Margret Howth, a Story of To-Day - Rebecca Harding Davis (top ten ebook reader .TXT) 📗

to see this Margret Howth, tell her what he meant to do. Because he was going to leave a clean record. No one should accuse him of want of honour. This girl alone of all living beings had a right to see him as he stood, justified to himself. Why she had this right, I do not think he answered to himself. Besides, he must see her, if only on business. She must keep her place at the mill: he would not begin his new life by an act of injustice, taking the bread out of Margret's mouth. LITTLE MARGRET! He stopped suddenly, looking down into a deep pool of water by the road-side. What madness of weariness crossed his brain just then I do not know. He shook it off. Was he mad? Life was worth more to him than to other men, he thought; and perhaps he was right. He went slowly through the cool dusk, looking across the fields, up at the pale, frightened face of the moon hooded in clouds: he did not dare to look, with all his iron nerve, at the dark figure beyond him on the road. She was sitting there just where he had left her: he knew she would be. When he came closer, she got up, not looking towards him; but he saw her clasp her hands behind her, the fingers plucking weakly at each other. It was an old, childish fashion of hers, when she was frightened or hurt. It would only need a word, and he could be quiet and firm,--she was such a child compared to him: he always had thought of her so. He went on up to her slowly, and stopped; when she looked at him, he untied the linen bonnet that hid her face, and threw it back. How thin and tired the little face had grown! Poor child! He put his strong arm kindly about her, and stooped to kiss her hand, but she drew it away. God! what did she do that for? Did not she know that he could put his head beneath her foot then, he was so mad with pity for the woman he had wronged? Not love, he thought, controlling himself,--it was only justice to be kind to her.
"You have been ill, Margret, these two years, while I was gone?"
He could not hear her answer; only saw that she looked up with a white, pitiful smile. Only a word it needed, he thought,--very kind and firm: and he must be quick,--he could not bear this long. But he held the little worn fingers, stroking them with an unutterable tenderness.
"You must let these fingers work for me, Margret," he said, at last, "when I am master in the mill."
"It is true, then, Stephen?"
"It is true,--yes."
She lifted her hand to her head, uncertainly: he held it tightly, and then let it go. What right had he to touch the dust upon her shoes,--he, bought and sold? She did not speak for a time; when she did, it was a weak and sick voice.
"I am glad. I saw her, you know. She is very beautiful."
The fingers were plucking at each other again; and a strange, vacant smile on her face, trying to look glad.
"You love her, Stephen?"
He was quiet and firm enough now.
"I do not. Her money will help me to become what I ought to be. She does not care for love. You want me to succeed, Margret? No one ever understood me as you did, child though you were."
Her whole face glowed.
"I know! I know! I did understand you!"
She said, lower, after a little while,--
"I knew you did not love her."
"There is no such thing as love in real life," he said, in his steeled voice. "You will know that, when you grow older. I used to believe in it once, myself."
She did not speak, only watched the slow motion of his lips, not looking into his eyes,--as she used to do in the old time. Whatever secret account lay between the souls of this man and woman came out now, and stood bare on their faces.
"I used to think that I, too, loved," he went on, in his low, hard tone. "But it kept me back, Margret, and"----
He was silent.
"I know, Stephen. It kept you back"----
"And I put it away. I put it away to-night, forever."
She did not speak; stood quite quiet, her head bent on her breast. His conscience was clear now. But he almost wished he had not said it, she was such a weak, sickly thing. She sat down at last, burying her face in her hands, with a shivering sob. He dared not trust him self to speak again.
"I am not proud,--as a woman ought to be," she said, wearily, when he wiped her clammy forehead.
"You loved me, then?" he whispered.
Her face flashed at the unmanly triumph; her puny frame started up, away from him.
"I did love you, Stephen. I did love you,--as you might be, not as you are,--not with those inhuman eyes. I do understand you,--I do. I know you for a better man than you know yourself this night."
She turned to go. He put his hand on her arm; something we have never seen on his face struggled up,--the better soul that she knew.
"Come back," he said, hoarsely; "don't leave me with myself. Come back, Margret."
