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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2344aaa --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #64398 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/64398) diff --git a/old/64398-0.txt b/old/64398-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 81d112a..0000000 --- a/old/64398-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5066 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Evered, by Ben Ames Williams - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Evered - -Author: Ben Ames Williams - -Release Date: January 27, 2021 [eBook #64398] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at - http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images - available at The Internet Archive) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EVERED *** - - - - - EVERED - - - - - EVERED - - BY - BEN AMES WILLIAMS - - NEW YORK - E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY - 681 FIFTH AVENUE - - - Copyright, 1921, - By E. P. Dutton & Company - - _All Rights Reserved_ - - - PRINTED IN THE UNITED - STATES OF AMERICA - - - - - EVERED - - - - -I - - -There is romance in the very look of the land of which I write. Beauty -beyond belief, of a sort to make your breath come more quickly; and -drama--comedy or tragedy according to the eye and the mood of the seer. -Loneliness and comradeship, peace and conflict, friendship and enmity, -gayety and somberness, laughter and tears. The bold hills, little -cousins to the mountains, crowd close round each village; the clear -brooks thread wood and meadow; the birches and scrub hardwood are taking -back the abandoned farms. When the sun drops low in the west there is a -strange and moving purple tinge upon the slopes; and the shadows are as -blue as blue can be. When the sun is high there is a greenery about this -northern land which is almost tropical in its richness and variety. - -The little villages lie for the most part in sheltered valley spots. -Not all of them. Liberty, for example, climbs up along a steep hill road -on your way to St. George’s Pond, or over the Sheepscot Ridge, for -trout. No spot lovelier anywhere. But you will come upon other little -house clusters, a white church steeple topping every one, at unsuspected -crossroads, with some meadowland round and about, and a brook running -through the village itself, and perhaps a mill sprawled busily across -the brook. It is natural that the villages should thus seek shelter; for -when the winter snows come down this is a harsh land, and bitter cold. -So is it all the more strange that the outlying farms are so often set -high upon the hills, bare to the bleak gales. And the roads, too, like -to seek and keep the heights. From Fraternity itself, for example, there -is a ten-mile ridge southwest to Union, and a road along the whole -length of the ridge’s crest, from which you may look for miles on either -side. - -This is not a land of bold emprises; neither is it one of those -localities which are said to be happy because they have no history. -There is history in the very names of the villages hereabouts. Liberty, -and Union, and Freedom; Equality, and Fraternity. And men will tell you -how their fathers’ fathers came here in the train of General Knox, when -that warrior, for Revolutionary services rendered, was given title to -all the countryside; and how he sub-granted to his followers; and how -they cleared farms, and tilled the soil, and lumbered out the forests, -and exterminated deer and moose and bear. Seventy years ago, they will -tell you, there was no big game hereabouts; but since then many farms, -deserted, have been overrun by the forests; and the bear are coming -back, and there are deer tracks along every stream, and moose in the -swamps, and wildcats scream in the night. Twenty or thirty or forty -miles to the north the big woods of Maine begin; so that this land is an -outpost of the wilderness, thrust southward among the closer dwellings -of man. - -The people of these towns are of ancient stock. The grandfathers of many -of them came in with General Knox; most of them have been here for fifty -years or more, they or their forbears. A few Frenchmen have drifted down -from Quebec; a few Scotch and Irish have come in here as they come -everywhere. Half a dozen British seamen escaped, once upon a time, from -a man-of-war in Penobscot Bay, and fled inland, and were hidden away -until their ship was gone. Whereupon they married and became part and -parcel of the land, and their stock survives. By the mere reading of the -names of these folk upon the R. F. D. boxes at their doors you may know -their antecedents. Bubier and Saladine, Varney and Motley, McCorrison -and MacLure, Thomas and Davis, Sohier and Brine--a five-breed blend of -French and English, Scotch and Welsh and Irish; in short, as clear a -strain of good Yankee blood as you are like to come upon. - -Sturdy folk, and hardy workers. You will find few idlers; and by the -same token you will find few slavish toilers, lacking soul to whip a -trout brook now and then or shoot a woodcock or a deer. Most men -hereabouts would rather catch a trout than plant a potato; most men -would rather shoot a partridge than cut a cord of wood. And they act -upon their inclinations in these matters. The result is that the farms -are perhaps a thought neglected; and no one is very rich in worldly -goods; and a man who inherits a thousand dollars has come into money. -Yet have they all that any man wisely may desire; for they have food and -drink and shelter, and good comradeship, and the woods to take their -sport in, and what books they choose to read, and time for solid -thinking, and beauty ever before their eyes. Whether you envy or scorn -them is in some measure an acid test of your own soul. Best hesitate -before deciding. - -Gregarious folk, these, like most people who dwell much alone. So there -are grange halls here and there; and the churches are white-painted and -in good repair; and now and then along the roads you will come to a -picnic grove or a dancing pavilion, set far from any town. Save in -haymaking time the men work solitary in the fields; but in the evening, -when cows have been milked and pigs fed and wood prepared against the -morning, they take their lanterns and tramp or drive half a mile or -twice as far, and drop in at Will Bissell’s store for the mail and for -an hour round Will’s stove. - -You will hear tales there, tales worth the hearing, and on the whole -surprisingly true. There is some talk of the price of hay or of feed or -of apples; but there is more likely to be some story of the woods--of a -bull moose seen along the Liberty road or a buck deer in Luke Hills’ -pasture or a big catch of trout in the Ruffingham Meadow streams. Now -and then, just about mail time in the evening, fishermen will stop at -the store to weigh their catches; and then everyone crowds round to see -and remark upon the matter. - -The store is a clearing-house for local news; and this must be so, for -there is no newspaper in Fraternity. Whatever has happened within a -six-mile radius during the day is fairly sure to be told there before -Will locks up for the night; and there is always something happening in -Fraternity. In which respect it is very much like certain villages of a -larger growth, and better advertised. - -There is about the intimacy of life in a little village something that -suggests the intimacy of life upon the sea. There is not the primitive -social organization; the captain as lord of all he surveys. But there is -the same close rubbing of shoulders, the same nakedness of impulse and -passion and longing and sorrow and desire. You may know your neighbor -well enough in the city, but before you lend him money, take him for a -camping trip in the woods or go with him to sea. Thereafter you will -know the man inside and out; and you may, if you choose, make your loan -with a knowledge of what you are about. It is hard to keep a secret in -a little village; and Fraternity is a little village--that and nothing -more. - -On weekday nights, as has been said, Will Bissell’s store is the social -center of Fraternity. Men begin to gather soon after supper; they begin -to leave when the stage has come up from Union with the mail. For Will’s -store is post office as well as market-place. The honeycomb of mail -boxes occupies a place just inside the door, next to the candy counter. -Will knows his business. A man less wise might put his candies back -among the farming tools, and his tobacco and pipes and cigars in the -north wing, with the ginghams, but Will puts them by the mail boxes, -because everyone gets mail or hopes for it, and anyone may be moved to -buy a bit of candy while he waits for the mail to come. - -This was an evening in early June. Will’s stove had not been lighted for -two weeks or more; but to-night there was for the first time the warm -breath of summer in the air. So those who usually clustered inside were -outside now, upon the high flight of steps which led up from the road. -Perhaps a dozen men, a dog or two, half a dozen boys. Luke Hills had -just come and gone with the season’s best catch of trout--ten of them; -and when they were laid head to tail they covered the length of a -ten-foot board. The men spoke of these trout now, and Judd, who was no -fisherman, suggested that Luke must have snared them; and Jim Saladine, -the best deer hunter in Fraternity and a fair and square man, told Judd -he was witless and unfair. Judd protested, grinning meanly; and Jean -Bubier, the Frenchman from the head of the pond, laughed and exclaimed: -“Now you, m’sieu’, you could never snare those trout if you come upon -them in the road, eh?” - -They were laughing in their slow dry way at Judd’s discomfiture when the -hoofs of a horse sounded on the bridge below the store; and every man -looked that way. - -It was Lee Motley who said, “It’s Evered.” - -The effect was curious. The men no longer laughed. They sat quite still, -as though under a half-fearful restraint, and pretended not to see the -man who was approaching. - - - - -II - - -There were two men in the buggy which came up the little ascent from the -bridge and stopped before the store. The men were Evered, and Evered’s -son, John. Evered lived on a farm that overlooked the Whitcher Swamp on -the farther side. He was a man of some property, a successful farmer. He -was also a butcher; and his services were called in at hog-killing time -as regularly as the services of Doctor Crapo in times of sickness. He -knew his trade; and he knew the anatomy of a steer or a calf or a sheep -as well as Doctor Crapo knew the anatomy of a man. He was an efficient -man; a brutally efficient man. His orchard was regularly trimmed and -grafted and sprayed; his hay was re-seeded year by year; his garden -never knew the blight of weeds; his house was clean, in good repair, -white-painted. A man in whom dwelt power and strength; and a man whom -other men disliked and feared. - -He was a short man, broad of shoulder, with a thick neck and a square, -well-shaped head, a heavy brow and a steady burning eye. A somber man, -he never laughed; never was known to laugh. There was a blighting -something in his gaze which discouraged laughter in others. He was known -to have a fierce and ruthless temper; in short, a fearsome man, hard to -understand. He puzzled his neighbors and baffled them; they let him well -alone. - -He was driving this evening. His horse, like everything which was his, -was well-groomed and in perfect condition. It pranced a little as it -came up to the store, not from high spirits, but from nervousness. So -much might be known by the white glint of its eye. The nervousness of a -mettled creature too much restrained. It pranced a little, and Evered’s -hand tightened on the rein so harshly that the horse’s lower jaw was -pulled far back against its neck, and the creature was abruptly still, -trembling, and sweating faintly for no cause at all. Evered paid no more -heed to the horse. He looked toward the group of men upon the steps, and -some met his eye, and some looked away. - -He looked at them, one by one; and he asked Lee Motley: “Is the mail -come?” - -Motley shook his head. He was a farmer of means, a strong man, moved by -no fear of Evered. “No,” he said. - -Evered passed the reins to his son. “Hold him still,” he told the young -man, and stepped out over the wheel to the ground, dropping lightly as a -cat. The horse gave a half leap forward and was caught by John Evered’s -steady hand; and the young man spoke gently to the beast to quiet it. - -Evered from the ground looked up at his son and said harshly, “I bade -you hold him still.” - -The other answered, “I will.” - -“You’d best,” said Evered, and turned and strode up the steps into the -store. - -The incident had brought out vividly enough the difference between -Evered and his son. They were two characters sharply contrasting; for -where Evered was harsh, John was gentle of speech; and where Evered was -abrupt, John was slow; and where Evered’s eye was hard and angry, John’s -was mild. They contrasted physically. The son was tall, well-formed and -fair; the father was short, almost squat in his broad strength, and -black of hair and eye. Nevertheless, it was plain to the seeing eye -that there was strength in John as there was strength in -Evered--strength of body and soul. - -When Evered had gone into the store Motley said to the son, “It’s warm.” - -The young man nodded in a wistfully friendly way. “Yes,” he agreed. “So -warm it’s brought up our peas this day.” - -“That south slope of yours is good garden land,” Motley told him, and -John said: - -“Yes. As good as I ever see.” - -Everyone liked John Evered; and someone asked now: “Been fishing any, -over at Wilson’s?” - -John shook his head. “Too busy,” he explained. “But I hear how they’re -catching some good strings there.” - -“Luke Hills brought in ten to-night that was ten feet long,” Jim -Saladine offered. “Got ’em at Ruffingham.” - -The young man in the buggy smiled delightedly, his eyes shining. “Golly, -what a catch!” he exclaimed. - -Then Evered came to the door of the store and looked out, and silence -fell upon them all once more. The mail was coming down the hill; the -stage, a rattling, rusted, do-or-die automobile of ancient vintage, -squeaked to a shrill stop before the very nose of Evered’s horse. John -spoke to the horse, and it was still. The stage driver took the mail -sacks in, and Evered left the doorway. The others all got up and turned -toward the door. - -Motley said to Saladine, “Did you mark the horse? It was scared of the -stage, but it was still at his word, and he did not tighten rein.” - -“I saw,” Saladine agreed. “The boy handles it fine.” - -“It’s feared of Evered; but the beast loves the boy.” - -“There’s others in that same way o’ thinking,” said Saladine. - -Inside the store Will Bissell and Andy Wattles, his lank and loyal -clerk, were stamping and sorting the mail. No great matter, for few -letters come to Fraternity. While this was under way Evered gathered up -the purchases he had made since he came into the store, and took them -out and stowed them under the seat of the buggy. He did not speak to his -son. John sat still in his place, moving his feet out of the other’s -way. When the bundles were all bestowed Evered went back up the steps -and Will gave him his daily paper and a letter addressed to his wife, -and Evered took them without thanks, and left the store without farewell -to any man, and climbed into the buggy and took the reins. He turned the -horse sharply and they moved down the hill, and the bridge sounded for a -moment beneath their passing. In the still evening air the pound of the -horse’s hoofs and the light whirring of the wheels persisted for long -moments before they died down to blend with the hum and murmur of tiny -sounds that filled the whispering dusk. - -As they drove away one or two men came to the door to watch them go; and -Judd, a man with a singular capacity for mean and tawdry malice, said -loudly, “That boy’ll break Evered, some day, across his knee.” - -There was a moment’s silence; then Jean Bubier said cheerfully that he -would like to see the thing done. “But that Evered, he is one leetle -fighter,” he reminded Judd. - -Judd laughed unpleasantly and said Evered had the town bluffed. “That’s -all he is,” he told them. “A black scowl and some cussing. Nothing else. -You’ll see.” - -Motley shook his head soberly. “Evered’s no bluff,” he said. “You’re -forgetting that matter of the knife, Judd.” - -Motley’s reminder put a momentary silence upon them all. The story of -the knife was well enough known; the knife they had all seen. The thing -had happened fifteen or twenty years before, and was one of the tales -many times told about Will’s stove. One Dave Riggs, drunken and -worthless, farming in a small way in North Fraternity, sent for Evered -to kill a pig. Evered went to Riggs’ farm. Riggs had been drinking; he -was quarrelsome; he sought to interfere with Evered’s procedure. Motley, -a neighbor of Riggs, had been there at the time, and used to tell the -story. - -“Riggs wanted him to tie up the pig,” he would explain. “You know Evered -does not do that. He says they will not bleed properly, tied. He did not -argue with the man, but Riggs persisted in his drunken way, and cursed -Evered to his face, till I could see the blood mounting in the butcher’s -cheeks. He is a bad-tempered man, always was. - -“He turned on Riggs and told the man to hush; and Riggs damned him. -Evered knocked him flat with a single fist stroke; and while Riggs was -still on the ground Evered turned and got the pig by the ears and -slipped the knife into its throat, in that smooth way he has. When he -drew it out the blood came after; and Evered turned to Riggs, just -getting on his feet. - -“‘There’s your pig,’ said Evered. ‘Butchered right. Now, man, be still.’ - -“Well, Riggs took a look at the pig and another at Evered. He was -standing by the chopping block, and his hand fell on the ax stuck there. -Before I could stir he had lifted it, whirling it, and was sweeping down -on Evered. - -“It was all over quick, you’ll mind. Riggs rushing, with the ax -whistling in the air. Then Evered stepped inside its swing, and drove at -Riggs’ head. I think he forgot he had the knife in his hand. But it was -there; his hand drove it with the cunning that it knew--at the forehead -of the other man. - -“I mind how Riggs looked, after he had dropped. On his back he was, the -knife sticking straight up from his head. And it still smeared with the -pig’s blood, dripping down on the dead man’s face. Oh, aye, he was dead. -Dead as the pig, when it quit its walking round in a little, and laid -down, and stopped its squeal.” - -Someone asked him once, when he had told the tale: “Where was Riggs’ -wife? Married, wa’n’t he?” - -“In the house,” said Motley. “The boy was there, though. He’d come to -see the pig stuck, and when he saw the blood come out of its throat he -yelled and run. So he didn’t have to see the rest--the knife in his -father’s head.” - -There had been no prosecution of Evered for that ancient tragedy. -Motley’s story was clear enough; it had been self-defense at the worst, -and half accident besides. Riggs’ wife went away and took her son, and -Fraternity knew them no more. - -They conned over this ancient tale of Evered in Will’s store that night; -and some blamed him, and some found him not to blame. And when they were -done with that story they told others; how when he was called to butcher -sheep he had a trick of breaking their necks across his knee with a -twist and a jerk of his hands. There was no doubt of the man’s strength -nor of his temper. - -A West Fraternity man came in while they were talking; one Zeke Pitkin, -a mild man, and timid. He listened to their words, and asked at last, -“Evered?” - -They nodded; and Pitkin laughed in an awkward way. “He killed my bull -to-day,” he said. - -Will Bissell asked quickly, “Killed your bull? You have him do it?” - -Pitkin nodded, gulping at his Adam’s apple. “Getting ugly, the bull -was,” he said. “I didn’t like to handle him. Decided to beef him. So I -sent for Evered, and he came over.” - -He looked round at them, laughed uneasily. “He scared me,” he said. - -Motley asked slowly. “What happened, Zeke?” - -Pitkin rubbed one hand nervously along his leg. “We-ell,” he explained. -“I’m nervous like. Git excited easy. So when he come I told him the bull -was ugly. Told him to look out for it. - -“He just only looked at me in that hard way of his. I had the bull in -the barn; and he went in where it was and fetched it out in the barn -floor. Left the bull standing there and begun to fix his tackle to h’ist -it up. - -“I didn’t want to stay in there with the bull. I was scared of it--it -loose there, nothing to hold it. And Evered kept working round it, back -to the beast half the time. Nothing to stop it tossing him. I didn’t -like to get out, but I didn’t want to stay. And I guess I talked too -much. Kept telling him to hurry, and asking him why he didn’t kill it -and all. Got him mad, I guess.” - -The man shivered a little, his eyes dim with the memory of the moment. -He took off his hat and rubbed his hand across his head, and Motley -said, “He did kill it?” - -Pitkin nodded uneasily. “Yeah,” he said. “Evered turned round to me by -and by; and he looked at me under them black eyebrows of his, and he -says: ‘Want I should kill this bull, do you?’ I ’lows that I did. ‘Want -him killed now, do you?’ he says, and I told him I did. And I did too. I -was scared of that bull, I say. But not the way he did kill it.” - -He shuddered openly; and Motley asked again, “What did he do?” - -“Stepped up aside the bull,” said Pitkin hurriedly. “Yanked out that -knife of his--that same knife--out of his sheath. Up with it, and down, -so quick I never see what he did. Down with the knife right behind the -bull’s horns. Right into the neck bone. And that bull o’ mine went down -like a ton o’ brick. Like two ton o’ brick. Stone dead.” - -Will Bissell echoed, “Stabbed it in the neck?” - -“Right through the neck bone. With that damned heavy knife o’ his.” He -wiped his forehead again. “We had a hell of a time h’isting that bull, -too,” he said weakly. “A hell of a time.” - -No one spoke for a moment. They were digesting this tale of Evered. Then -Judd said: “I’d like to see that red bull of his git after that man.” - -One or two nodded, caught themselves, looked sheepishly round to -discover whether they had been seen. Evered’s red bull was as well and -unfavorably known as the man himself. A huge brute, shoulder high to a -tall man, ugly of disposition, forever bellowing challenges across the -hills from Evered’s barn, frightening womenfolk in their homes a mile -away. A creature of terror, ruthlessly curbed and goaded by Evered. It -was known that the butcher took delight in mastering the bull, torturing -the beast with ingenious twists of the nose ring, with blows on the leg -joints, and nose, and the knobs where horns should have been. The red -bull was of a hornless breed. The great head of it was like a buffalo’s -head, like a huge malicious battering ram. It was impossible to look at -the beast without a tremor of alarm. - -“It’s ugly business to see Evered handle that bull,” Will Belter said, -half to himself. - -And after a little silence Jean Bubier echoed: “Almost as ugly as to see -the man with his wife. When I have see that, sometime, I have think I -might take his own knife to him.” - -Judd, the malicious, laughed in an ugly way; and he said, “Guess Evered -would treat her worse if he got an eye on her and that man Semler.” - -It was Jim Saladine’s steady voice which put an end to that. “Don’t put -your foul mouth on her, Judd,” he said quietly. “Not if you want to walk -home.” - -Judd started to speak, caught Saladine’s quiet eye and was abruptly -still. - - - - -III - - -Evered and his son drove home together through the clotting dusk in a -silence that was habitual with them. The buggy was a light vehicle, the -horse was swift and powerful, and they made good time. Evered, driving, -used the whip now and then; and at each red-hot touch of the light lash -the horse leaped like a stricken thing; and at each whiplash John -Evered’s lips pressed firmly each against the other, as though to hold -back the word he would have said. No good in speaking, he knew. It would -only rouse the lightly slumbering anger in his father, only lead to more -hurts for the horse, and a black scowl or an oath to himself. There were -times when John Evered longed to put his strength against his father’s; -when he was hungry for the feel of flesh beneath his smashing fists. But -these moments were few. He understood the older man; there was a blood -sympathy between them. He knew his father’s heart as no other did or -could; and in the last analysis he loved his father loyally. Thus had he -learned long patience and restraint. It is very easy to damn and hate a -man like Evered, hot and fierce and ruthlessly overbearing. But John -Evered, his son, who had suffered more from Evered than any other man, -neither damned nor hated him. - -They drove home together in silence. Evered sat still in his seat, but -there was no relaxation in his attitude. He was still as a tiger is -still before the charge and the leap. John at his side could feel the -other’s shoulder muscles tensing. His father was always so, always a -boiling vessel of emotions. You might call him a powerful man, a -masterful man. John Evered knew him for a slave, for the slave of his -own hot and angry pulse beats. And he loved and pitied him. - -Out of Fraternity they took the Liberty road, and came presently to a -turning which led them to the right, and so to the way to Evered’s farm, -a narrow road, leading nowhere except into the farmyard, and traveled by -few men who had no business there. - -When they came into the farmyard it was almost dark. Yet there was still -light enough to see, beyond the shadow of the barn, the sloping -hillside that led down to Whitcher Swamp; and the swamp itself, brooding -beneath its gray mists in the thickening night. The farm buildings were -set on a jutting shoulder of the hill, looking out across the valley -where the swamp lay, to Fraternity, and off toward Moody Mountain beyond -the town. By day there was a glory in this valley that was spread below -them; by night it was a place of dark and mystery. Sounds used to come -up the hill from the swamp; the sounds of thrashing brush where the -moose fed, or perhaps the clash of ponderous antlers in the fall, or the -wicked scream of a marauding cat, or the harsh cries of night-hawks, or -the tremolo hoot of an owl. - -Built against the barn on the side away from the house there was a stout -roofed stall; and opening from this stall a pen with board walls higher -than a man’s head and cedar posts as thick as a man’s leg, set every -four feet to support the planking of the walls. As the horse stopped in -the farmyard and Evered and his son alighted, a sound came from this -stall--a low, inhuman, monstrous sound, like the rumbling of a storm, -like the complaint of a hungry beast, like the promise of evil things -too dreadful for describing; the muffled roaring of Evered’s great red -bull, disturbed by the sound of the horse. John Evered stood still for -an instant, listening. It was impossible for most men to hear that sound -without an appalling tremor of the heart. But Evered himself gave no -heed to it. He spoke to the horse. He said “Hush, now. Still.” - -The horse was as still as stone, yet it trembled as it had trembled at -Will’s store. Evered gathered parcels from beneath the seat; and John -filled his arms with what remained. They turned toward the house -together, the son a little behind the father. - -There was a light in the kitchen of the farmhouse; and a woman had come -to the open door and was looking out toward them. She was silhouetted -blackly by the light behind her. It revealed her figure as slim and -pleasantly graven. The lamp’s rays turned her hair into an iridescent -halo about her head. She rested one hand against the frame of the door; -and her lifted arm guided her body into graceful lines. - -She called to them in a low voice, “Do you need light?” - -Evered answered. “If you were out of the door there’d be light enough,” -he said. - -The woman lifted her hand to her lips in a hurt little gesture; and she -stepped aside with no further word. She still stood thus, at one side of -the door, when they came in. The lamplight fell full upon her, full upon -her countenance. - -The woman’s face, the face of this woman whose body still bore youthful -lines, was shocking. There were weary contours in it; there were shadows -of pain beneath the eyes; there was anguish in the mobile lips. The hair -which had seemed like a halo showed now like a white garland; snow -white, though it still lay heavy and glossy as a girl’s. She was like a -statue of sorrow; the figure of a sad and tortured life. - -The woman was Evered’s second wife; Evered’s wife, Mary Evered. His -wife, whom he had won in a courtship that was like red flowers in -spring; whom he had made to suffer interminably, day by day, till -suffering became routine and death would have been happiness; and -whom--believe it or no--Evered had always and would forever love with a -love that was like torment. There is set perversely in man and woman -alike an impulse to tease and hurt and distress those whom we love. It -is, of this stuff that lovers’ quarrels are made; it is from this that -the heartbreaks of the honeymoon are born. The men and women of the -fairy tales, who marry and live happily ever after, are fairy tales -themselves; or else they never loved. For loving, which is sacrifice and -service and kindness and devotion, is also misunderstanding and -distortion and perversity and unhappiness most profound. It is a part of -love to quarrel; the making-up is often so sweet it justifies the -anguish of the conflict. Mary Evered knew this. But Evered had a stiff -pride in him which would not let him yield; be he ever so deeply wrong -he held his ground; and Mary was sick with much yielding. - -Annie Paisley, who lived at the next farm on the North Fraternity road, -had given Mary Evered something to think about when Paisley died, the -year before. - -For over Paisley’s very coffin Annie had said in a thoughtful, -reminiscent way: “Yes, Mary; Jim ’uz a good husband to me for nigh on -thirty year. A good pervider, and a kind man, and a good father. He -never drunk, nor ever wasted what little money we got; and we always -had plenty to do with; and the children liked him. Kind to me, he was. -Gentle.” Her eyes had narrowed thoughtfully. “But Mary,” she said, “you -know I never liked him.” - -Mary Evered had been a girl of spirit and strength; and if she had not -loved Evered she would never have stayed with him a year. Loving him she -had stayed; and the bitter years rolled over her; stayed because she -loved him, and because she--like her son--understood the heart of the -man, and knew that through all his ruthless strength and hard purpose, -with all his might he loved her. - -She said now in the kitchen: “You got the salt pork?” - -“Of course I got the salt pork,” Evered told her in a level tone that -was like a whip across her shoulders. He dumped his parcels on the -table, pointed to one; and she took it up in a hurried furtive way and -turned to the stove. John laid down his bundles, and Evered said to him: -“Put the horse away.” The young man nodded, and went out into the -farmyard. - -The horse still stood where Evered had bade it stand. John went to the -creature’s head and laid his hand lightly on the velvety nose, and spoke -softly; and after a moment the horse mouthed his hand with its lips. He -took the bridle and led it toward the stable. There was a lantern -hanging by the door, but he did not light it. The young man loved the -still darkness of the night; there was some quality in the damp cool air -which was like wine to him. And he needed no light for what he had to -do; he knew every wooden peg in the barn’s stout frame, blindfolded; for -the barn and the farm had been his world for more than twenty years. - -Outside the stable door he stopped the horse and loosed the traces and -led it out of the thills, which he lowered carefully to the ground. The -horse turned, as of habit, to a tub full of water which stood beside the -barn door; and while the creature drank John backed the buggy into the -carriage shed and propped up the thills with a plank. When he came to -the stable door again the horse was waiting for him; and he heard its -breath whir in a soundless whinny of greeting. He stripped away the -harness expertly, hanging it on pegs against the wall, and adjusted the -halter. Once, while he worked, the red bull in its closed stall on the -farther side of the barn bellowed softly; and the young man called to -the beast in a tone that was at once strong and kindly. - -He put the horse in its stall, tied the halter rope, and stepped out -into the open floor of the barn to pull down hay for the beast. It was -when he did so that he became conscious that someone was near. He could -not have told how he knew; but there was, of a sudden, a warmth and a -friendliness in the very air about him, so that his breath came a little -more quickly. He stood very still for a moment; and then he looked -toward the stable door. His eyes, accustomed to the dark, discovered -her. She had come inside the barn and was standing against the wall, -watching him. He could see the dim white blur of her face in the -darkness; he could almost see the glow that lay always in her eyes for -him. - -He said quietly, “Hello, Ruth.” - -And she answered him, “Hello, John.” - -“I’ve got to pull down a little hay,” he said. It was as though he -apologized for not coming at once to her side. - -“Yes,” she told him, and stood there while he finished tending the -horse. - -When he had done he went toward her slowly and stood before her, and she -moved a little nearer to him, so that he put his arms awkwardly round -her shoulders and kissed her. He felt her lips move against his; felt -her womanly and strong. There was no passion in their caress; only an -awkward tenderness on his part, a deep affection on hers. - -“I’m glad you came out,” he said; and she nodded against his shoulder. - -They went into the barnyard, and his arm was about her waist. - -“It’s warm to-night,” she told him. “Summer’s about here.” - -He nodded. “We’ll have green peas by the Fourth if we don’t git a -frost.” - -Neither of them wanted to get at once to the house. There was youth in -them; the house was no place for youth. She was Ruth MacLure, Mary -Evered’s sister. Not, by that token, John Evered’s aunt; for John -Evered’s mother was dead many years gone, before Evered took Mary -MacLure for wife. A year ago old Bill MacLure had died and Ruth had come -to live with her sister. John had never known her till then; since then -he found it impossible to understand how he had ever lived without -knowing her. She was years younger than her sister, three years younger -than John Evered himself; and he loved her. - -They crossed the barnyard to the fence and looked down into the shadowy -pit of blackness where the swamp lay, half a mile below them. They -rested their elbows on the top bar of the fence. Once or twice the bull -muttered in his stall a few rods away. They could hear the champ of the -horse’s teeth as the beast fed before sleeping; they could hear Evered’s -cows stirring in their tie-up. The night was very still and warm, as -though heaven brooded like a mother over the earth. - -The girl said at last, “Semler was here while you were gone.” - -The young man asked slowly, “What fetched him here?” - -“He was on his way home from fishing, down in the swamp stream.” - -“Did he do anything down there?” - -“Had seventeen. One of them was thirteen inches long. He wanted to leave -some, but Mary wouldn’t let him.” - -They were silent for a moment, then John Evered said, “Best not tell my -father.” - -The girl cried under her breath, with an impatient gesture of her hand, -“I’m not going to. But I hate it. It isn’t fair. Mary wants him to keep -away. He bothers her.” - -“I can keep him away.” - -“You did tell him not to come.” - -“I can make him not come,” said John Evered; and the girl fell silent, -and said at last, “He’s writing to her. Oh, John, what can she do? More -than she has done?” - -“I’ll see to’t he stays away,” the young man promised; and the girl’s -hand fell on his arm. - -“Please do,” she said. “He’s so unfair to Mary.” - -A little later, when they turned at last toward the house, John said -half to himself, “If my father ever heard, he’d bust that man.” - -“I wish he would,” the girl said hotly. “But--I’m afraid he’d find some -way to blame Mary. He mustn’t know.” - -“I’ll see Dane Semler,” John promised. - -On the doorstep they kissed again. Then they went into the house -together. Evered sitting by the lamp with his paper looked up at them -bleakly, but said no word. Mary Evered smiled at her sister, smiled at -John. She loved her husband’s son, had loved him like a mother since -she came to the house and found him, a boy not four years old, helping -with the chores as a grown man might have done. She had found something -pitiful in the strength and the reserve of the little fellow; and she -had mothered out of him some moments of softness and affection that -would have surprised his father. - -There was a certain measure of reassurance in his eyes as he returned -her smile. But when he had sat down across the table from his father, -where she could not see his face, he became sober and very thoughtful. -He was considering the matter of Dane Semler. - - - - -IV - - -First word of the tragedy came to Will Bissell’s store at seven o’clock -in the evening of the next day but one; and the manner of the coming was -this: - -The day had been lowering and sultry; such a day as Fraternity was -accustomed to expect in mid-August, when the sun was heavy on the land -and the air was murky with sea fogs blown in from the bay. A day when -there seemed to be a malignant spirit in the very earth itself; a day -when to work was torment, and merely to move about was sore discomfort. -A day when dogs snarled at their masters, and masters cursed at their -dogs; when sullen passions boiled easily to the surface, and tempers -were frayed to the last splitting strand. - -No breath of air was stirring as the evening came down. The sun had -scarce shown itself all day; the coming of night was indicated only by a -growing obscurity, by a thickening of the murky shadows in the valleys -and the gray clouds that hid the hills. Men slighted their evening -chores, did them hurriedly or not at all, and made haste to get into the -open air. From the houses of the village they moved toward Will’s store; -and some of them stopped on the bridge above the brook, as though the -sound of running water below them had some cooling power; and some -climbed the little slope and sat on the high steps of the store. They -talked little or none, spoke in monosyllables when they spoke at all. -They were too hot and weary and uncomfortable for talking. - -No one seemed to be in any hurry. The men moved slowly; the occasional -wagon or buggy that drove into town came at a walk; even the automobiles -seemed to move with a sullen reluctance. So it was not surprising that -the sound of a horse’s running feet coming along the Liberty road should -quickly attract their ears. - -They heard it first when the horse topped the rise above the mill, -almost a mile away. The horse was galloping. The sounds were hushed -while the creature dipped into a hollow, and rang more loudly when it -climbed a nearer knoll and came on across the level meadow road toward -the town. The beat of its hoofs was plainly audible; and men asked each -other whose horse it was, and what the hurry might be; and one or two, -more energetic than the rest, stood up to get a glimpse of the road by -which the beast was coming. - -Just before it came into their sight they heard it stop galloping and -come on at a trot; and a moment later horse and rider came in sight, and -every man saw who it was. - -Jean Bubier exclaimed, “It is M’sieu’ Semler.” - -And Judd echoed, “Dane Semler. In a hell of a hurry, too.” - -Then the man pulled his horse to a stand at the foot of the store steps -and swung off. He had been riding bareback; and he was in the garments -which he was accustomed to wear when he went fishing along the brooks. -They all knew him; for though he was a man of the cities he had been -accustomed to come to Fraternity in June for a good many years. They -knew him, but did not particularly like him. There was always something -of patronage in his attitude, and they knew this and resented it. - -Nevertheless, one or two of them answered his greeting. For the rest, -they studied him with an acute and painful curiosity. There was some -warrant for their curiosity. Semler, usually an immaculate man, was hot -and dusty and disordered; his face was white; his eyes were red and -shifting, and there was an agonized haste in his bearing which he was -unable to hide. - -He asked, almost as his foot touched ground, “Anyone here got a car?” - -Two or three of the men had come in automobiles; and one, George Tower, -answered, “Sure.” - -Tower was a middle-aged man of the sort that remains perpetually young; -and he had recently acquired a swift and powerful roadster of which he -was mightily proud. It was pride in this car, more than a desire to help -Dane Semler, that prompted his answer. - -Semler took a step toward him and lowered his voice a little. “I’ve had -bad news,” he said. “How long will it take you to get me to town?” - -That was a drive of ten or a dozen miles, over roads none too good. - -Tower answered promptly: “Land you there in twenty minutes.” - -“I’ll give you a dollar for every minute you do it under half an hour,” -said Semler swiftly; and Tower got to his feet. - -“Where’s your grip?” he asked. - -Semler shook his head. “I’m having that sent on. Can’t wait. I’m ready -to start now.” He looked toward the men on the steps. “Some of you take -care of the horse,” he said quickly. “Garvey will send for it.” - -Garvey was the farmer at whose house Semler had been staying. Will -Bissell took the horse’s bridle and promised to stable the beast till -Garvey should come. Tower was already in his car; Semler jumped in -beside him. They were down the hill and across the bridge in a -diminuendo roar of noise as the roadster, muffler cut out, rocketed away -toward town. Two or three of the men got to their feet to watch them go, -sat down again when they were out of sight. - -There was a moment’s thoughtful silence before someone said, “What do -you make o’ that? Semler in some hurry, I’d say.” - -Jean Bubier laughed a little. “One dam’ hurry,” he agreed. - -“Like something was after him--or he was after someone.” - -Judd the mean cackled to himself. “By Gad,” he cried, “I’ll bet -Evered’s got on to him. I’ll bet Evered’s after that man. No wonder he -run.” - -The other men looked at Judd, and they shifted uncomfortably. Will -Bissell had gone round to stable the horse; Lee Motley had not yet come -to the store, nor had Jim Saladine. Lacking these three there was no one -to silence Judd, and the man might have gone on to uglier speech. - -But he was silenced, and silenced by so inconsiderable a person as Zeke -Pitkin. Zeke drove up just then, drove hurriedly; and they saw before he -stopped his horse that he was shaking with excitement. - -He cried out, “Hain’t you heard?” - -Judd answered, “Heard what? What ails you, Zeke?” - -Pitkin scarce heard him, he was so intent on crying out his dreadful -news. It came in a stumbling burst of half a dozen words. - -“Evered’s red bull’s killed Mis’ Evered,” he stammered. - - - - -V - - -Evered’s red bull was a notorious and dangerous figure in the -countryside. It was like some primordial monster of the forests, and -full as fierce of temper. Evered had bought it two years before, and two -men on horseback, with ropes about the creature’s neck, brought it from -town to his farm. Evered himself, there to receive it, scowled at their -precautions. There was a ring in the monstrous beast’s nose; and to this -ring Evered snapped a six-foot stick of ash, seasoned and strong. -Holding the end of this stick he was able to control the bull; and he -set himself to teach it fear. That he succeeded was well enough -attested. The bull did fear him, and with reason. Nevertheless, Evered -took no chances with the brute, and never entered its stall without -first snapping his ash stick fast to the nose ring. Those who watched at -such times said that the bull’s red eyes burned red and redder so long -as Evered was near; and those who saw were apt to warn the man to take -care. But Evered paid no heed to their warnings; or seemed to pay no -heed. - -The bull had never harmed a human being, because it had never found the -opportunity. Men and women and children shunned it, kept well away from -its stout-fenced pasture, its high-boarded pen and its stall. The -creature was forever roaring and bellowing; and when the air was still -its clamor carried far across the countryside and frightened children -and women, and made even men pause to listen and to wonder whether -Evered’s bull was loose at last. Some boys used to come and take a -fearsome joy from watching the brute; and at first they liked to tease -the bull, pelting it with sticks and stones. Till one day they -came--Jimmy Hills, and Will Motley, and Joe Suter, and two or three -besides--with a setter pup of Lee Motley’s at their heels. The pup -watched their game, and wished to take a hand, so slipped through the -fence to nip at the great bull’s heels; and the beast wheeled and pinned -the dog against the fence with its head like a ram, and then trod the -pup into a red pudding in the soft earth, while Will Motley shrieked -with rage and sorrow and fear. - -Evered heard them that day, and came down with a whip and drove them -away; and thereafter a boy who teased the bull had trouble on his hands -at home. And the tale of what the brute had done to that setter pup was -told and retold in every farmhouse in the town. - -Evered, even while he mastered the bull and held it slave, took pains to -maintain his dominance. The stall which housed it was stout enough to -hold an elephant; the board-walled pen outside the stall was doubly -braced with cedar posts set five feet underground; and even the -half-mile pasture in which, now and then, he allowed the brute to range, -had