught her foot on her skirts, and fell to her hands and knees. Before anyone could reach her, she was up again, not even limping, though blood smeared her palms. Her hair fell from its coils and tumbled down her back. Everyone stood aside to let this wildfaced woman pass; there was something in her expression that frightened them. She reached the door, they heard her cry out, and then she vanished.
“Looks like Maggie Hamilton’s come down from her high horse this time,” said the acrid voice of a woman.
“Shet up!” a man cried fiercely, and there was an approving murmur.
Once in the hall, Margaret began to call in a hoarse, strained voice. “John! Mary! Mabel! Aunt Betsy!”
The dim quiet of the hall floated around her. She could hear low voices upstairs. She ran to the foot of the stairs and started to climb, her legs bending under her. But before she was halfway up, Miss Betsy appeared at the top. The old woman had thought of this moment with a certain bitter hatred, but now, looking down at Margaret, her hair about her, her face mad, blood on her hands, the hatred died away with only compassion left. She ran as lightly as a girl down the stairs and put her arm about the younger woman.
“Margaret,” she said quietly, “my poor girl. No, you can’t go up there yet. I want to talk to you. No, Margaret, please don’t fight me. Listen to me. John is sleeping now; I’ve got to talk to you before you see him.”
Margaret clutched her savagely, hope in her eyes. “He’s not dead?” she moaned.
“No,” said Miss Betsy gravely, and sighed. Her eyes filled with tears. “Not dead, Margaret. He won’t die, we hope. It’s his leg. Broken, and he’s got a deep wound in the head, and he’s badly bruised. But Dr. Brewster said he’ll get well. Come with me, Margaret, into the parlor. I must talk to you.”
Margaret had begun to sob; she collapsed against Miss Betsy; her eyes closed. But she could still walk; she felt herself being led away; she felt herself being put gently into a chair. Through the mists she could see the sunlight on the stiff white curtains. She cried uncontrollably. Miss Betsy stood beside her for a moment; her own face was very white. Then she pulled a chair up beside the younger woman.
“Margaret,” she said quietly. “I always thought you were brave; I knew you were brave. You aren’t a fool. If you were, you wouldn’t be here now. You wouldn’t feel the way you do. So I can talk to you without mincing words. You’ve got to know. If you were a weakling I’d let you know gradually. But you’re strong.”
Something in her manner quieted Margaret, but only increased the dread she felt. She dropped her hands from her face, looked at Miss Betsy stonily.
“Tell me,” she said hoarsely. “I don’t care what happened so long as John is going to live. I can stand everything.”
“Yes, I believe you can stand it. Margaret, about three hours ago John took Gregory and Dickie with him to Whitmore.” She paused. For a moment she struggled for breath. “They went in the buggy. He didn’t want to leave the children alone, seeing as how I was over in the old house and had my hands full with two sick babies, and the girls were tired out. So he took the children.
“No one knows yet just what happened, Margaret. But a little way behind the buggy Bill King was riding to town on his horse. Seth Holbrooks and Mrs. Holbrooks were about an eighth of a mile behind Bill. Well, John rode over the bridge at Big Bend, the only bridge that hadn’t been washed out. And when he and the children were halfway over, the bridge went down.
“You know how the creek’s been during the last couple of weeks. Like a torrent, full of tree trunks, rushing along like something crazy—” She stopped.
A pang of mortal agony twisted Margaret, and her hands writhed in her lap. “Go on,” she whispered. Her dry lips moved.
“Well, Margaret, we don’t know just what happened. But John said to me, when he could, that there was no use trying to save both children at once. He said he thought of you, even when he was fighting in that water, trying to swim against the current that he must save Dickie for you. So he caught at poor little Dickie and tried to swim with him. A tree trunk came along, dashing and swirling, and he got between it and the boy. That’s when his leg was broken. But somehow, thanks to God, he caught hold of the roots of a tree, and held himself and Dickie above water until Seth Holbrooks had come up, and could drag them out.
“And now, Margaret, only a little more. God help you. Bill King had come up, almost on John’s heels. He saw what was happening; he saw poor little Gregory’s head, and he dived in, boots and coat and all, to save him. Seth Holbrooks said that he saw him take hold of the baby, who was screaming for John, and that he thought everything would be all right. But another trunk came along, and hit Bill. He struggled against it, kept on swimming though he was covered with blood, still holding on to Gregory. And then,” she said softly, turning aside for a moment, “they both went down. They were out in the middle of the water, and nothing could be done. They didn’t come up again.”
She turned to Margaret again, weeping. But Margaret was staring into space. Her hands were still in her lap. There was no moisture in her eyes.
“Don’t look like that, Maggie,” whispered Miss Betsy, putting her arms about her. “God was good. Dickie is all right, though a little bruised. He’s in bed. John will get well, we hope. And we must remember that Bill King gave his life to try to save poor little Gregory. We must remember that.”
Margaret turned her blind eyes to her. “Nothing matters,” she said clearly. “Nothing matters. Just so long as I still have John.”
And then she stood up. “I killed Gregory, Aunt Betsy. If I had not gone away, the children would have stayed with me. Gregory would be here, shouting in this room. I killed him. Don’t you see that?”
Miss Betsy stood up, too. “But Margaret,” she said, “If you had not gone, you wouldn’t have come back, really come back, to John. You see, we knew why you had gone. And when you came back, I knew you had come back to your husband. I knew you had come back when I saw your face, come back in your mind and in your heart.”