She did not come; stood leaning, her sudden strength gone, against the broken wall. There was a heavy silence. The night throbbed slow about them. Some late bird rose from the sedges of the pool, and with a frightened cry flapped its tired wings, and drifted into the dark. His eyes, through the gathering shadow, devoured the weak, trembling body, met the soul that looked at him, strong as his own. Was it because it knew and trusted him that all that was pure and strongest in his crushed nature struggled madly to be free? He thrust it down; the self-learned lesson of years was not to be conquered in a moment.
"There have been times," he said, in a smothered, restless voice, "when I thought you belonged to me. Not here, but before this life. My soul and body thirst and hunger for you, then, Margret."
She did not answer; her hands worked feebly together, the dull blood fainting in her veins.
Knowing only that the night yawned intolerable about her, that she was alone,--going mad with being alone. No thought of heaven or God in her soul: her craving eyes seeing him only. The strong, living man that she loved: her tired-out heart goading, aching to lie down on his brawny breast for one minute, and die there,--that was all.
She did not move: underneath the pain there was power, as Knowles thought.
He came nearer, and held up his arms to where she stood,--the heavy, masterful face pale and wet.
"I need you, Margret. I shall be nothing without you, now. Come, Margret, little Margret!"
She came to him, then, and put her hands in his.
"No, Stephen," she said.
If there were any pain in her tone, she kept it down, for his sake.
"Never, I could never help you,--as you are. It might have been, once. Good-by, Stephen."
Her childish way put him in mind of the old days when this girl was dearer to him than his own soul. She was so yet. He held her close to his breast, looking down into her eyes. She moved uneasily; she dared not trust herself.
"You will come?" he said. "It might have been,--it shall be again."
"It may be," she said, humbly. "God is good. And I believe in you, Stephen. I will be yours some time: we cannot help it, if we would: but not as you are."
"You do not love me?" he said, flinging her off, his face whitening.
She said nothing, gathered her damp shawl around her, and turned to go. Just a moment they stood, looking at each other. If the dark square figure standing there had been an iron fate trampling her young life down into hopeless wretchedness, she forgot it now. Women like Margret are apt to forget. His eye never abated in its fierce question.
"I will wait for you yonder, if I die first," she whispered.
He came closer, waiting for an answer.
"And--I love you, Stephen."
He gathered her in his arms, and put his cold lips to hers, without a word; then turned, and left her slowly.
She made no sign, shed no tear, as she stood, watching him go. It was all over: she had willed it, herself, and yet--he could not go! God would not suffer it! Oh, he could not leave her,--he could not!--He went down the hill, slowly. If it were a trial of life and death for her, did he know or care?--He did not look back. What if he did not? his heart was true; he suffered in going; even now he walked wearily. God forgive her, if she had wronged him!--What did it matter, if he were hard in this life, and it hurt her a little? It would come right,--beyond, some time. But life was long.--She would not sit down, sick as she was: he might turn, and it would vex him to see her suffer.--He walked slowly; once he stopped to pick up something. She saw the deep-cut face and half-shut eyes. How often those eyes had looked into her soul, and it had answered! They never would look so any more.--There was a tree by the place where the road turned into town. If he came back, he would be sure to turn there.--How tired he walked, and slow!--If he was sick, that beautiful woman could be near him,--help him.--SHE never would touch his hand again,--never again, never,--unless he came back now.--He was near the tree: she closed her eyes, turning away. When she looked again, only the bare road lay there, yellow and wet. It was over, now.
How long she sat there she did not know. She tried once or twice to go to the house, but the lights seemed so far off that she gave it up and sat quiet, unconscious, except of the damp stone-wall her head leaned on, and the stretch of muddy road. Some time, she knew not when, there was a heavy step beside her, and a rough hand shook hers where she stooped, feebly tracing out the lines of mortar between the stones. It was Knowles. She looked up, bewildered.
"Hunting catarrhs, eh?" he growled, eying her keenly. "Got your father on the Bourbons, so took the chance to come and find you. He'll not miss ME for an hour. That man has a natural hankering after treason against the people. Lord, Margret! what a stiff old head he'd have carried to the guillotine! How he'd have looked at the canaille!"
He helped her up gently enough.
"Your bonnet's like a wet rag,"--with a furtive glance at the worn-out face. A hungry face always, with her life unfed by its stingy few crumbs of good; but to-night it was vacant with utter loss.
She got up, trying to laugh cheerfully, and went beside him down the road.
"You saw that painted Jezebel to-night, and"----stopping abruptly.
She had not heard him,