a double fence of barbed-wire inside and stone wall without. - -This pasture ran along the road and bent at right angles to work down to -the edge of the swamp. It was, as has been said, about a half mile long; -but it was narrow, never more than a few rods wide. It formed the -southern boundary of Evered’s farm; and no warning signs were needed to -keep trespassers from crossing this area. When the bull was loose here -it sometimes ranged along the fence that paralleled the road, tossing -its great head and snorting and muttering at people who passed by, so -that they were apt to hurry their pace and leave the brute behind. - -It was timid Zeke Pitkin, on his way to North Fraternity, who saw the -bull break its fence on the afternoon that Mary Evered was killed. Zeke -did not usually take the road past Evered’s place, because he did not -like to pass under the eye of the bull. But on this day he was in some -haste; and he thought it likely the bull would be stalled and out of -sight, and on that chance took the short hill road to his destination. - -When he approached Evered’s farm he began to hear the bull muttering and -roaring in some growing exasperation. But it was then too late to turn -back without going far out of his way, so he pressed on until he came in -sight of the pasture and saw the beast, head high, tramping up and down -along the fence on the side away from the road. Zeke was glad the bull -was on that side, and hurried his horse, in a furtive way, hoping the -bull would not mark his passing. - -When he came up to where the brute was he saw that the bull was watching -something in Evered’s woodlot, beyond the pasture; and Zeke tried to see -what it was. At first he could not see; but after a moment a dog yapped -there, and Zeke caught a glimpse of it; a half-bred terrier from some -adjacent farm, roving the woods. - -The dog yapped; and the bull roared; and the dog, its native impudence -impelling it, came running toward the pasture, and began to dance up and -down, just beyond the bull’s reach, barking in a particularly shrill and -tantalizing way. - -Zeke yelled to the dog to be off; but the dog took his yell for -encouragement, and barked the harder; and then Zeke saw a thing which -made him turn cold. - -He saw the bull swing suddenly, with all its weight, against the high -wire fence; and he saw one of the posts sag and give way, and another -smashed off short. So, quicker than it takes to tell it, the bull was -floundering across the barbed wires, roaring with the pain of them, and -Zeke saw it top the wall, tail high and head down, and charge the little -dog. - -Zeke might have tried to drive the bull back into its pasture; but that -was a task for a bold man, and Zeke was not bold. He whipped his horse -and drove on to warn Evered; and when he looked back from the top of the -hill the bull and the dog had disappeared into the scrub growth of -alder and hardwood along a little run that led down to the swamp. He -whipped his horse again, and turned into the road that led to Evered’s -farmhouse. - -When he got to the farmhouse there was no one at home; and after he had -convinced himself of this Zeke drove away again, planning to stop at the -first neighboring farm and leave word for Evered. But after a quarter of -a mile or so he met the butcher, and stopped him and told him that the -bull was loose in his woodlot. - -Evered asked a question or two; but Zeke’s voluble answers made him -impatient, and he left the other and hurried on. At home he stabled his -horse, got his ash stave with the snap on the end, and as an -afterthought went into the house for his revolver. He had no illusions -about the bull; he knew the beast was dangerous. - -While he was in the house he marked that his wife was not there, and -wondered where she was, and called to her, but got no answer. He knew -that John and Ruth MacLure, his wife’s sister, were in the orchard on -the other side of the farm from the pasture and woodlot; and he decided -that his wife must have gone to join them there. So with the revolver in -his pocket and the stave in his hand, Evered went down past the barn and -through the bars into the woodlot. Somewhere in the thickets below him -he expected to find the bull. He could hear nothing, so he understood -that the little dog which had caused the trouble had either fled or been -killed by the beast. He hoped for the latter; for he was an impatient -man, and angered at the whole incident. Also, the sultry heat of the day -had irked him; irked him so that he had cursed to himself because his -wife was not at home when he wished to speak to her. - -In this impatient mood he began to work down through the woodlot. He -went carefully, knowing the treacherous temper of the brute he was -hunting. He passed through a growth of birches along a little run, and -across a rocky knoll, and through more birches, and so came out upon the -lower shelf of his farm, a quarter of a mile from the house, and halfway -down to the borders of the swamp. - -He remembered, when he had come thus far, that there was a spring in the -hillside a little below him, with two or three old trees above it, and -some clean grass beside it. His wife occasionally came here in the -afternoon, when her work was done, to sit and read or rest or give -herself to her thoughts. Evered knew of this habit of hers; but till -this moment he had forgotten it. The spot was cool; it caught what air -was stirring. He had a sudden conviction that she might be there now; -and the idea angered him. He was angry with her because by coming down -here she had put herself in a dangerous position. He was angry with her -because he was worried about her safety. This was a familiar reaction of -the man’s irascible temperament. Two years before, when Mary Evered took -to her bed for some three weeks’ time with what was near being -pneumonia, Evered had been irritable and morose and sullen until she was -on her feet again. Unwilling to confess his concern for her, he -expressed that concern by harsh words and scowls and bitter taunts, till -his wife wept in silent misery. His wife whom he loved wept in misery -because of him. - -Thus it was now with him. He was afraid she had come to the spring; he -was afraid the bull would come upon her there; and because he was -afraid for her he was angry with her for coming. - -He went forward across the level rocky ground, eyes and ears alert; and -so came presently atop a little rise from which he could look down to -the spring. And at what he saw the man stopped stock-still, and all the -fires of hell flared up in his heart till he felt his whole body burn -like a flaming ember. - -His wife was there; she was sitting on a low smooth rock a little at one -side of the spring. But that was not all; she was not alone. A man sat -below her, a little at one side, looking up at her and talking -earnestly; and Mary Evered’s head was drooping in thought as she -listened. - -Evered knew the man. The man was Dane Semler. Dane Semler and his wife, -together here, talking so quietly. - -They did not see him. Their backs were toward him, and they were -oblivious and absorbed. Evered stood still for a moment; then he was so -shaken by the fury of his own anger that he could not stand, and he -dropped on one knee and knelt there, watching them. And the blood boiled -in him, and the pulse pounded in his throat, and the breath choked in -his lungs. His veins swelled, his face became purple. One watching him -would have been appalled. - -Evered was in that moment a terrible and dreadful spectacle, a man -completely given over to the ugliest of angers, to the black and -tempestuous fury of jealousy. - -He did not stop to wonder, to guess the meaning of the scene before him. -He did not wish to know its explanation. If he had thought soberly he -must have known there was no wrong in Mary Evered. But he did not think -soberly; he did not think at all. He gave himself to fury. Accustomed to -yield to anger as a man yields to alcohol, accustomed to debauches of -rage, Evered in this moment loosed all bounds on himself. He hated his -wife as it is possible to hate only those whom we love; he hated Dane -Semler consumingly, appallingly. He was drunk with it, shaking with it; -his lips were so hot it was as though they smoked with rage. - -The man and the woman below him did not move. He could catch, through -the pounding in his own ears, the murmur of their voices. Semler spoke -quickly, rapidly, lifting a hand now and then in an appealing gesture; -the woman, when she spoke at all, raised her head a little to look at -the man, and her voice was very low. Evered did not hear their words; he -did not wish to. The very confidence and ease and intimacy of their -bearing damned them unutterably in his eyes. - -He was like a figure of stone, there on the knoll just above them. It -seemed impossible that they could remain unconscious of his presence -there. The unleashed demons in the man seemed to cry out, they were -almost audible. - -But the two were absorbed; they saw nothing and heard nothing; nothing -save each other. And Evered above them, a concentrated fury, was as -absorbed and oblivious as they. His whole being was so focused in -attention on these two that he did not see the great red bull until it -came ponderously round a shoulder of the hill, not thirty paces from -where the man and woman sat together. He did not see it then until they -turned their heads that way, until they came swiftly to their feet, the -man with a cry, the woman in a proud and courageous silence. - -The bull stood still, watching them. And in the black soul of Evered an -awful triumph leaped and screamed. His ash stave was beside him, his -revolver was beneath his hand. There was time and to spare. - -He flung one fist high and brought it smashing down. It struck a rock -before him and crushed skin and knuckles till the blood burst forth. But -Evered did not even know. There was a dreadful exultation in him. - -He saw the bull’s head drop, saw the vast red bulk lunge forward, quick -as light; saw Semler dodge like a rabbit, and run, shrieking, screaming -like a woman; saw Mary Evered stand proudly still as still. - -In the last moment Evered flung himself on the ground; he hid his face -in his arms. And the world rocked and reeled round him so that his very -soul was shaken. - -Face in his arms there, the man began presently to weep like a little -child. - - - - -VI - - -After an interval, which seemed like a very long time, but was really -only a matter of seconds, Evered got to his feet, and with eyes half -averted started down the knoll toward the spring. - -Yet even with averted eyes he was able to see what lay before him; and a -certain awed wonder fell upon the man, so that he was shaken, and -stopped for a moment still. And there were tremorous movements about his -mouth when he went on. - -His wife’s body lay where it had been flung by the first blunt blow of -the red bull’s awful head. But--this was the wonder of it--the red bull -had not trampled her. The beast stood above the woman’s body now, still -and steady; and Evered was able to see that there was no more murder in -him. He had charged the woman blindly; but it was now as though, having -struck her, he knew who she was and was sorrowing. It was easy to -imagine an almost human dejection in the posture of the huge beast. - -And it was this which startled and awed Evered; for the bull had always -been, to his eyes, an evil and a murderous force. - -A few feet from where the woman’s body lay Evered stopped and looked at -the bull; and the bull stood quite still, watching Evered without -hostility. Evered found it hard to understand. - -He turned to one side and knelt beside his wife’s body; but this was -only for an instant. He saw at once that she was dead, beyond chance or -question. There was no blood upon her, no agony of torn flesh; her -garments were a little rumpled, and that was all. The mighty blow of the -bull had been swift enough, and merciful. She lay a little on her side, -and her lips were twisted in a little smile, not unhappily. - -Evered at this time was not conscious of feeling anything at all. His -mind was clear enough; his perceptions were never more acute. But his -emotions seemed to be in abeyance. He looked upon his wife’s body and -felt for her neither the awful hate of the last minutes nor the -torturing love of the years that were gone. He looked simply to see if -she were dead; and she was dead. So he took off his coat and made of it -a pillow for her, and laid her head upon it, and composed her where she -lay. And the great red bull stood by, with that unbelievable hint of -sorrow and regret in its bearing; stood still as stone, and watched so -quietly. - -Evered did not think of Semler; he had scarce thought of the man at all, -from the beginning. When he was done with his wife he went to where the -bull stood, and snapped his ash stave fast to the creature’s nose. The -bull made no move, neither backed away nor snorted nor jerked aside its -vast head. And Evered, his face like a stone, led the beast to one side -and up the slope and through the woodlot toward the farm. - -As he approached the barn he turned to one side and came to the boarded -pen outside the bull’s stall. He led the beast inside this pen, loosed -the stave from the nose ring, and stepped back outside the gate. -Watching for a moment he saw the red bull walk slowly across the pen and -go into its stall; and once inside it turned round and stood with its -head in the doorway of the stall, watching him. - -He made fast the gate, then passed through the barn and approached the -kitchen door. Ruth, his wife’s sister, came to the door to meet him. His -face was steady as a rock; there was no emotion in the man. Yet there -was something about him which appalled the girl. - -She asked huskily, “Did you get the bull in? I heard him, didn’t I?” - -“Yes,” said Evered. “He’s in.” - -“I heard him bellowing,” she explained. “And then I saw a man run up -across the side field to the road.” - -“That was Semler,” Evered explained coldly. “Dane Semler. He was afraid -of the bull.” - -“I was worried,” the girl persisted timidly, not daring to say what was -in her mind. “I was worried--worried about Mary.” - -“The bull killed her,” said Evered; and passed her and went into the -kitchen. - -Ruth backed against the wall to let him go by; and she pressed her two -hands to her lips in a desperate frightened way; and her eyes were wide -and staring with horror. She stared at the man, and her hands held back -the clamor of her grief. She stared at him as at a monstrous thing, -while Evered washed his hands at the sink and dried them on the roller -towel, and combed his hair before the clean mirror hanging on the wall. -There was a dreadful deliberation about his movements. - -After a moment the girl began to move; she went by little sidewise steps -as far as the door, and then she leaped out into the barnyard, and the -screams poured from her in a frenzy of grief that was half madness. -Evered turned at the first sound and watched her run, still screaming, -across the barnyard to the fence; and he saw her fumble fruitlessly with -the topmost bars, and at last scramble awkwardly over the fence itself -in her stricken haste. She was still crying out terribly as she -disappeared from his sight in the direction of the woodlot and the -spring. - -Evered watching her said to himself bitterly: “She knew where Mary was; -knew where to look for her.” - -He flung out one hand in a weak gesture of despair that came strangely -from so harshly strong a man; and he began to move aimlessly about the -kitchen, not knowing what he did. He took a drink at the pump; he -changed his shoes for barnyard boots; he cut tobacco from a plug and -filled his pipe and forgot to light it; he stood in the door, the cold -pipe in his teeth, and stared out across his farm; and his teeth set on -the pipestem till it cracked and roused him from his own thoughts. - -Then he heard someone running, and his son, John Evered, came from the -direction of the orchard, and flung a quick glance at his father, and -another into the kitchen at his father’s back. - -Evered looked at him, and the young man, panting from his run, said, “I -heard Ruth cry out. What’s happened, father?” - -Evered’s tight lips did not stir for a moment; then he took the pipe in -his hand, and he said stiffly, “The red bull killed Mary.” - -They were accustomed to speak of Evered’s second wife as Mary when they -spoke together. John, though he loved her, had never called her mother. -He loved her well; but the blood tie was strong in him, and he loved his -father more. At his father’s word now he stepped nearer the older man, -watching, sensing something of the agony behind Evered’s simple -statement; and their eyes met and held for a little. - -Then Evered said, “She was with Dane Semler at the spring.” - -The gentler lines of his son’s face slowly hardened into a likeness of -his own. The young man asked, “Where’s Semler?” - -“Ran away,” said Evered. - -“I had wanted a word with him.” - -Evered laughed shortly; and it was almost the first time that John had -ever seen him laugh, so that the sight was shocking and terrible. Then -the older man turned back into the house. - -John followed him and asked quickly, “It was at the spring?” - -“Yes. The bull broke down his fence to get at a dog.” - -“We must bring her home,” the son suggested quietly. “Where is Ruth?” - -“Down there,” Evered told him. - -John turned to the door again. “We’ll bring her home,” he said; and -Evered saw the young man go swiftly across the farmyard and vault the -fence and start at an easy run in the direction Ruth had gone. - -Evered stayed in the house alone for a moment; and when he could bear to -be alone no longer he went out into the farmyard. As he did so Zeke -Pitkin drove in, on his way back from that errand in North Fraternity. - -The bleak face of Evered appalled the timid man and frightened him; and -he stammered apologetically: “W-wondered if you got the b-bull in.” - -“Yes,” said Evered. “After he had killed Mary.” - -Zeke stared at Evered with a face that was a mask of terror for a -moment, and Evered stood still, watching him. Then Pitkin gathered his -reins clumsily, and clumsily turned his horse, so sharply that his wagon -was well-nigh overthrown by the cramped wheel. When it was headed for -the road he lashed out with the whip, and the horse leaped forward. -Evered could hear it galloping out to the main road, and then to the -left, toward Fraternity. - -“Town’ll know in half an hour,” he said half to himself. - -The man was still in a stupor, his emotions numb. But he did not want to -be alone. After a moment he went out into the stable and harnessed the -horse to his light wagon and started down a wood road toward the spring. -The wagon would serve to bring his wife’s body home. - -The vehicles on a Fraternity farm are there for utility, almost without -exception. Evered had a mowing machine, a rake, a harrow, a sledge, a -single-seated buggy and this light wagon. He was accustomed to take the -wagon when he went butchering; and it had served to haul the carcasses -of any number of sheep or calves or pigs or steers from farm to market. -He had no thought that he was piling horror on horror in taking this -wagon to bring home his wife’s body. - -He laid a double armful of hay in the bed of the wagon before he -started; and he himself walked by the horse’s head, easing it over the -rough places. The wood road which he followed would take him within two -or three rods of the spring. - -John Evered, going before his father, had found Ruth MacLure -passionately sobbing above the body of her sister. And at first he could -not bring himself to draw near to her; he was held by some feeling that -to approach her would be sacrilege. There had been such a love between -the sisters as is not often seen; there was a spiritual intimacy between -them, a sympathy of mind and heart akin to that sometimes marked between -twins. John knew this; he knew all that Ruth’s grief must be. And so he -stood still, a little ways off from her, and waited till the tempest of -her grief should pass. - -When she was quieter he spoke to her; and at the sound of his voice the -girl whirled to face him, still kneeling; and there were no more tears -in her. He was frightened at the stare of challenge in her eyes. He said -quickly, “It’s me.” - -She shook her head as though something blurred her sight. “I thought it -was your father,” she told him, and there was a bitter condemnation in -her tone. - -John said, “You mustn’t blame him.” - -“He’s not even sorry,” she explained softly, thoughtfully. - -“He is,” John insisted. “You never understood him. He loved her so.” - -She flung her head to one side impatiently and got to her feet, brushing -at her eyes with her sleeve, fumbling with her hair, composing her -countenance. “It’s growing dark,” she said. “We must take her home.” - -He nodded. “I’ll carry her,” he said; and he crossed and bent above the -dead woman, and looked at her for a moment silently. The girl, watching -him, saw in the still strength of his features a likeness to his father -that was suddenly terrible and appalling. - -She shuddered; and when he would have lifted her sister’s body she cried -out in passionate hysterical protest, “Don’t touch her! Don’t touch her! -You shan’t touch her, John Evered!” - -John looked at her slowly; and with that rare understanding which was -the birthright of the man he said, “You’re blaming father.” - -“Yes, yes,” she cried, “I am.” - -“It was never his fault,” he said. - -“He kept that red, killing brute about,” she protested. “Oh, he killed -her, he killed Mary, he killed my sister, John.” - -“That is not fair,” he told her. - -Before she could answer they both hushed to the sound of the approaching -wagon; and Evered came toward them, leading the horse, and he turned it -and backed the wagon in below the spring. - -They did not speak to him, nor he to them. But when he was ready he went -toward the dead woman to lift her into the wagon bed; and Ruth pushed -between them and cried: “You shan’t touch her! You shan’t touch her, -ever!” - -Evered looked at her steadily; and after a moment he said, “Stand to one -side.” - -The girl wished to oppose him; but it was a tribute to his strength that -even in this moment the sheer will of the man overpowered her. She moved -aside; and Evered lifted his wife’s body with infinite gentleness and -disposed it upon the fragrant hay in the wagon bed. He put the folded -coat again beneath his wife’s head as a pillow, as though she were only -sleeping. - -Still with no word to them he took the horse’s rein and started to lead -it toward the road and up the hill. And Ruth and John, after a moment, -followed a little behind. - -When they came up into the open, out of the scattering trees, a homing -crow flying overhead toward its roost saw them. It may have been that -the wagon roused some memory in the bird, offered it some promise. At -any rate, the black thing circled on silent wing, and lighted in the -road along which they had come, and hopped and flopped behind them as -they went slowly up the hill toward the farm. - -Ruth saw the bird and shuddered; and John went back and drove it into -flight; but it took earth again, farther behind them. - -It followed them insistently up the hill; and it was still there, a -dozen rods away, as they brought Mary Evered home. - - - - -VII - - -When they came into the farmyard night was falling. In the west the sky -still showed bright and warm; and against this brilliant sky the hills -were purple and deeper purple in the distance. In the valleys mists were -rising and black pools of night were forming beneath these mists; and -while Evered bore his wife’s body into the house and laid it on the bed -in the spare room, these pools rose and rose until they topped the hills -and overflowed the world with darkness. The air was still hot and heavy, -as it had been all day; and the sultry sky which had intensified the -heat of the sun served now to hide the stars. When it grew dark it was -as dark as pitch. The blackness seemed tangible, as though a man might -catch it in his hand. - -Ruth stayed beside her sister; but John built a fire in the stove while -Evered sat by in stony calm, and he made coffee and fried salt pork and -boiled potatoes. There were cold biscuits which Mary Evered had made -that morning, and doughnuts from the crock in the cellar. When the -supper was ready he called Ruth; and she came. The most tragic thing -about death is that it accomplishes so little. The dropping of man or -woman into the pool of the infinite is no more than the dropping of a -pebble into a brook. The surface of the pool is as calm, a little after, -as it was before. Thus, now, save that Mary was not at the table, their -supping together was as it had always been. - -And after they had eaten they must go with the familiarity of long habit -about their evening chores. Ruth washed the dishes; John and his father -fed the beasts and milked the cows; and when they came in John turned -the separator while Ruth attended to the milk and put away, afterward, -the skim milk and the cream. - -By that time two or three neighbors had come in, having heard of that -which had come to pass. There was genuine sorrow in them, for Mary -Evered had been a woman to be loved; but there was also the ugly -curiosity native to the human mind; and there was speculation in each -eye as they watched Evered and John and Ruth. They would discuss, for -days to come, the bearing of each one of the three on that black night. - -For Evered, the man was starkly silent, saying no word. He sat by the -table, eyes before him, puffing his pipe. Ruth stayed by her sister as -though some instinct of protection kept her there. John talked with -those who came, told them a little. He did not mention Semler’s part in -the tragedy. He said simply that the bull had broken loose; that Mary -Evered was by the spring, where she liked to go; that the bull came upon -her there. - -They asked morbidly whether she was trampled and torn; and they seemed -disappointed when he told them that she was not, that even the terrible -red bull had seemed appalled at the thing which he had done. And through -the evening others came and went, so that he had to say the same things -over and over; and always Evered sat silently by the table, giving no -heed when any man spoke to him; and Ruth, in the other room, kept guard -above the body. The women went in there, some of them; but no men went -in. - -John had telephoned to Isaac Gorfinkle, whose business it was to prepare -poor human clay for its return to earth again; and Gorfinkle came about -midnight and put all save Ruth out of the room where the dead woman lay. -Gorfinkle was a little, fussy man; a man who knew his doleful trade. -Before day he and Ruth had done what needed doing; and Mary Evered lay -in the varnished coffin he had brought. Her white hair and the sweet -nobility of her countenance, serenely lying there, made those who looked -forget the ugly splendor of Gorfinkle’s wares. - -It was decided that she should be buried on the second day. On the day -after her death many people came to the farm; and some came from -curiosity, and some from sympathy, and some with an uncertain purpose in -their minds. - -These were the selectmen of the town--Lee Motley, chairman; and Enoch -Thomas, of North Fraternity; and Old Man Varney. Motley, a sober man and -a man of wisdom, was of Evered’s own generation; Enoch Thomas and Varney -were years older. Old Varney had a son past thirty, whom to this day he -thrashed with an ax stave when the spirit moved him, his big son -good-naturedly accepting the outrage. - -Thomas and Varney came to demand that Evered kill his red bull; and -Motley put the case for them. - -“We’ve talked it over,” he said. “Seem’s like the bull’s dangerous; like -he ought to be killed. That’s what we’ve--what we’ve voted.” - -Evered turned his heavy eyes from man to man; and Old Varney brandished -his cane and called the bull a murdering beast, and bade Evered take his -rifle and do the thing before their eyes. Evered’s countenance changed -no whit; he looked from Varney to Thomas, who was silent, and from -Thomas to Lee Motley. - -“I’ll not kill the bull,” he said. - -Before Motley could speak, Varney burst into abuse and insistent demand; -and Evered let him talk. When the old man simmered to silence they -waited for Evered to answer, but Evered held his tongue till Lee Motley -asked, “Come, Evered, what do you say?” - -“What I have said,” Evered told them. - -“The town’ll see,” Old Varney shrilled, and shook his fist in Evered’s -face. “The town’ll see whether a murdering brute like that is to range -abroad. If you’ve not shame enough--your own wife, man--your own----” he -wagged his head. “The town’ll see.” - -Said Evered: “I’ll not take rifle to the bull; but if any man comes here -to kill the beast, I’ll have use for that rifle of mine.” - -Which fanned Varney to a fresh outbreak, till Evered flung abruptly -toward him, and abruptly said, “Be still.” - -So were they still; and Evered looked them in the eye, man by man, till -he came to Motley; and then he said, “Motley, I thought there was more -wisdom in you.” - -“Aye,” cried Varney. “He’s as big a fool as you.” - -And Motley said, “I voted against this, Evered. The bull’s yours, if -you’re a mind to kill him. I’m not for making you. It’s your own affair, -you mind. And--the ways of a bull are the ways of a bull. The brute’s -not overmuch to be blamed.” - -Evered nodded and turned his back on them; and after a time they went -away. But when Evered went into the house he met Ruth, and the girl -stopped him and asked him huskily, “You’re not going to kill that red -beast?” - -Evered hesitated; then he said, with something like apology in his -tones, “No, Ruth.” - -She began to tremble, and he saw that words were hot on her lips; and he -lifted one hand in a placating gesture. She turned into the other room, -and the door shut harshly at her back. Evered’s eyes rested on the door -for a space, a curious questioning in them, a wistful light that was -strange to see. - -All that day Ruth was still, saying little. No word passed between her -and Evered, and few words between her and John. But that night, when -they were alone, John spoke to her in awkward comfort and endearment. - -“Please, Ruthie,” he begged. “You’re breaking yourself. You’ll be sick. -You must not be so hard.” - -He put an arm about her, as though he would have kissed her; but the -girl’s hands came up against his chest, and the girl’s eyes met his in a -fury of horror and loathing, and she flung him away. - -“Don’t! Don’t!” she cried in a voice that was like a scream. “Don’t -ever! You--his son!” - -John, inexpressibly hurt, yet understanding, left her alone; he told -himself she was not to be blamed, with the agony of grief still -scourging her. - -One of the neighbor women came in that night to sit with Ruth; and Ruth -slept a little through the night. John was early abed; he had had no -sleep the night before, and he was tired. He sank fathoms deep in -slumber; a slumber broken by fitful, unhappy dreams. His own grief for -the woman who had been mother to him had been stifled, given no chance -for expression, because he had fought to comfort Ruth and to ease his -father. The reaction swept over him while he slept; he rested little. - -Evered, about nine o’clock, went to the room he and his wife had shared -for so many years. He had not, before this, been in the room since she -was killed. Some reluctance had held him; he had shunned the spot. But -now he was glad to be alone, and when he had shut the door he stood for -a moment, looking all about, studying each familiar object, his nerves -reacting to faint flicks of pain at the memories that were evoked. - -He began to think of what the selectmen had said, of their urgency that -he should kill the bull. And he sat down on the edge of the bed and -remained there, not moving, for a long time. Once his eye fell on his -belt hanging against the wall, with the heavy knife that he used in his -butchering in its sheath. He reached out and took down the belt and -drew the knife forth and held it in his hands, the same knife that had -killed drunken Dave Riggs long ago. A powerful weapon, it would strike a -blow like an ax; the handle of bone, the blade heavy and keen and -strong. He balanced it between his fingers, and thought of how he had -struck it into the neck of Zeke Pitkin’s bull, and how the bull had -dropped in midlife and never stirred more. The knife fascinated him; he -could not for a long time take his eyes away from it. At the last he -reached out and thrust it into its sheath with something like a shudder, -strange to see in so strong a man. - -Then he undressed and got into bed, the bed he had shared with Mary -Evered. He had blown out the lamp; the room was dark. There was a little -current of air from the open window. And after a little Evered began to -be as lonely as a boy for the first time away from home. - -There is in every man, no matter how stern his exterior, a softer side. -Sometimes he hides it from all the world; more often his wife gets now -and then a glimpse of it. There was a side of Evered which only Mary -Evered had known. And she had loved it. When they had come to bed -together it always seemed to her that Evered was somehow gentler, -kinder. He put away his harshness, as though it were a part he had felt -called upon to play before men. The child in him, strong in most men, -came to the surface. He was never a man overgiven to caresses, but when -they were alone at night together, and he was weary, he would sometimes -draw her arm beneath his head as a pillow or take her hand and lift it -to rest upon his forehead, while she twined her fingers gently through -his hair. - -They used to talk together, sometimes far into the night; and though he -might have used her bitterly through the day, with caustic tongue and -hard, condemning eye, he was never unkind in these moments before they -slept. A man the world outside had never seen. It was these nights -together which had made life bearable for Mary Evered; and they had been -dear to Evered too. How dreadful and appalling, then, was this, his -first night alone. - -Her shoulder was not there to cradle his sick and weary head; her gentle -hand was not there to cool his brow. When he flung an arm across her -pillow, where she used to lie, it embraced a gulf of emptiness that -seemed immeasurably deep and terrible. After a little, faint -perspiration came out upon the man’s forehead. He turned on his right -side, in the posture that invited sleep; but at first sleep would not -come. His limbs jerked and twitched; his eyelids would not close. He -stared sightlessly into the dark. Outside in the night there were faint -stirrings and scratchings and movings to and fro; and each one brought -him more wide awake than the last. He got up and closed the window to -shut them out, and it seemed to him the closed room was filled with her -presence. When he lay down again he half fancied he felt her hand upon -his hair, and he reached his own hand up to clasp and hold hers, as he -had sometimes used to do; but his groping fingers found nothing, and -came sickly away again. - -How long he lay awake he could not know. When at last he dropped asleep -the very act of surrender to sleep seemed to fetch him wide awake again. -Waking thus he thought that he held his wife in his arms; he had often -wakened in the past to find her there. But as his senses cleared he -found that the thing which he held so tenderly against his side was only -the pillow on which her head was used to lie. - -The man’s nerves jangled and clashed; and he threw the pillow -desperately away from him as though he were afraid of it. He sat up in -bed; and his pulses pounded and beat till they hurt him like the blows -of a hammer. There was no sleep in Evered. - -He was still sitting thus, bolt upright, sick and torn and weary, when -the gray dawn crept in at last through the window panes. - - - - -VIII - - -The day of Mary Evered’s burial was such a day as comes most often -immediately after a storm, when the green of the trees is washed to such -a tropical brightness that the very leaves radiate color and the air is -filled with glancing rays of light. There were white clouds in the blue -sky; clouds not dense and thick, but lightly frayed and torn by the -winds of the upper reaches, and scudding this way and that according to -the current which had grip of them. Now and then these gliding clouds -obscured the sun; and the sudden gloom made men look skyward, half -expecting a burst of rain. But for the most part the sun shone steadily -enough; and there was an indescribable brilliance in the light with -which it bathed the earth. Along the borders of the trees, round the -gray hulks of the bowlders, and fringing the white blurs of the houses -there seemed to shimmer a halo of colors so faint and fine they could be -sensed but not seen by the eye. The trees and the fields were an -unearthly gaudy green; the shadows deep amid the branches were -trembling, changing pools of color. A day fit to bewitch the eye, with a -soft cool wind stirring everywhere. - -Evered himself was early about, attending to the morning chores. Ruth -MacLure had fallen asleep toward morning, and the woman with her let the -girl rest. John woke when he heard his father stirring; and it was he -who made breakfast ready, when he had done his work about the barn. He -and his father ate together, and Ruth did not join them. - -Evered, John saw, was more silent than his usual silent custom; and the -young man was not surprised, expecting this. John himself, concerned for -Ruth, and wishing he might ease the agony of her grief, had few words to -say. When they were done eating he cleared away the dishes and washed -them and put them away; and then he swept the floor, not because it -needed sweeping, but because he could not bear to sit idle, doing -nothing at all. He could hear the women stirring in the other room; and -once he heard Ruth’s voice. - -John’s grief was more for the living than for the dead; he had loved -Mary Evered truly enough, but there was a full measure of philosophy in -the young man. She was dead; and according to the simple trust which was -a part of him she was happy. But Ruth was unhappy, and his father was -unhappy. He wished he might comfort them. - -Evered at this time was soberly miserable; his mind was still numb, his -emotions were just beginning to assert themselves. He could not think -clearly, could scarce think at all. What passed for thought with him was -merely a jumble of exclamations, passionate outcries, curses and -laments. Mary was dead; and he knew that dimly, without full -comprehension of the knowledge. More clearly he remembered Mary and Dane -Semler, sitting so intimately side by side; and the memory was -compounded of anguish and of satisfaction--anguish because she was -false, satisfaction because her frailty in some small measure justified -the monstrous thing he had permitted, and in permitting had done. Evered -did not seek to deceive himself; he knew that he had killed Mary Evered -as truly as he had killed Dave Riggs many a year ago. He did not put the -knowledge into words; nevertheless, it was there, in the recesses of his -mind, concrete and ever insistent. And when sorrow and remorse began to -prick at him with little pins of fire he told himself, over and over, -that she had been frail, and so got eased of the worst edge of pain. - -A little after breakfast people began to come to the house. Isaac -Gorfinkle was first of them all, and he busied himself with his last -ugly preparations. Later the minister came--a boy, or little more; fresh -from theological school. His name was Mattice, and he was as prim and -meticulous as the traditional maiden lady who is so seldom found in -life. He tried to speak unctuous comfort to Evered, but the man’s scowl -withered him; he turned to John, and John had to listen to him with what -patience could be mustered. And more men came, and stood in groups about -the farmyard, smoking, spitting, shaving tiny curls of wood from -splinters of pine; and their women went indoors and herded in the front -room together, and whispered and sobbed in a hissing chorus -indescribably horrible. There is no creation of mankind so hideous as a -funeral; there is nothing that should be more beautiful. The hushed -voices, the damp scent of flowers, the stifling closeness of -tight-windowed rooms, the shuffling of feet, the raw snuffles of those -who wept--these sounds filled the house and came out through the open -doors to the men, whispering in little groups outside. - -Ruth MacLure was not weeping; nor Evered; nor John. And the mourning, -sobbing women kissed Ruth and called her brave; and they whispered to -each other that Evered was hard, and that John was like his father. And -the lugubrious debauch of tears went on interminably, as though -Gorfinkle--whose duty it would be to give the word when the time should -come--thought these preliminaries were requisites to a successful -funeral. - -But at last it was impossible to wait longer without going home for -dinner, and Gorfinkle, who was accustomed to act as organist on such -occasions, took his seat, pumped the treadles and began to play. Then -everyone crowded into the front room or stood in the hall; and a woman -sang, and young Mattice spoke for a little while, dragging forth verse -after verse of sounding phrase which rang nobly even in his shrill and -uncertain tones. More singing, more tears. A blur of pictures -photographed themselves on Ruth’s eyes; words that she would never -forget struck her ears in broken phrases. She sat still, steady and -quiet. But her nerves were jangling; and it seemed to the girl she must -have screamed aloud if the thing had not ended when it did. - -Then the mile-long drive to the hilltop above Fraternity, with its iron -fence round about, and the white stones within; and there the brief and -solemn words, gentle with grief and glorious with triumphant hope, were -spoken above the open grave. And the first clod fell. And by and by the -last; and those who had come began to drift away to their homes, to -their dinners, to the round of their daily lives. - -Evered and John and Ruth drove home together in their light buggy, and -Ruth sat on John’s knee. But there was no yielding in her, there was no -softness about the girl. And no word was spoken by any one of them upon -the way. - -At home, alighting, she went forthwith into the house; and John put the -horse up, while his father fed the pigs and the red bull in his stall. -When they were done Ruth called them to dinner, appearing for an instant -at the kitchen door. John reached the kitchen before his father; and -the pain in him made him speak to the girl before Evered came. - -“Ruthie,” he said softly. “Please don’t be too unhappy.” - -She looked at him with steady eyes, a little sorrowful. “I’m not -unhappy, John,” she said. “Because Mary is not unhappy, now. Don’t think -about me.” - -“I can’t help thinking about you,” he told her; and she knew what was -behind his words, and shook her head. - -“You’ll have to help it,” she said. - -“Why, Ruthie,” he protested, “you know how I feel about you.” - -Her eyes shone somberly. “It’s no good, John,” she answered. “You’re too -much Evered. I can see clearer now.” - -They had not, till then, marked Evered himself in the doorway. Ruth saw -him and fell silent; and Evered asked her in a low steady voice, “You’re -blaming me?” - -“I’m cursing you,” said the girl. - -Evered held still for a little, as though it were hard for him to muster -words. Then he asked huskily, “What was my fault?” - -She flung up her hand. “Everything!” she cried. “I’ve lived here with -you. I’ve seen you--breaking Mary by inches, and nagging and teasing -and pestering her. Till she was sick with it. And she kept loving you, -so you could hurt her more. And you did. You loved to hurt her. Hard and -cruel and mean and small--you’d have beat her as you do your beasts, if -you’d dared. Coward too. Oh!” - -She flung away, began to move dishes aimlessly about upon the table. -Evered was gripped by a desire to placate her, to appease her; he -thought of Dane Semler, wished to cry out that accusation against his -wife. But he held his tongue. He had seen Semler with Mary; he had told -John; Ruth knew that Semler had been upon the farm. But neither of them -spoke of the man, then or thereafter. They told no one; and though -Fraternity might wonder and conjecture, might guess at the meaning of -Semler’s swift flight on the day of the tragedy, the town would never -know. - -Evered did not name Semler now; and it was not any sense of shame that -held his tongue. He believed wholly in that which his eyes had seen, and -all that it implied. Himself scarce knew why he did not speak; and he -would never have acknowledged that it was desire to shield his wife, -even from her own sister, which kept him silent. After a moment he sat -down and they began to eat. - -Toward the end of the meal he said to Ruth uneasily: “Feeling so, you’ll -not be like to stay here with John and me.” - -Ruth looked at him with a quick flash of eyes; she was silent, -thoughtfully. She had not considered this; had not considered what she -was to do. But instantly she knew. - -“Yes, I’m going to stay,” she told Evered. “This thing isn’t done. -There’s more to come. It must be so. For all you did there’s something -that will come to you. I want to be here, to see.” Her hands clenched on -the table edge. “I want to see you when it comes--see you squirm and -crawl.” - -There was such certainty in her tone that Evered, spite of himself, was -shaken. He answered nothing; and the girl said again, “Yes; I am going -to stay.” - -The red bull in his stall bellowed aloud; a long, rumbling, terrible -blare of challenge. It set the dishes dancing on the table before them; -and when they listened they could hear the monstrous beast snorting in -his stall. - - - - -IX - - -After the death of Mary Evered the days slipped away, and June passed to -July, and July to August. Gardens prospered; the hay ripened in the -fields; summer was busy with the land. But winter is never far away in -these northern hills; and once in July and twice in August the men of -the farms awoke in early morning to find frost faintly lying, so that -there were blackened leaves in the gardens, and the beans had once to be -replanted. Customary hazards of their arduous life. - -The trout left quick water and moved into the deep pools; and a careful -fisherman, not scorning the humble worm, might strip a pool if he were -murderously inclined. The summer was dry; and as the brooks fell low and -lower little fingerlings were left gasping and flopping upon the gravel -of the shallows here and there. Nick Westley, the game warden for the -district, and a Fraternity man, went about with dip net and pail, -bailing penned trout from tiny shallows and carrying them to the larger -pools where they might have a chance for life. Some of the more ardent -fishermen imitated him; and some took advantage of the trout’s extremity -to bring home catches they could never have made in normal times. - -John Evered loved fishing; and he knew the little brook along the hither -border of Whitcher Swamp, below the farm, as well as he knew his own -hand. But this year had been busy; he found no opportunity to try the -stream until the first week of July. One morning then, with steel rod -and tiny hooks, and a can of bait at his belt, he struck down through -the woodlot, past the spring where Mary had been killed, into the timber -below, and so came to the wall that was the border of his father’s farm, -and crossed into the swamp. - -Whitcher Swamp is on the whole no pleasant place for a stroll; yet it -has its charms for the wild things, and for this reason John loved it. -Where he struck the marshy ground it was relatively easy going; and he -took a way he knew and came to the brook and moved along it a little -ways to a certain broad and open pool. - -He thought the brook was lower than he had ever seen it at this season; -and once he knelt and felt the water, and found it warm. He smiled at -this with a certain gratification for the pool he sought was a spring -hole, water bubbling up through pin gravel in the brook’s very bed, and -the trout would be there to dwell in that cooler stream. When he came -near the place, screened behind alders so that he could not be seen, he -uttered an exclamation, and became as still as the trees about him while -he watched. - -There were trout in the pool, a very swarm of them, lying close on the -yellow gravel bottom. The water, clear as crystal, was no more than -three feet deep; and he could see them ever so plainly. Big fat fish, -monsters, if one considered the brook in which he found them. He judged -them all to be over nine inches, several above a foot, one perhaps -fourteen inches long; and his eyes were shining. They were so utterly -beautiful, every line of their graceful bodies, and every dappled spot -upon their backs and sides as clear as though he held them in his hands. - -He rigged line and hook, nicked a long worm upon the point, and without -so much as shaking an alder branch thrust his rod through and swung the -baited hook and dropped it lightly in the very center of the pool, full -fifteen feet from shore. Then he swung upward with a strong steady -movement, for he had seen a great trout strike as the worm touched the -water, had seen the chewing jaws of the fish mouthing its titbit. And as -he swung, the gleaming body came into the air, through an arc above his -head, into the brush behind him, where he dropped on his knees beside it -and gave it merciful death with the haft of his heavy knife, and dropped -it into his basket. - -Fly fishermen will laugh with a certain scorn; or they will call John -Evered a murderer. Nevertheless, it is none so easy to take trout even -in this crude fashion of his. A shadow on the water, a stirring of the -bushes, a too-heavy tread along the bank--and they are gone. Nor must -they be hurried. The capture of one fish alarms the rest; the capture of -two disturbs them; the taking of three too quickly will send them flying -every whither. - -John, after his first fish, filled and lighted his pipe, then caught a -second; and after another interval, a third--fat, heavy trout, all of -them; as much as three people would care to eat; and John was not minded -to kill more than he could use. He covered the three with wet moss in -his basket, and then he crept back through the alders and lay for a long -time watching the trout in the pool, absorbing the beauty of their -lines, watching how they held themselves motionless with faintest -quivers of fin, watching how they fed. - -A twelve-inch trout rose and struck at a leaf upon the pool’s surface, -and John told himself, “They’re hungry.” He laughed a little, and got an -inch-long twig and tied it to the end of his line in place of hook. This -he cast out upon the pool, moving it to and fro erratically. Presently a -trout swirled up and took it under, and spat it out before John could -twitch the fish to the surface. John laughed aloud, and cast again. He -stayed there for a long hour at this sport, and when the trout sulked he -teased them with bits of leaf or grass. Once he caught a cricket and -noosed it lightly and dropped it on the water. When the fish took it -down John waited for an instant, then tugged and swung the trout half a -dozen feet into the air before he could disgorge the bait. - -“Hungry as sin,” John told himself at last; and his eyes became sober as -he considered thoughtfully. There were other men about, as good -fishermen as he, and not half so scrupulous. If they should come upon -this pool on such a day---- - -He did a thing that might seem profanation to the fisherman who likes a -goodly bag. He gathered brush and threw it into the pool; he piled it -end to end and over and over; he found two small pines; dead in their -places among their older brethren; and he pushed them from their rotting -roots and dragged them to the brook and threw them in. When he was done -the pool was a jungle, a wilderness of stubs and branches; a sure haven -for trout, a spot almost impossible to fish successfully. While he -watched, when his task was finished, he saw brown darting shadows in the -stream as the trout shot back into the covert he had made; and he smiled -with a certain satisfaction. - -“They’ll have to fish for them now,” he told himself. - -He decided to try and see whether a man might take a trout from the -pool in its ambushed state. It meant an hour of waiting, a snagged hook -or two, a temper-trying ordeal with mosquitoes and flies. But in the end -he landed another fish, and was content. He went back through the swamp -and up to the farm, well pleased. - -Moving along the brook he saw other pools where smaller fish were lying; -and that night he told Ruth what he had seen. “You can see all the trout -you’re minded to, down there now,” he said. - -The girl nodded unsmilingly. She had not yet learned to laugh again, -since her sister’s death. They were a somber household, these -three--Evered steadily silent, the girl sober and stern, John striving -in his awkward fashion to win mirth from her and speech from Evered. - -The early summer was to pass thus. And what was in Evered’s mind as the -weeks dragged by no man could surely know. His eye was as hard as ever, -his voice as harsh; yet to Ruth it seemed that new lines were forming in -his cheeks, and his hair, that had been black as coal, she saw one -afternoon was streaked with gray. Watching, thereafter, she marked how -the white hairs increased in number. Once she spoke of it to John, -constrainedly, for there was no such pleasant confidence between these -two as there had been. - -John nodded. “Yes,” he said, “he’s aging. He loved her, Ruth; loved her -hard.” - -Ruth made no comment, but there was no yielding in her eyes. She was in -these days implacable; and Evered watched her now and then with -something almost pleading in his gaze. He began to pay her small -attentions, which came absurdly from the man. She tried to hate him for -them. - -Once John sought to comfort his father, spoke to him gently of the dead -woman; and Evered cried out, as though to assure himself as well as -silence John: “She was tricking me, John! Leaving me. With Semler, that -very day.” - -He would not let John reply, silenced him with a fierce oath and flung -away. It might have been guessed that his belief in his wife’s treachery -was like an anchor to which Evered’s racked soul clung; as though he -found comfort and solace in the ugly thought, a justifying consolation. - - - - -X - - -John went no more to the brooks that summer; but what he had told Ruth -led her that way more than once. Westley, the game warden, stopped at -the house one day, and found her alone, and asked her whether John was -fishing. She told him of John’s one catch. - -“Swamp Brook is full of trout,” she said; “penned in the holes and the -shallows.” - -Westley nodded. “It’s so everywhere,” he agreed. “I’m dipping and -shifting them. Tell John to do that down in the swamp if he can find the -time.” - -She asked how it should be done; and when Westley had gone she decided -that she would herself go down and try the trick of it if the drought -still held. - -The drought held. No rain came; and once in early August she spent an -afternoon along the stream, and transported scores of tiny trout to -feeding grounds more deep and more secure. Again a week later; and -still again as the month drew to a close. - -It was on this third occasion that the girl came upon Darrin. Working -along the brook with dip net and pail she had marked the footprints of a -man in the soft earth here and there. The swamp was still, no air -stirring, the humming of insects ringing in her ears. A certain gloom -dwelt in these woods even on the brightest day; and the black mold bore -countless traces and tracks of the animals and the small vermin which -haunted the place at night. Ruth might have been forgiven for feeling a -certain disquietude at sight of those man tracks in the wild; but she -had no such thought. She had never learned to be afraid. - -She came upon Darrin at last with an abruptness that startled her. The -soft earth muffled her footsteps; she was within two or three rods of -him before she saw him, and even then the man had not heard her. He was -kneeling by the brook and at first she thought he had been drinking the -water. Then she saw that he was studying something there upon the -ground; and a moment later he got up and turned and saw her standing -there. At first he was so surprised that he could not speak, and they -were still, looking at each other. The girl, bareheaded, in simple waist -and heavy short skirt, with rubber boots upon her feet so that she might -wade at will, was worth looking at. The man himself was no mean -figure--khaki flannel shirt, knickerbockers, leather putties over stout -waterproof shoes. She carried pail in one hand, dip net in the other; -and she saw that he had a revolver slung in one hip, a camera looped -over his shoulder. - -He said at last, “Hello, there!” And Ruth nodded in the sober fashion -that was become her habit. The man asked, “What have you got? Milk, in -that pail? Is this your pasture land?” - -“Trout,” she told him; and he came to see the fish in a close-packed -mass; and he exclaimed at them, and watched while she put them into the -stream below where he had been kneeling. He asked her why she did it, -and she told him. At the same time she looked toward where he had knelt, -wondering what he saw there. She could see only some deep-imprinted -moose tracks; and moose tracks were so common in the swamp that it was -not worth while to kneel to study them. - -He saw her glance, and said, “I was looking at those tracks. Moose, -aren’t they?” - -She nodded. “Yes.” - -“They told me there were moose in here,” he said. “I doubted it, though. -So far south as this.” - -“There are many moose in the swamp,” she declared. - -He asked, “Have you ever seen them?” - -She smiled a little. “Once in a while. A cow moose wintered in our barn -two years ago.” - -He slapped his thigh lightly. “Then this is the place I’m looking for,” -he exclaimed. - -She asked softly, “Why?” She was interested in the man. He was not like -John, not like anyone whom she had known; except, perhaps, Dane Semler. -A man of the city, obviously. “Why?” she asked. - -“I want to get some pictures of them,” he explained. “Photographs. In -their natural surroundings. Wild. In the swamp.” - -“John took a snapshot of the cow that wintered with us,” she said. “I -guess he’d give you one.” - -The man laughed. “I’d like it,” he told her; “but I want to get a great -many.” He hesitated. “Where is your farm?” - -She pointed out of the swamp toward the hill. - -“Near?” he asked. - -And she said, “It’s right over the swamp.” - -“Listen,” he said eagerly. “My name’s Darrin--Fred Darrin. What’s -yours?” - -“Ruth MacLure.” - -“Why you’re Evered’s sister-in-law, aren’t you?” - -She nodded, her cheeks paling a little. “Yes.” - -“I was coming to see Evered to-night,” he said. “I want to board at the -farm while I work on these pictures--that is, I want permission to camp -down here by the swamp somewhere, and get milk and eggs and things from -you. Do you think I can?” - -“Camp?” she echoed. - -“Yes.” - -She looked round curiously, as though she expected to see his equipment -there. “Haven’t you a tent?” - -He laughed. “No. I’ve a tarp for a shelter; and I can cut some hemlock -boughs and build a shack; if you’ll let me trespass.” - -“You could sleep in the barn I guess,” she said. “Or maybe in the -house.” - -He shook his head. “No roof for mine. This is my vacation, you -understand. I can sleep under a roof at home.” - -“You’ll be getting wet all the time.” - -“I’ll dry when the sun comes out.” - -She asked, “Who’s going to cook for you?” - -“I’m a famous cook,” he told her. - -She had the rooted distrust of the open air which is common among the -people of the farms. She could not see why a man should sleep on the -ground when he might have hay or a bed; and she could not believe in the -practicality of cooking over an open fire; especially when there was a -stove at hand. - -“You’ll have to see Mr. Evered,” she said uneasily. - -So it happened that they two went back through the swamp together and up -the hill; and they came side by side to meet Evered and John in the -barnyard by the kitchen door. - -They had their colloquy there in the open barnyard, while the slanting -rays of the sun drew lengthening shadows from where they stood. Darrin -spoke to Evered. John went into the house after a moment and built a -fire for Ruth; and then he came out again while the girl went about the -business of supper. - -Darrin was a good talker; and Evered’s silence made him seem like a good -listener. When John came out he was able to tell Darrin something of the -moose in the swamp, their haunts and their habits. Darrin listened as -eagerly as he had talked. He told them at last what he had come to do; -he explained how by trigger strings and hidden cameras and flash-light -powders he hoped to capture the images of the shy giants of the forest. -John listened with shining eyes. The project was of a sort to appeal to -him. As for Evered, he had little to say, smoked stolidly, stared out -across his fields. The sunlight on his hair accentuated the white -streaks in it, and John looking toward him once thought he had never -seen his father look so old. - -When Darrin put forward his request for permission to camp in the -woodlot near the swamp, Evered swung his heavy head round and gave the -other man his whole attention for a space. It was John’s turn for -silence now. He expected Evered to refuse, perhaps abusively. Evered had -never liked trespassers. He said they scared his cows, trampled his -hay, stole his garden stuff or his apples. But Evered listened now with -a certain patience, watching Darrin; and Darrin with a nimble tongue -talked on and made explanations and promises. - -In the end Evered asked, “Where is it your mind to camp?” - -“I’ve picked no place. I’ll find a likely spot.” - -“You could sleep in the barn,” said Evered, as Ruth had said before him; -and Darrin laughed. - -“As a matter of fact,” he explained, “half the sport of this for me is -in sleeping out of doors on the ground. I’m on vacation, you know. Other -men like hunting, and so do I; but mine is a somewhat different kind, -that’s all. I won’t bother you; you’ll not see much of me, for I’ll be -about the swamp at all hours of the night, and I’ll sleep a good deal in -the day. You’ll hardly know I’m there. Of course, I don’t want to urge -you against your will.” - -Evered’s lips flickered into what might have passed for a smile. “I’m -not often moved against my will,” he said. “But I’ve no objection to -your sleeping in my ground. If you keep out of the uncut hay.” - -“I will.” - -“And put out your fires. I don’t want to be burned up.” - -Darrin laughed. “I’m not a novice at this, Mr. Evered,” he said. “You’ll -not have to kick me off.” - -Evered nodded; and John said, “You want to keep out of the bull’s -pasture too. You’ll know it. There’s a high wire fence round.” - -Darrin said soberly, “I’ve heard of the red bull.” - -“He killed my wife,” said Evered; and there was something so stark in -the bald statement that it shocked and silenced them. Evered himself -flushed when he had spoken, as though his utterance had been -unconsidered, had burst from his overfull heart. - -“I know,” Darrin told him. - -John said after a moment’s silence, “If there’s any way I can help--I -know the swamp. As much as any man. And I’ve seen the moose in there.” - -There was a certain eagerness in his voice; and Darrin said readily, “Of -course. I’d like it.” - -He said he would tramp to town and come with his gear next morning. John -offered to drive him over, but he shook his head. As he started away -Ruth came to the kitchen door, and he looked toward her, and she said -hesitantly, “Don’t you want to stay to supper?” - -He thanked her, shook his head. Evered and John in the barnyard watched -him go; and Evered saw Ruth leave the kitchen door and move to a window -from which she could see him go up the lane toward the main road. - -Evered asked John: “What do you make of him?” - -“I like him,” said John. “I’m--glad you let him stay.” - -“Know why I let him stay?” - -“Why--no.” - -“See him and Ruth together? See her watching him?” - -“I didn’t notice.” - -Evered’s lips twitched in the nearest approach to mirth he ever -permitted himself. “Ought to have better eyes, John; if you’re minded to -keep hold o’ Ruth. She likes him. If I’d swore at him, shipped him off, -she’d have been all on his side from the start.” - -John, a little troubled, shook his head. “Ruth’s all right,” he said. -“Give her time.” - -Evered said, that wistful note in his voice plain for any man to hear, -“I don’t want Ruth leaving us. So I let Darrin stay.” - - - - -XI - - -Darrin came to the farm. He made his camp by the spring where Mary -Evered had loved to sit, and where she had been killed. John knew this -at the time, was on the spot when Darrin built his fireplace in a bank -of earth, waist high, and watched the other shape hemlock boughs into a -rain-shedding shelter. - -He did not remonstrate; but he did say, “Shouldn’t think you’d want to -sleep here.” - -Darrin looked at him curiously; and he laughed a little. - -“You mean--the red bull?” he asked. And when John nodded he said, “Oh, -I’m not afraid of ghosts. The world’s full of ghosts.” There was a -sudden hardness in his eye. “I’m a sort of a ghost myself, in a way.” - -John wondered what he meant; but he was not given to much questioning, -and did not ask. Nevertheless, Darrin’s word stayed hauntingly in his -mind. - -He told Ruth where Darrin was camping; and the girl listened -thoughtfully, but made no comment. John knew that Ruth was accustomed to -go to the spring now and then, as her sister had done. He wondered -whether she would go there now. There was no jealousy in John; his heart -was not built for it. Nevertheless, there was a deep concern for Ruth, -deeper than he had any way of expressing. The matter worried him a -little. - -They did not speak of Darrin’s camping place to Evered, and Evered asked -no questions. Darrin came to the house occasionally for supplies, but it -happened that he did not encounter Evered at such times. He was always -careful to ask for the man, to leave some word of greeting for him; and -once he bade them tell Evered to come down and see his camp. They did -not do so. Some instinct, unspoken and unacknowledged, impelled both -Ruth and John to keep Evered and Darrin apart. Neither was conscious of -this feeling, yet both were moved by it. - -John, prompted to some extent by his father’s warning, had begun in an -awkward fashion to seek to please Ruth and to win back favor in her -eyes. He felt himself uneasy and at a loss in the presence of Darrin, -felt himself at a disadvantage in any contest with the other. John was a -man of the country, of the farm, and he had grace to know it. Darrin had -the ease of one who has rubbed shoulders with many men in many places; -he was not confused in Ruth’s presence; he was rather at his best when -she was near, while John was ill at ease and words came hard to him. -Darrin took care to be friendly with them both; and he and John on more -than one night drove deep into the swamp together on Darrin’s quest. -John, busy about the farm, was unable to join Darrin in the daytime; but -the other scoured through the marsh for tracks and traces, and then -enlisted John to help him move cameras into position, lay flash-powder -traps, or stalk the moose at their feeding in desperate attempts at -camera snap-shooting. - -Sometimes, in the afternoons, John knew that Ruth went down to the -spring and talked with Darrin. Darrin told her of his ventures in the -swamp; and she told Darrin in her turn the story of the tragedy that had -been enacted here by the spring where he was camping. John, crossing the -woodlot on some errand, came upon them there one afternoon, and passed -by on the knoll above them without having been seen. The picture they -made remained with him and troubled him. - -When Darrin had been some ten days on the farm and September was coming -in with a full moon in the skies it happened one night that Evered drove -to Fraternity for the mail and left John and Ruth alone together. When -she had done with the dishes she came out to find him on the door-step, -smoking in the moonlight; and she stood above him for a moment, till he -looked up at her with some question in his eyes. - -She asked then, “Are you going into the swamp with Mr. Darrin to-night?” - -He said, “No. He’s out of plates. There’s some due to-morrow; and he’s -waiting.” - -She was silent a moment longer, then said swiftly, as though anxious to -be rid of the words, “Let’s go down and see him.” - -If John was hurt or sorry he made no sign. He got to his feet. “Why, all -right,” he said. “It’s bright. We’ll not need a lantern.” - -As they moved across the barnyard to the bars and entered the woodlot -the girl began to talk, in a swift low voice, as though to cover some -unadmitted embarrassment. A wiser man might have been disturbed; but -John was not analytical, and so he enjoyed it. It was the first time -they had talked together at any length since Mary died. It was, he -thought, like the old happy times. He felt warmed and comforted and -happier than he had been for many weeks past. She was like the old Ruth -again, he told himself. - -Darrin was glad to see them. He built up his fire and made a place for -Ruth to sit upon his blankets, leaning against a bowlder, and offered -John cigars. The man knew how to play host, knew how to be interesting. -John saw Ruth laugh wholeheartedly for the first time in months. He -thought she was never so lovely as laughing. - -When they went back up the hill together she fell silent and sober -again; and he looked down and saw her eyes, clear in the moonlight. -Abruptly, without knowing what he did, he put his arm round her; and for -an instant she seemed to yield to him, so that he drew her toward him as -he was used to do. He would have kissed her. - -She broke away and cried out: “No, no, no! I told you no, John.” - -He said gently, “I think a lot of you, Ruth.” - -She shook her head, backing away from him; and he heard the angry note -creep back into her voice. “You mustn’t, ever,” she told him. “Oh, can’t -you understand?” - -Some hot strain in the man came to the surface; he cried with an -eloquence that was strange on his slow lips, “I love you. That’s all I -understand. I always will. You’ve got to know that too. You----” - -She said, “Hush! I won’t listen. You--you’re your father over. He’s not -content but he master everyone and every thing; master everyone about -him. Break them. Master his beasts and his wife. You’re his own son. -You’re an Evered.” Her hands were tightening into fists at her side. -“Oh, you would want to boss me the way he---- I won’t, I won’t! You -shan’t--shan’t ever do it.” - -“I’ll be kind to you,” he said. - -There was a softer note in her voice. “John, John,” she told him. “I’m -sorry. I did love you. I tried to shut my eyes. I tried to pretend that -Mary was happy with him. You’re like him. I thought I’d be happy with -you. She told me one day how he used be. It frightened me, because he -was like you. But I did love you, John. Till Mary died. Then I knew. -He’d killed her. He made her want to die. And he had driven that great -bull into a killing thing--by the way he treated it. - -“Oh, I’ve seen your father clear, John. I know what he is. You’re like -him. I couldn’t ever love you.” - -He said in a hot quick tone--because she was very lovely--that she would -love him, must, some day; and she shook her head. - -“Don’t you see?” she told him. “You’re trying already to make me do what -you want. Oh, John, can’t you Evereds see any living thing without -crushing it? Mr. Darrin----” She caught herself, went on. “See how -different he is. He goes into the swamp, and he has to be a thousand -times more careful, more crafty than you when you hunt. But you come -home with a bloody ugly thing across your shoulders; and he comes with a -lovely picture, that will always be beautiful, and that so many people -will see. He outwits the animals; he proves himself against them. But he -doesn’t kill them to do it, John. You--your father---- Oh, can’t you -ever see?” - -His thoughts were not quick enough to cope with her; but he said -awkwardly, “I’m not--always killing things. I’ve left many a trout go -that I might have killed. And deer too.” - -“Because it’s the law,” she said harshly. “But it’s in you to -kill--crush and bruise and destroy. Don’t you see the difference? You -don’t have to beat a thing, a beast, to make it yield to you. You -Evereds.” - -“I’m not a horse beater,” he said. - -“It’s the blood of you,” she told him. “You will be.” - -“There’s some times,” he suggested, “when you’ve got to be hard.” - -“I’ve heard your father say that very thing.” - -They were moving slowly homeward now, speaking brokenly, with longer -silences between. The night was almost as bright as day, the moon in -midheavens above them. Ahead the barn and the house bulked large, -casting dark shadows narrowly along their foundation walls. There was a -fragrance of the hayfields in the air. The rake itself lay a little at -one side as they came into the barnyard, its spindling curved tines -making it look not unlike a spider crouching there. The bars rattled -when John lowered them for her to pass through; and the red bull in the -barn heard the sound and snorted sullenly at them. - -John said to her, “You’d be having a man handle that bull by kindness, -maybe.” - -She swung about and said quickly, “I’d be having a man take an ax and -chop that red bull to little bits.” - -He stood still and she looked up at him; and after an instant she hotly -asked, “Are you laughing? Why are you laughing at me?” - -He said gently, “You that were so strong against any killing--talking so -of the red bull.” - -She cried furiously, “Oh, you---- John Evered, you! I hate you! I’ll -always hate you. You and your father--both of you. Don’t you laugh at -me!” - -A little frightened at the storm he had evoked he touched her arm. She -wrenched violently away, was near falling, recovered herself. “Don’t -touch me!” she bade him. - -He watched her run into the house. - - - - -XII - - -One day in the first week of September, a day when there was a touch of -frost in the air, and a hurrying and scurrying of the clouds overhead as -though they would escape the grip of coming winter, Evered took down his -double-bitted ax from its place in the woodshed and went to the -grindstone and worked the two blades to razor edge. John was in the -orchard picking those apples which were already fit for harvesting. Ruth -was helping him. - -There was not much of the fruit, and Evered had said to them, “I’ll go -down into the woodlot and get out some wood.” - -When he was gone Ruth and John looked at each other; and John asked, -“Does he know Darrin is there, I wonder? Know where he is?” - -Ruth said, “I don’t know. He sees more than you think. Anyway, it won’t -hurt him to know.” - -Evered shaped the ax to his liking, slung it across his shoulder, and -walked down the wood road till he came to a growth of birch which was -ready for the ax. The trees would be felled and cut into lengths where -they lay, then hauled to the farm and piled in the shed to season under -cover for a full twelve months before it was time to use the wood. -Evered’s purpose now was simply to cut down the trees, leaving the later -processes for another day. - -He had chosen the task in response to some inner uneasiness which -demanded an outlet. The man’s overflowing energy had always been his -master; it drove him now, drove him with a new spur--the spur of his own -thoughts. He could never escape from them; he scarce wished to escape, -for he was never one to dodge an issue. But if he had wished to forget, -Fraternity would not have permitted it. The men of the town, he saw, -were watching him with furtive eyes; the women looked upon him -spitefully. He knew that most people thought he should have killed the -red bull before this; but Evered would not kill the bull, partly from -native stubbornness, partly from an unformed feeling that he, not the -bull, was actually responsible. He was growing old through much thought -upon the matter; and it is probable that only his own honest certainty -of his wife’s misdoing kept him from going mad. He slept little. His -nerves tortured him. - -He struck the ax into the first tree with a hot energy that made him -breathe deep with satisfaction. He sank the blade on one side of the -tree, and then on the other, and the four-inch birch swayed and toppled -and fell. The man went furiously to the next, and to the next -thereafter. The sweat began to bead his forehead and his pulses began to -pound. - -He worked at a relentless pace for perhaps half an hour, drunk with his -own labors. At the end of that time, pausing to draw breath, he knew -that he was thirsty. It was this which first brought the spring to his -mind, the spring where his wife had died. - -He had not been near the spot since the day he found her there. The -avoidance had been instinctive rather than conscious. He hated the place -and in some measure he feared it, as much as it was in the man to fear -anything. He could see it all too vividly without bringing the actual -surroundings before his eyes. The thought of it tormented him. And when -his thirst made him remember the spring now his first impulse was to -avoid it. His second--because it was ever the nature of the man to meet -danger or misfortune or unpleasantness face to face--was to go to the -place and drink his fill. He stuck his ax into a stump and started down -the hill. This was not like that other day when he had gone along this -way. That day his wife had been killed was sultry and lowering and -oppressive; there was death in the very air. To-day was bright, crisp, -cool; the air like wine, the earth a vivid panorama of brilliant -coloring, the sky a vast blue canvas with white clouds limned lightly -here and there. A day when life quickened in the veins; a day to make a -man sing if there was song in him. - -There was no song in Evered; nevertheless, he felt the influence of the -glory all about him. It made him, somehow, lonely; and this was strange -in a man so used to loneliness. It made him unhappy and a little sorry -for himself, a little wistful. He wanted, without knowing it, someone to -give him comradeship and sympathy and friendliness. He had never -realized before how terribly alone he was. - -His feet took unconsciously the way they had taken on that other day; -but his thoughts were not on the matter, and so he came at last to the -knoll above the spring with something like a shock of surprise, for he -saw a man sitting below; and for a moment it seemed to him this man was -Semler, that Mary sat beside him. He brushed a rough hand across his -eyes, and saw that what he had taken for his wife’s figure was just a -roll of blanket laid across a rock; and he saw that the man was not -Semler but Darrin. - -He had never thought of the possibility that Darrin might have camped -beside the spring. Yet it was natural enough. This was the best water -anywhere along the swamp’s edge. A man might drink from the brook, but -not with satisfaction in a summer of such drought as this had seen. But -the spring had a steady flow of cool clear water in the driest seasons. -This was the best place for a camp. Darrin was here. - -Evered stood still, looking down on Darrin’s camp, until the other man -felt his eyes and looked up and saw him. - -When he saw Evered, Darrin got to his feet and laid aside his book and -called cheerfully, “Come aboard, sir. Time you paid me a call.” - -Evered hesitated; then he went, stumbling a little, down to where Darrin -was. “I’m getting out some wood,” he said. “I just came down for a -drink.” - -“Sit down,” said Darrin in a friendly way. “Fill your pipe.” - -The old Evered, the normal Evered even now would have shaken his head, -bent for his drink from the spring and gone back to his work. But Evered -was in want of company this day; and Darrin had a cheerful voice, a -comradely eye. Darrin seemed glad to see him. Also the little hollow -about the spring had a fascination for Evered. Having come to the spot -he was unwilling to leave it, not because he wished to stay, but because -he wished to go. He stayed because he dreaded to stay. He took Darrin’s -cup and dipped it in the spring and drank; and then at Darrin’s -insistence he sat down against the bowlder and whittled a fill for his -pipe and set it going. - -Darrin during this time had been talking with the nimble wit which was -characteristic of the man. He made Evered feel more assured, more -comfortable than he had felt for a long time. And while Darrin talked -Evered’s slow eyes were moving all about, marking each spot in the -tragedy that was forever engraved upon his mind--there had sat his wife, -there Semler, yonder stood the bull--terribly vivid, terribly real, so -that the sweat burst out upon his forehead again. - -Darrin, watching, asked, “What’s wrong? You look troubled.” - -And Evered hesitated, then said huskily, “It’s the first time I’ve been -here.” - -He did not explain; but Darrin understood. “Since your wife was killed?” - -“Yes.” - -Darrin nodded. “It was here by the spring, wasn’t it?” - -Evered answered slowly, “Yes. She was--lying over there when I found -her.” He pointed to the spot. - -Darrin looked that way; and after a moment, eyes upon the curling smoke -of his pipe, he asked casually, “Where was Semler?” - -His tone was easy, mildly interested and that was all; nevertheless, his -word came to Evered with an abrupt and startling force. Semler? He had -told no one save John that Semler was here that day; he knew John would -never have told. Ruth knew; but she too was close-mouthed. Fraternity -did not know. Yet Darrin knew. - -“Where was Semler?” Darrin had asked, so casually. - -And Evered cried, “Semler? Who said he was here?” - -Darrin looked surprised. “Why, I did not know it was a secret. He told -me--himself.” - -Evered was tense and still where he sat. “He--you know him?” - -Darrin laughed a little. “I wouldn’t say that. I don’t care for the man. -I met him a little before I came up here, and told him where I was -coming; and he advised me not to come. Told me of this--tragedy.” - -“Told you he was here?” - -Darrin nodded. “Yes; how he tried to fight off the bull.” - -Evered came to his feet, half crouching. “The black liar and coward ran -like a rabbit,” he said under his breath; and his face was an ugly thing -to see. - -Darrin cried, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to--waken old sorrows. It -doesn’t matter. Forget it.” He sought, palpably, to change to another -topic. “Are you getting in your apples yet?” - -Evered would not be put off. “See here,” he said. “What did Dane Semler -tell you?” - -“I’ve forgotten,” said Darrin. He smiled cheerfully. “That is to say, I -mean to forget. It’s not my affair. Let’s not talk about it.” - -Over Evered swept then one of those impulses to speech, akin to the -impulses of confession. He exclaimed with a tragic and miserable note in -his voice. “By God, if I don’t talk about it sometime it’ll kill me.” - -Darrin looked up at him, gently offered; “I’ll listen, then. It may ease -you to--tell the story over. Go ahead, Mr. Evered. Sit down.” - -Evered did not sit down. But the story burst from him. Something, -Darrin’s sympathy or the anger Darrin’s reference to Semler had roused, -touched hidden springs within the man. He spoke swiftly, eagerly, as -though with a pathetic desire to justify himself. He moved to and fro, -pointing, illustrating. - -He told how Zeke Pitkin had brought word that the red bull was loose in -the woodlot. “I stopped at the house,” he said. “There was no one there; -and that scared me. When I came down this way I thought of this spring. -My wife used to like to come here. And I was scared, Darrin. I loved -Mary Evered, Darrin.” - -He caught himself, as though his words sounded strangely even in his own -ears. When he went on his voice was harsh and hard. - -“I came to the knoll up there”--he pointed to the spot--“and saw Mary -and Semler here, sitting together, talking together. Damn him! Like -sweethearts!” The red floods swept across the man’s face as the tide of -that old rage overwhelmed him. “Damn Semler!” he cried. “Let him come -hereabouts again!” - -He went on after a moment: “I was too late to do anything but shout to -them. The bull was coming at them from over there, head down. When I -shouted they heard me, and forgot each other; and then they saw the red -bull. Semler could have stopped him or turned him if he’d been a man. If -I had been nearer I could have killed the beast with my hands, in time. -But I was too far away; and Semler ran. I tell you, Darrin, he ran! He -turned tail, and squawked, and ran along the hillside there. But Mary -did not run. She could not; or she wouldn’t. And the red bull hit her -here; and tossed her there. One blow and toss. He has no horns, you’ll -mind. Semler running, all the time. Tell him, when you go back--tell him -he lied.” - -He was abruptly silent, his old habit of reticence upon him. And he was -instantly sorry that he had spoken at all. To speak had been relief, had -somehow eased him. Yet who was Darrin? Why should he tell this man? - -Darrin said gently, “The bull did not trample her?” - -Evered answered curtly, “No. I reached him.” - -Darrin nodded. “You could handle him?” - -“The beast knows me,” said Evered. - -And even while he spoke he remembered how the great bull, as though -regretting that which he had done, had stood quietly by until he was led -away. He did not tell Darrin this; there were no more words in him. He -had spoken too much already. Darrin was watching him now, he saw; and it -seemed to Evered that there was a hard and hostile light of calculation -in the other’s eye. - -He turned away his head, and Darrin asked, “How came she here with -Semler?” - -Evered swung toward the man so hotly that for a moment Darrin was -afraid; and then the older man’s eyes misted and his lips twisted weakly -and he brushed them with the back of his hand. - -He did not answer Darrin at all; and after a moment Darrin said, -“Forgive me. It must hurt you to remember; to look round here. You must -see the whole thing over again.” - -Evered stood still for a moment; then he said abruptly: “I’ve sat too -long. I’ll be back at work.” - -He went stiffly up the knoll. Darrin called after him, “Come down again. -You know the way.” - -Evered did not turn, he made no reply. When he was beyond the other’s -sight he stopped once and looked back, and his eyes were faintly -furtive. He muttered something under his breath. He was cursing his -folly in having talked with Darrin. - -Back at his work Evered was uneasy; but his disquiet would have been -increased if he could have seen how Darrin busied himself when he was -left alone. The man sat still where he was till Evered had passed out of -sight above the knoll; sat still with thoughtful eyes, studying the -ground about him and considering the things which Evered had said. And -once while he sat with his eyes straight before him, thinking on -Evered’s words, he said to himself: “The man did love his wife.” And -again: “There’s something hurting him.” - -After a little he got up and climbed the knoll cautiously, till he could -look in the direction Evered had taken. Evered was not in sight; and -when he could be sure of this Darrin went along the shelf above the -spring, toward the wood road that came down from the farm. At the road -he turned round and retraced his steps, trying to guess the path Evered -would have taken to come in sight of the spring itself. - -When he came to the edge of the knoll he noted the spot, and cast back -and tried again, and still again. He seemed to seek the farthest spot -from which the spring was visible. When he had chosen this spot he stood -still, surveying the land below, picturing to himself the tragedy that -had been enacted there. - -He seemed to come to some conclusion in the end, for he paced with -careful steps the distance from where he stood to the rock where Mary -Evered had been sitting. From that spot again he paced the distance to -the alder growth through which the bull had come. Returning, eyes -thoughtful, he took pencil and paper and plotted the scene round him, -and set dots upon it to mark where Evered must have stood, and where -Mary and Semler had sat, and the way by which the bull had come. - -The man sat for a long hour that afternoon with this rude map before -him, considering it; and he set down distances upon it, and marked the -trees. Once he took pebbles and moved them upon his map as the bull and -Semler and Evered must have moved upon this ground. - -In the end, indecision in his eyes, he folded the paper and put it -carefully into his pocket. Then he made a little cooking fire and -prepared his supper and ate it. When he had cleaned up his camp he put -on coat and cap and started along the hillside below the bull pasture to -the road that led toward Fraternity. - -This was not unusual with Darrin. He was accustomed to go to the village -three or four times a week for his mail or to sit round the stove in -Will Bissel’s store and listen to the talk of the country. He had got -some profit from this: Jim Saladine, for example, told him one night of -a fox den, and took him next day to the spot; and by a week’s patience -Darrin had been able to get good pictures of the little foxes at their -play. And Jean Bubier had taken him up to the head of the pond to see a -cow moose pasturing with Jean’s own cows. Besides these tangible pieces -of fortune he had acquired a fund of tales of the woods. He liked the -talk about the stove, and took his own share in it so modestly that the -men liked him. - -Once or twice during his stay in the town there had been talk of Evered; -and Darrin had led them to tell the man’s deeds. Great store of these -tales, for Evered’s daily life had an epic quality about it. From the -murdering red bull the stories went back and back to that old matter of -the knife and Dave Riggs, now years agone. Telling this story Lee Motley -told Darrin one night that it had made a change in Evered. - -Darrin had asked, “What did he do?” - -And Motley said: “First off, he didn’t seem bothered much. But it -changed him. He’d been wild and strong and hard before, but there was -some laughing in him. I’ve always figured he took the thing hard. I’ve -not seen the man laugh, right out, since then.” - -Darrin said, “You can’t blame him. It’s no joke to kill a man.” - -Motley nodded his agreement. “It made a big change in Evered,” he -repeated. - -Darrin’s interest in Evered had not been sufficiently marked to attract -attention, for Evered was a figure of interest to all the countryside. -Furthermore, there was talk that Darrin and Ruth MacLure liked each -other well; and the town thought it natural that Darrin should be -curious as to the man who might be his brother-in-law. Everyone knew -that Ruth and John Evered had been more than friends. There was a -friendly and curious interest in what looked like a contest between -Darrin and John. - -This night at Will’s store Darrin had little to say. He bought paper and -envelopes from Will and wrote two letters at the desk in Will’s office; -and he mailed them, with a special-delivery stamp upon each one. That -was a thing not often done in Fraternity; and Will noticed the addresses -upon the letters. To Boston men, both of them. - -Afterward, Darrin sat about the store for a while, and then set off -along the road toward Evered’s farm. Zeke Pitkin gave him a lift for a -way; and Darrin remembered that Evered had named this man, and he said -to Zeke: “You saw Evered’s bull break out, that day the beast killed -Mary Evered, didn’t you?” - -Zeke said yes; and he told the tale, coloring it with the glamor of -tragedy which it would always have in his eyes. And he told -Darrin--though Darrin had heard this more than once before--how Evered -had killed his, Zeke’s, bull with a knife thrust in the neck, a day or -two before the tragedy. “That same heavy knife of his,” he said. “The -one he killed Dave Riggs with.” - -Darrin asked, “Still uses it--to butcher with?” - -“Yes, sir,” said Zeke. “I’ve seen him stick more’n one pig with that old -knife in the last ten year.” - -Darrin laughed a little harshly. “Not very sentimental, is he?” - -“There ain’t a human feeling in the man,” Pitkin declared. - -When Zeke stopped to let Darrin down at the fork of the road Darrin -asked another question. “Funny that Semler should skip out so sudden -that day, wasn’t it?” - -“You bet it uz funny,” Zeke agreed. “I’ve allus said it was.” - -“Did you see him the day he left?” - -Pitkin shook his head. “Huh-uh. I was busy all day, and over in North -Fraternity in the aft’noon. Got to the store right after he lit out.” - -Darrin walked to his camp, lighting his steps with an electric torch, -and made a little fire for cheerfulness’ sake, and wrapped in his -blankets for sleep. He had set a camera in the swamp that day, with a -string attached to the shutter in a fashion that should give results if -a moose came by. He wondered whether luck would be with him. His -thoughts as sleep crept on him shifted back to Evered again. A puzzle -there--a question of character, of reaction to emotional stimulus. He -asked himself: “Now if I were an emotional, hot-tempered man and came -upon my wife with another man, and saw her in swift peril of her -life--what would I do?” - -He was still wondering, still questioning, still trying to put himself -in Evered’s shoes when at last he dropped asleep. - - - - -XIII - - -Darrin and Ruth had come to that point in friendship where they could -sit silently together, each busy with his or her own thoughts, without -embarrassment. The girl liked to come down the hill of an afternoon for -an hour with the man; and sometimes he read to her from one of the books -of which he had a store. And sometimes he showed her the pictures he had -made--strange glimpses of the life of the swamp. His camera trap caught -curious scenes. Now and then a deer, occasionally a moose, once a -wildcat screeching in the night. And again they had to look closely to -see what it was that had tugged the trigger string; and sometimes it was -a rabbit, and sometimes it was a mink; and at other times it was nothing -at all that they could discover in the finished photograph. Once a great -owl dropped on some prey upon the ground and touched the string; and the -plate caught him, wings flying, talons reaching--a picture of the wild -things that prey. - -Most of the pictures were imperfect--blurred or shadowed or ill-focused. -Out of them all there were only four or five that Darrin counted worth -the saving; but he and Ruth found fascination in the study of even the -worthless ones. - -It was inevitable that the confidence between them should develop -swiftly in these afternoons together. It was not surprising that Ruth -one afternoon dared ask Darrin a question. She had been curiously -silent, studying him, until he noticed it, and laughed at her for it; -and she told him then, “I’m wondering--whether we really know you here.” - -He looked at her with a quick intentness, smiled a little. “Why?” he -asked. “What are you thinking?” - -She shook her head. “I don’t know, exactly. Just that sometimes I felt -you’re hiding something; that you’re not thinking about the things -you--seem to think about.” - -He said good-naturedly, “You’re making a mystery out of me.” - -“A little,” she admitted. - -“There’s no mystery,” he said; and he added softly: “There’s a deal more -mystery about you, to me.” - -He had never, as they say, made love to her. Yet there was that in his -tone now which made her flush softly and look away from him. Watching -her he hesitated. His hand touched hers. She drew her hand away and rose -abruptly. - -“I must go back to the house,” she said. “It’s time I was starting -supper.” - -He was on his feet, facing her; but there was only cheerful friendliness -in his eyes. He would not alarm her. “Come again,” he said. “I like to -have you come.” - -“You never come to the house, except for eggs and things. You ought to -come and see us.” - -“Perhaps I will,” he said; and he watched her as she climbed the knoll -and disappeared. His eyes were very gentle; there would have been in -them an exultant light if he could have seen the girl, once out of his -sight, stop and look back to where the smoke of his little fire rose -above the trees. - -Darrin was much in her thoughts during these days. She would have -thought of him more if she had been able to think less of John. - - - - -XIV - - -Darrin’s departure came abruptly. He had gone to the village one night -for his mail, and found a letter waiting, which he read with avid eyes. -Having read it he put it away in his pocket, and came to Will Bissell -and asked how he might most quickly reach Boston. - -Will told him there was a morning train from town; and Darrin nodded and -left the store. He decided to walk the ten miles through the night. It -was cool and clear; the walk would be good for him. It would give him -time for thinking. - -He went back to his camp and slept till three in the morning. Then he -made a little breakfast and ate it and packed his camp belongings under -his tarpaulin for cover. To the tarp he fastened a note, addressed to -Ruth. He wrote simply: - - - “_Dear Ruth_: I have to go away for four or five days, hurriedly. I - would have said goodby if there were time. If it rains will you - ask John to put my things under shelter somewhere? In the barn will - do. There is a camera set at the crossing of the brook where the - old pine is down. Perhaps he will find that and take care of it for - me. My other things in the box here are safe enough. The box is - waterproof. - - “I will not be long gone. I’m taking the morning train from town. - Please remember me to Mr. Evered. - - “Yours, FRED.” - - -At a little after four, dressed in tramping clothes, but with other -garments in a bundle under his arm, he started for town. He had time to -change his garments there, and cash a check at the bank, and have a more -substantial breakfast before he boarded the morning train. - -Ruth discovered that Darrin had gone on the afternoon of his going. She -went down to his camp by the spring with an eagerness of anticipation -which she did not admit even to herself; and when she saw that he was -not there she was at once relieved and unhappy. - -The girl had stopped on the knoll above the camp; and she stood there -for a moment looking all about, thinking Darrin might be somewhere -near. Then she marked the careful order of the spot, and saw that all -the camp gear was stowed away; and abruptly she guessed what had -happened. She ran then down the knoll, and so came almost at once upon -the note he had left for her. - -She read this through, frowning and puzzling a little over the -intricacies of his handwriting; and she did not know whether to be -unhappy over his going or happy that he had remembered to leave this -word for her. She did not press the scribbled note against her bosom, -but she did read it through a second time, and then refold it carefully, -and then take it out and read it yet again. In the end it was still in -her hand when she turned reluctantly back up the hill. She put it in the -top drawer of her bureau in her room. - -She told John and Evered at suppertime that Darrin was gone. Evered -seemed like a man relieved of a burden, till she added, “He’s coming -back again, though.” - -John asked, “How do you know?” - -“He left a note for me,” she said. - -John bent over his plate, hiding the hurt in his eyes. The girl told him -of the camera set in the swamp, and John promised to go and fetch it, -and to bring Darrin’s other belongings under shelter in the woodshed or -the barn. - -He managed this the next day; and Ruth made occasion to go to the barn -more than once for the sheer happiness of looking upon them. John caught -her at it once; but he did not let her know that he had seen. The young -man was in these days woefully unhappy. - -It is fair to say that he had reason to be. Ruth was kind to him, never -spoke harshly or in an unfriendly fashion; in fact, she was almost too -friendly. There was a finality about her friendliness which baffled him -and erected a barrier between him and her. The man tried awkwardly to -bring matters back to the old sweet footing between them; but the girl -was of nimbler wit than he. She put him off without seeming to do so; -she erected an impassable defense about herself. - -On the surface they were as they had always been. Evered could see no -difference in their bearing. Neighbors who occasionally stopped at the -house decided that John and Ruth were going to be married when the time -should come; and they told each other they had always said so. Before -others the relations between the two were pleasantly friendly; but there -were no longer the sweet stolen moments when their arms entwined and -their lips met. When they were alone together Ruth treated John as -though others were about; and John knew no way to break through her -barriers. - -About the fifth day after Darrin’s going Ruth began to expect his -return. He did not come on that day, nor on the next, nor on the next -thereafter. She became a little wistful, a little lonely. Toward the -middle of the second week she found herself clinging with a desperate -earnestness to a despairing hope. He had promised to come back; she -thought he would come back. There had never been any word of more than -friendliness between them; yet the girl felt that such a word must come, -and that he would return to speak it. - -One night she dreamed that he would never come again, and woke to find -tears streaming across her cheeks. She lay awake for a long time, eyes -wide and staring, wondering if she loved him. - -During this interval of Darrin’s absence there manifested itself in -Evered a curious wistful desire to placate Ruth; to win her good will. - -She noticed it first one day when the man had been very still, sitting -all day in the kitchen with his eyes before him, brooding over unguessed -matters. It was a day of blustering, blowing rain, a day when the wind -lashed about the house and there was little that could be done out of -doors. Ruth, busy about the room, watched Evered covertly; her eyes -strayed toward him now and again. - -She had not fully realized till that day how much the man was aging. The -change had come gradually, but it had been marked. His hair, that had -been black as coal six months before, was iron gray now; it showed -glints that were snow white, here and there. The skin of his cheeks had -lost its bronze luster; it seemed to have grown loose, as though the man -were shrinking inside. It hung in little folds about his mouth and jaw. - -His head, too, was bowing forward; his head that had always been so -erect, so firm, so hard and sternly poised. His neck seemed to be -weakening beneath the load it bore; and his shoulders were less square. -They hung forward, as though the man were cold and were guarding his -chest with his arms. - -The fullness of the change came to Ruth with something of a shock, came -when she was thinking it strange that Evered should be content to remain -all day indoors. He was by nature an active man, of overflowing bodily -energy; he was used to go out in all weathers to his tasks. She had seen -him come in, dripping, in the past; his cheeks ruddy from the wet and -cold, his eyes glowing with the fire of health, his chest heaving to -great deep breaths of air. More and more often of late, she remembered, -he had stayed near the stove and the fire, as though it comforted him. - -Ruth had not John’s sympathetic understanding of the heart of Evered; -nevertheless, she knew, as John did, that the man had--in his harsh -fashion--loved his dead wife well. She had always known this, even -though she had never been able to understand how a man might hurt the -woman he loved. If she had not known, she would not have blamed Evered -so bitterly for all the bitter past. It was one of the counts of her -indictment of him that he had indeed loved Mary; and that even so he -had made the dead woman unhappy through so many years. - -Watching him this day Ruth thought that sorrow was breaking him; and the -thought somewhat modified, without her knowing it, the strength of her -condemnation of the man. When in mid afternoon he took from her the -shovel and broom with which she was preparing to clean out the ashes of -the stove, and did the task himself, she was amazed and angry with -herself to find in her heart a spark of pity for him. - -“Let me do that, Ruthie,” he had said. “It’s hard for you.” - -He had never been a man given to small chores about the house; he was -awkward at it. His very awkwardness, the earnestness of his clumsy -efforts--warmed the girl’s heart; she found her eyes wet as she watched -him, and took recourse in an abrupt protest. - -“You’re spilling the ashes,” she said. “Here, let me.” - -She would have taken the broom from him, but Evered would not let it go. -He looked toward her as they held the broom between them, and there was -in his eyes such an agony of desire to please her that the girl had to -turn away. - -What was moving in Evered’s mind it is hard to say, hard to put in -words. He had not yet surrendered to regret for the thing he had done; -he was still able to bolster his courage, to strengthen himself by the -reflection that his wife had wronged him. He was still able to fan to -life the embers of his rage against her and against Semler. Yet the man -was finding it hard to endure the hatred in Ruth’s eyes, the silent -glances which met him when he went abroad, the ostracism of the village. -He wanted comradeship in these days as he had never wanted it before. He -desired the friendship of mankind; he desired, in an unformed way, the -affection of Ruth. The girl had come to symbolize in his thoughts -something like his own conscience. He was uncertainly conscious that if -she forgave him, looked kindly upon him, bore him no more malice, he -might altogether forgive himself for that which he had done. - -Yet when he put this thought in words it evoked a revolt in his own -heart; and he would cry out to himself, “I need no forgiveness! I’ve -nothing to forgive! I was right to let the bull.... She was false as a -witch; false as hell!” - -He found poor comfort in this thought. So long as he believed his wife -was guilty he could endure the torment of his own remorse, could relieve -the pain of it. And if Ruth would only smile upon him, be her old -friendly self to him again.... - -The man’s attentions to her were almost like an uncouth wooing. He began -to study the girl’s wants, to find little ways to help her, to -anticipate her desires, to ease her work about the house. He sought -opportunities to talk with her, and drove himself to speak gently and -ingratiatingly. He called her Ruthie, though she had always been Ruth to -him before. - -The man was pitiful; the girl could not wholly harden her heart against -him. Naturally generous and kindly she caught herself thinking that -after all he had loved Mary well; that he missed her terribly. Once or -twice hearing him move about his room in the night she guessed his -loneliness. She was more and more sorry for Evered. - -Ruth was not the only one who saw that the man was growing old too -swiftly. They marked the fact at Will Bissell’s store. Will saw it, and -Lee Motley saw it, and Jim Saladine; these three with a certain -sympathy. Jean Bubier saw it with sardonic amusement, tinged with -understanding. Old Man Varney saw it with malice; and Judd in the -meanness of his soul saw it with malignant delight. - -“Looking for friends now, he is,” Judd exclaimed one night. “Him that -was so bold before. Tried to start talk with me to-day. I turned my back -on the man. I’d a mind to tell him why.” - -Motley and Saladine spoke of the thing together. Motley said, “I think -he--thought a deal of Mary--in the man’s way.” - -And Saladine nodded and said: “Yes. But--there’s more to it than that, -Lee. More than we know, I figure. Something hidden behind it all. A -black thing, if the whole truth was to come out. Or so it looks to me.” - -Saladine was a steady, thoughtful man, and Motley respected his opinion, -and thought upon the matter much thereafter; but he was to come to no -conclusion. - -On his farm the change in Evered manifested itself in more than one way; -in no way more markedly than in his lack of energy. He left most of the -chores to John; and, what was more significant, he gave over to John -full care of the huge red bull. It had been Evered’s delight to master -that brute and bend it to his will. John and Ruth both marked that he -avoided it in these later days. John had the feeding of it; he cleaned -its stall; he tossed in straw for the creature’s bed. The bull was -beginning to know him, to know that it need not fear him. He was -accustomed to go into its stall and move about the beast without -precautions, speaking gently when he spoke at all. - -Ruth never saw this. She seldom went near the red bull’s stall. She -hated the animal and dreaded it. On one occasion she did go near its -pen. It was suppertime and the food was hot upon the table. She called -John from the woodshed, and then came to the kitchen door to summon -Evered. He was leaning against the high gate of the bull’s plank-walled -yard looking in at the animal. Ruth called to him to come to supper, but -he did not turn. She called again, and still the man did not move. - -A little alarmed, for fear he might have been suddenly stricken sick, -she went swiftly across the barnyard to where he stood, and looked at -him, and looked into the pen. - -Evered was watching the bull; and the bull stood a dozen feet away, -watching the man. There was a stillness about them both which frightened -the girl; a still intentness. Neither moved; their eyes met steadily -without shifting. There was no emotion in either of them. It was as -though the man were probing the bull’s mind, as though the bull would -read the man’s thoughts. They were like persons hypnotized. Ruth -shivered and touched Evered’s arm and shook it a little. - -“Supper’s ready,” she said. - -He turned to her with eyes still glazed from the intensity of their -stare. - -“Supper?” he echoed. Then remembrance came to him; and he nodded heavily -and said with that wistfully ingratiating note in his voice, “Yes, -Ruthie, I’m coming. Come; let’s go together.” - -He took her arm, and she had not the hardness of heart to break away -from him. They went into the house side by side. - - - - -XV - - -In mid-October Darrin returned afoot, as he had departed; and there was -no warning of his coming. He reached the farm in the afternoon. John was -in the woodlot at the time, cutting the wood into cord lengths in -preparation for hauling. Evered had worked in the morning, but after -dinner he sat down by the kitchen stove and remained there, in the dull -apathy of thought which was becoming habitual to him. He was still there -and Ruth was busy about the room when Darrin came to the door. Ruth had -caught sight of him through the window; she was at the door to meet him -and opened it before he knocked. She wanted to tell him how glad she was -to see him; but all she could do was stand very still, her right hand at -her throat, her eyes on his. - -He said gently, “Well, I’ve come back. But it has been longer than I -thought it would be.” - -She nodded. “Yes, it has been a long time.” - -There was so much of confession in her tone that the man’s heart pounded -and he stepped quickly toward her. But when she moved back he saw Evered -within the room, watching him with dull eyes; and he caught himself and -his face sobered and hardened. - -“My things are here?” he asked. - -“In the shed,” she said. “John brought them up. I’ll show you.” - -She stepped away and he followed her into the kitchen, toward the door -that opened at one side into the shed. - -She had already opened the door when Evered asked huskily, “Back, are -you?” - -Darrin said, “Yes.” There was an indescribable note of hostility in his -voice which he could not disguise. - -“Won’t be here long now, I figure,” Evered suggested. - -“I don’t know,” said Darrin. “I’ll be here till I’ve done what I came to -do.” - -Evered did not speak for a minute; then he asked, “Get them moose -pictures, you mean?” - -Ruth looked from one man to the other in a bewildered way, half sensing -the fact that both were wary and alert. - -Darrin said, “Of course.” - -Evered shook his head. “Dangerous business, this time o’ year. The old -bulls have got other things on their mind besides having their pictures -took.” - -“I’ll risk it,” said Darrin. - -“You’ve a right to,” Evered told him, and turned away. - -Darrin watched the man for an instant; then he followed Ruth into the -shed. She showed him his dunnage, packed in a stout roll; and he lifted -it by the lashing and slung it across his shoulder. - -“Mr. Evered is right,” she said. “The moose are dangerous--in the fall.” - -He touched his roll with his left hand affectionately. “I’ve a gun here. -My pistol, you know. I’ll be careful.” - -She urged softly, “Please do.” - -There was so much solicitude in her voice that Darrin was shaken by it; -he slid the roll to the floor. - -Then Evered came to the door that led into the shed; and he said, “I’ll -help you down with that stuff.” - -Darrin shook his head. “No need,” he replied. “I can handle it.” - -He swung it up again across his shoulder; and Ruth opened the outer door -for him. She and Evered stood together watching him cross the barnyard -and lower the bars and pass through and go on his way. - -When he was out of sight Ruth looked up at Evered; and the man said -gently, “Glad to see him, Ruthie?” - -She nodded, “I like him.” - -“More than you like John?” the man asked. - -And she said steadily, “I like them both. But Darrin is gentle, and -strong too. And you Evereds are only cruelly strong.” - -“I wouldn’t say John was cruel,” the man urged wistfully. - -“He’s your son,” she said, the old bitterness in her voice. - -And Evered nodded, as though in confession. He looked in the direction -Darrin had taken. - -“I wonder what he’s back for,” he said half to himself. - -Ruth did not answer, and after a little she went back into the kitchen. -She heard Evered working with his ax for a while, splitting up wood for -the stove; and presently he brought in an armful and dumped it in the -woodbox. It was a thing he had done before, though John was accustomed -to carry her wood for her. As he dropped the wood now Evered looked -toward her, as though to make sure she had seen; he smiled in a -pleading, broken way. She thanked him, a certain sympathy in her voice -in spite of herself. The man was so broken; he had grown so old in so -short a time. - -Darrin, bound toward his old camping ground at the spring, heard John’s -ax in the birch growth at his left, but he did not turn aside. There was -a new purpose in the man; his old pleasantly amiable demeanor had -altered; his eyes were steady and hard. He reached the spring and -disposed his goods, with a packet of provisions which he had brought -from the village. - -A little later he went back up the hill to get milk and eggs from the -farm. It chanced that he found Evered in the barnyard; and Evered saw -him coming, and watched him approach. They came face to face at the -bars, and when Darrin had passed through he stood still, eying the other -man and waiting for Evered to speak. There was a steady scrutiny in -Evered’s eyes, a questioning; Darrin met this questioning glance with -one that told nothing. His lips set a little grimly. - -Evered asked at last, “You say you came back for more pictures?” - -“Yes.” - -“I’m wondering if you’ll get what you come for.” - -Darrin said, “I intend to.” - -Evered nodded quietly. “All right,” he agreed. “I don’t aim to hinder.” - -He turned toward the barn; and as he turned Darrin saw that he had his -knife slung in its leather sheath upon his hip. The sheath was deep; -only the tip of the knife’s haft showed. Yet Darrin’s eyes fastened on -this with a strange intentness, as though he were moved by a morbid -curiosity at sight of the thing. The heavy knife had taken so many -lives. - -Darrin did not move till Evered had gone into the barn and out of sight; -then the younger man turned toward the house, and knocked, and Ruth -opened the door. - -He asked, “Can I get milk to-night, and eggs; and have you made butter?” - -She had been surprised to see him so soon again; she was a little -startled, could not find words at once. But she nodded and he came into -the kitchen and she shut the door behind him, for the day was cold. - -“We haven’t milked,” she said. “It will be a little while.” - -Darrin, whose thoughts had been on other things, found himself suddenly -swept by a sense of her loveliness. He had always known that she was -beautiful, but he had held back the thought, had fought against it. Now -seeing her again after so long a time he forgot everything but her. She -saw the slow change in his eyes; and though she had longed for it, it -frightened her. - -She began to tremble, and tried to speak, but all she could say was, -“Oh!” - -Darrin came toward her then slowly. He had not meant to speak, yet the -words came before he knew. “Ah, Ruth, I have missed you so,” he said. - -Her eyes were dim and soft. She was miserably happy, an anguish of -happiness. - -He said, “I love you so, Ruth. I love you so.” And he kissed her. - -The girl was swept as by a tempest. She had dreamed of this man for -weeks, idealizing him, thinking him all that was fine and gentle and -good. She gave herself to his kisses as though she were hungry for them. -She was crying, tears were flowing down her cheeks; and at first she -thought this was because she was so happy, while Darrin, half alarmed, -half laughing, whispered to comfort her. - -Then slowly the girl knew that she was not crying because she was so -happy. She could not tell why she cried; she could not put her heart in -words. It was as though she were lonely, terribly lonely. And she was -angry with herself at that. How could she be lonely in his arms? In -Darrin’s arms, his kisses on her wet cheeks? - -She could not put the thought away. While he still held her she wept for -very loneliness. He could not soothe her. She scarce heard him; she put -her hands against him and tried to push him away, feebly at first. She -did not want to push him away; yet something made her. He held her -still; his arms were like bands of iron. He was so strong, so hard. Thus -close against him she seemed to feel a rigor of spirit in the man. It -was as though she were pressed against a wall. He freed her. “Please,” -he said. - -And she cried, as though to persuade herself, “Oh, I do love you! I do!” - -But when he would have put his arms round her again she shrank away from -him, so that he forbore. She turned quickly away to her tasks. She had -time to compose herself before Evered came in, and later John. Then -Darrin left with the things he had come to secure, and went down the -hill in the early dusk of fall. - -Ruth was thoughtful that evening; she went early to her room. She was -trying desperately to understand herself. She had been drawn so strongly -toward Darrin, she had found him all that she wanted a man to be. She -had been miserable at his going, had longed for his return. She had -wanted that which had come to pass this day. The girl was honest with -herself, had always been honest with herself. She had known she loved -him, longed for him. - -Yet now he was returned, he loved her and his kisses only served to make -her miserably lonely. She could not understand; slept, still without -comprehending. - -Darrin, next day, did not go into the swamp. He busied himself about the -spring, producing again that sketch which he had made on the day Evered -told him the story of the tragedy. He was groping for something, groping -for understanding, his forehead wrinkled and his eyes were sober with -thought. - -After he had cooked his dinner and eaten it the man sat for a long time -by the fire, tending it with little sticks, watching the flames as -though he expected to find in them the answer to his riddle. Once he -took from his pocket a letter, and read it soberly enough, then put it -back again. And once he took fresh paper and made a new sketch of the -locality about him. - -He seemed at last to come to some decision. The aspect of his -countenance changed subtly. He got to his feet, pacing back and forth. -At about four o’clock in the afternoon he put on his coat and started up -the knoll toward the farm. When he had gone some fifty yards he stopped, -hesitated, and came back to his camp fire. From his kit he selected the -automatic pistol, saw that it held a loaded clip, belted it on. It hung -under his coat inconspicuously. - -He went on his way this time without hesitation; went steadily up the -hill, reached the bars about the farmyard, passed through and knocked -on the kitchen door. - -Ruth came to the door; he asked her abstractedly, as though she were a -stranger, where Evered was. She said he was in the shed; and Darrin went -there and found Evered grinding an ax. The man looked up at his coming -with sober eyes. Ruth had stayed in the kitchen. - -Darrin said quietly, “Evered, I want to talk to you.” - -Evered hesitated, studying the other. He asked, “What about?” - -“A good many things,” Darrin told him. - -Evered laid aside the ax. “All right,” he said. - -“Come away from the house,” Darrin suggested. - -There was a certain dominant note in his voice. The old Evered would -have stayed where he was; but the old Evered was dead. “Come,” said -Darrin; and he stepped out into the yard and Evered followed him. Darrin -crossed to the bars and let them down. He and Evered passed silently -through. - -The men went, Darrin a little in the lead, down the hill toward the -spring. - - - - -XVI - - -The day was cold and damp and chill, with a promise of snow in the air; -one of those ugly October days when coming winter seems to sulk upon the -northern hills, awaiting summer’s tardy going. Clouds obscured the sky, -though now and then during the morning the sun had broken through, -laying a patch of light upon the earth and bringing out the nearer hills -in bold relief against those that were farthest off. The wind was -northeasterly, always a storm sign hereabouts. There was haste in it, -and haste in the air, and haste in all the wild things that were abroad. -The crows overhead flew swiftly, tumbling headlong in the racking air -currents. A flock of geese passed once, high in the murk, their honking -drifting faintly down to earth. The few ground birds darted from cover -to cover; the late-pasturing cows had gone early to the barn. Night was -coming early; an ominous blackness seemed about to shut down upon the -world. The very air held threats and whispers of harm. - -Evered and Darrin walked in silence down along the old wood road, -through a birch clump, past some dwarfed oaks, and out into the open on -the shelf above the spring. - -Halfway across this shelf Darrin said “I’ve got some questions to ask -you, Evered.” - -Evered did not answer. Darrin had not stopped and Evered kept pace with -him. - -The younger man said, “This was the way you came that day your wife was -killed, wasn’t it?” - -Evered turned his head as though to speak, hesitated. Darrin stopped and -caught his eye. - -“Look here,” he demanded. “You’ve nothing to hide in that business, have -you?” - -“No,” said Evered mildly. He wondered why he answered the other at all; -yet there was something in the younger man’s bearing which he did not -care to meet, something dominant and commanding, as though Darrin had a -right to ask, and knew that he had this right. “No,” said Evered; -“nothing to hide.” - -And Darrin repeated his question: “Was this the way you came?” - -Evered nodded. As they went on nearer the spring Darrin touched his arm. -“I want you to show me where you were when you first saw them--your -wife, and Semler, and the bull.” - -Evered made no response; but a moment later he stopped. “Here,” he said. -Darrin looked down toward the spring and all about them. And Evered -repeated, “Here, by this rock.” - -The younger man nodded and passed down to the spring, with Evered beside -him. Darrin sat down and motioned Evered to sit. - -“What did you think, when you saw them?” he asked. - -Evered’s cheeks colored slowly; they turned from bronze to red, from red -to purple. - -Darrin prompted him: “When you saw your wife and Semler here together.” - -“What would you have thought?” Evered asked, his voice held steady. - -Darrin nodded understanding. “You were angry?” he suggested. - -Evered flung his head on one side with a fierce gesture, as though to -shut out some unwelcome sight that assaulted his eyes. - -Darrin, watching him acutely, waited for a little before he asked: -“Where was the bull, when you saw him first?” - -Evered jerked his hand toward the right. “There,” he said. - -Darrin got up and went in that direction, and moved to and fro, asking -directions, till Evered told him he was near the spot. Darrin came back -then and sat down. - -“You thought she loved him?” he asked under his breath. - -Evered shook his head, not in negation but as though to brush the -question aside. Darrin filled his pipe and lighted it, and puffed at it -in silence for a while. - -“Pitkin told you the bull was loose, didn’t he?” he asked at last. - -“Yes.” - -“So you came down to get the beast?” - -“Yes, I came for that.” - -“Expect any trouble?” - -“You can always look for trouble with the red bull.” - -“How did you plan to handle him?” - -“Brad, and nose ring.” - -Darrin eyed the other sharply. “Wouldn’t have had much time to get hold -of his nose ring if he’d charged, would you?” - -“I had a gun,” said Evered. “A forty-five.” - -“Oh,” said Darrin. “You had a gun?” - -Evered, a little restive, cried, “Yes, damn it, I had a gun!” - -“You must have felt like shooting Semler,” Darrin suggested; and Evered -looked at him sidewise, a little alarmed. He seemed to put himself on -guard. - -Darrin got to his feet. “They were sitting by these rocks, weren’t -they?” - -“Yes.” - -The younger man bent above the other. “Evered,” he said, “why didn’t you -turn the bull from its charge?” - -He saw Evered’s face go white, his eyes flickering to and fro. The man -came to his feet. - -“There was no time!” he exclaimed. - -His voice was husky and unsteady; Darrin dominated him, seemed to tower -above him. There was about Evered the air of a broken man. - -Darrin pointed to the knoll. “You were within half a dozen strides of -them. The bull was full thirty yards away.” - -Evered cried, “Damn you!” - -He turned abruptly, climbed the knoll. Darrin stood still till Evered -was almost gone from his sight, then he shouted, “Evered!” Evered went -on; and Darrin with a low exclamation leaped after him. Evered must have -heard his pounding steps, but he did not turn. Darrin came up with him; -he tugged his pistol from its holster and jammed it against Evered’s -side. - -“Turn round,” he said, “or I’ll blow you in two.” - -Evered did not turn; he did not stop. Dusk had fallen upon them before -this; their figures were black in the growing darkness. A pelting spray -of rain swept over them, the drops like ice. Above them the hill was -black against the gray western sky. Behind them and below the swamp -brooded, dark and still. Surrounded by gloom and wind and rain the two -moved thus a dozen paces--Evered looking straight ahead, Darrin pressing -the pistol against the other’s ribs. - -Then Darrin leaped past the other, into Evered’s path, his weapon -leveled. “Stop!” he said, harshly. “You wife killer, stop, and listen to -me!” - -Evered came on; and Darrin in a voice that was like a scream warned him: -“I’ll shoot!” - -Evered did not stop. There was a certain dignity about the man, a -certain strength. Against it Darrin seemed to rebound helplessly. Their -rôles were reversed. Where Darrin had been dominant he was now weak; -where Evered had been weak he was strong. The older man came on; he was -within two paces. Darrin’s finger pressed the trigger--indecisively. -Then Evered’s great fist whipped round like light and struck Darrin’s -hand, and the pistol flew from his grip, end over end, and struck -against a bowlder with a flash of sparks in the darkness. Darrin’s hand -and wrist and arm were numbed by the blow; he hugged them against his -body. Evered watched him, still as still. And Darrin screamed at him in -a hoarse unsteady voice his black accusation. - -“You killed her!” he cried. “In that black temper of yours you let the -bull have her. You’re a devil on earth. Evered! You’re a devil among -men!” - -Evered lifted his hand, silencing the man. Darrin wished to speak and -dared not. There was something terrible in the other’s demeanor, -something terrible in his calm strength and purpose. - -He said at last in set tones: “It was my right. She was guilty as hell!” - -Darrin found courage to laugh. “You lie,” he said. “And that’s what I’m -here to tell you, man. I ought to take you and give you to other men, to -hang by the thick neck that holds up your evil head. But this is better, -Evered. This is better. I tell you your wife, whom you killed, was as -clean as snow.” - -When he had spoken he was afraid, for the light in Evered’s eyes was the -father of fear. He began to fumble in his coat in a desperate haste, not -daring to look away, not daring to take his eyes from Evered’s. He -fumbled there, and found the letter he had read beside his fire so -carefully; found it and drew it, crumpled, forth. He held it toward -Evered. - -“Read,” he cried. “Read that, and see.” - -Evered took the letter quietly; and before Darrin’s eyes the fury died -in the other man. Over his face there crept a mask of sorrow irrevocable -and profound. He said no word, but took the letter and opened it. The -light was dim; he could not read till Darrin flashed his electric torch -upon the page. A strange picture, in that moment, these two--Evered, -the old and breaking man; Darrin, young and vigorous; Evered dominant, -Darrin tremulously exultant; Evered, his great head bent, his -unaccustomed eyes scanning the written lines; Darrin holding the light -beside him. - -Evered was slow in reading the letter, for in the first place it was -written in his wife’s hand, and he had loved her; so that his eyes were -dimmed. He was not conscious of the words he read, though they were not -important. It was the message of the lines that came home to him; the -unmistakable truth that lay behind them. The letter of an unhappy woman -to a man whom she had found friendly and kind. She told Semler that she -loved Evered; told him this so simply there could be no questioning. -Would always love Evered. Bade Semler forget her, be gone, never return. -Nothing but friendliness for him. Bade him not make her unhappy. And at -the end, again, she wrote that she loved Evered. - -The man who had killed her did not so much read this letter as absorb -it, let it sink home into his heart and carry its own conviction there. - -It was not curiosity that moved him, not doubt that made him ask Darrin -quietly: “How got you this?” - -“From Semler,” Darrin told him. “I found him--followed him half across -the country--told him what I guessed. That was the only letter he ever -had from her. Written the day you killed her. Damn you, do you see!” - -“How came they together?” - -“He knew she liked to come to the spring; he found her there, argued -with her. She told him she loved you; there was no moving her. She loved -you, who killed her. You devil of a man!” - -Evered folded the letter carefully and put it into his coat. “Why do you -tell me?” he asked. - -“Because I know you cared for her!” Darrin cried. “Because I know this -will hurt you worse than death itself.” - -Evered standing very still shook his head slowly. “That was not my -meaning,” he explained patiently. “That is my concern. Why did you tell -me? Why so much trouble for this? How did the matter touch you, Darrin?” - -The younger man had waited for this moment, waited for it through the -years of his manhood. He had planned toward it for months past, shaping -it to his fancy. He had looked forward to it as a moment of triumph; he -had seen himself towering in just condemnation above one who trembled -before him. He had been drunk with this anticipation. - -But the reality was not like his dreams. He knew that Evered was broken; -that his soul must be shattered. Yet he could not exult. There was such -a strength of honest sorrow in the old man before him, there was so much -dignity and power that Darrin in spite of himself was shamed and shaken. -He felt something that was like regret. He felt himself mean and small; -like a malicious, mud-slinging, inconsiderable fragment of a man. His -voice was low, it was almost apologetic when he answered the other’s -question. - -“How did the matter touch you, Darrin?” Evered asked; and the rain swept -over them in a more tempestuous fusilade. - -Darrin said in a husky choking voice: “I’m Dave Riggs’ son. You killed -my father.” - -Evered, silent a moment, slowly nodded as though not greatly surprised. -“Dave Riggs’ boy,” he echoed. “Aye, I might have known.” And he added: -“I lost you, years agone. I tried to make matters easier for you, for -Dave’s sake. I was sorry for that matter, Darrin.” - -Darrin tried to flog his anger to white heat again. “You killed my -father,” he exclaimed. “When I was still a boy I swore that I’d pay you -for that. And when I grew up I planned and planned. And when I heard -about your wife, I came up here, to watch you--find out. I felt there -was something. I told you I’d seen Semler, trapped you. You told me more -than you meant to tell. And then I got trace of him, followed him. I did -it to blast you, Evered; pay you for what you did to me. That’s why.” - -He ended lamely; his anger was dead; his voice was like a plea. - -Evered said gently and without anger. “It was your right.” And a moment -later he turned slowly and went away, up the hill and toward his home. - -Darrin, left behind, labored again to wake the exultation he had counted -on; but he could not. He had hungered for this revenge of his, but there -is no substance in raw and naked vengeance. You cannot set your teeth -in it. Darrin found that it left him empty, that he was sick of himself -and of his own deeds. - -“It was coming to him,” he cried half aloud. - -But he could not put away from his thoughts the memory of Evered’s proud -dignity of sorrow; he was abashed before the man. - -He stumbled back to his rain-swept camp like one who has done a crime. - - - - -XVII - - -When Evered reached the farm, dark had fully fallen; and the cold rain -was splattering against the buildings, driven by fierce little gusts of -wind from the northwest as the direction of the storm shifted. The man -walked steadily enough, his head held high. What torment was hidden -behind his proud bearing no man could guess. He went to the kitchen, and -Ruth told him that John must be near done with the milking. Evered -nodded, as though he were tired. Ruth saw that he was wet, and when he -took off his coat and hat she brought him a cup of steaming tea and made -him drink it. He said, “Thanks, Ruthie!” And he took the cup from her -hands and sipped it slowly, the hot liquid bringing back his strength. - -His trousers were soaked through at the knees. She bade him go in and -change them; and he went to his room. When John came from the barn -Evered had not yet come out into the kitchen again. Supper was ready -and Ruth went to his door and called to him. - -He came out; and both Ruth and John saw the strange light in the man’s -eyes. He did not speak and they did not speak to him. There was that -about him which held them silent. He ate a little, then went to his room -again and shut the door. They could hear him for a little while, walking -to and fro. Then the sound of his footsteps ceased. - -Only one door lay between his room and the kitchen; and unconsciously -the two hushed their voices, so that they might not disturb him. John -got into dry clothes, then helped Ruth with the dishes, brought fresh -water from the pump to fill the tank at the end of the stove, brought -wood for the morning, turned the separator, and finally sat smoking -while she cleaned the parts of that instrument. They spoke now and then; -but there was some constraint between them. Both of them were thinking -of Evered. - -Ruth, her work finished, came and sat down by the stove with a basket of -socks to be darned, and her needle began to move carefully to and fro in -the gaping holes she stretched across her darning egg. - -John asked her in a low voice, “Did you mark trouble in my father this -night?” - -She looked at him, concern in her eyes. “Yes. There was something. He -seemed happier, somehow; yet very sad too.” - -He said, “His eyes were shining, like.” - -“I saw,” she agreed. - -John smoked for a little while. Then: “I’m wondering what it is,” he -murmured. “Something has happened to him.” - -Ruth, head bent above her work, remembered Darrin’s coming, his summons. -But she said nothing till John asked: “Do you know what it was?” - -“He was talking with Fred,” she said; and slowly, cheeks rosy, amended -herself: “With Mr. Darrin.” - -John nodded. “I knew they were away together.” - -“Mr. Darrin came for him,” said Ruth. “He took your father away.” - -They said no more of the matter, for there was nothing more to say; but -they thought a great deal. Now and then they spoke of other things. -Outside the house the wind was whistling and lashing the weatherboards -with rain; and after a while the sharp sound of the raindrops was -intensified to a clatter and John said, “It’s turned to hail. There’ll -be snow by morning.” - -The girl thought of Darrin. “He’ll be wet and cold out in this. He ought -to come up to the barn.” - -John smiled. “He can care for himself. His shelter will turn this, easy. -He’d come if he wanted to come.” - -His tone was friendly and Ruth asked, watching him, “You like Mr. -Darrin, don’t you?” - -“Yes,” John told her. “Yes,” he said slowly; “I like the man.” - -What pain the words cost him he hid from her eyes altogether. She was, -vaguely, a little disappointed. She had not wanted John to like Darrin; -and yet she--loved the man. She must love him; she had longed for him -so. Thinking of him as she sat here with her mending in her lap she felt -again that unaccountable pang of loneliness. And the girl looked -sidewise at John. John was watching the little flames that showed -through the grate in the front of the stove. He seemed to pay no heed to -her. - -After a while Ruth said she would go to bed; and she put away her -basket of mending, set her chair in place by the table and went to the -door that led toward her own room. John, still sitting by the stove, had -not turned. She stood in the doorway for a moment, watching him. There -was a curious yearning in her eyes. - -By and by she said softly, “Good night, John.” - -He got up from his chair, and turned toward her and stood there. “Good -night, Ruth,” he answered. - -She did not close the door between them; and after a moment, as though -without his own volition, his feet moved. He came toward her, came -nearer where she stood. - -She did not know whether to stay or to go. The girl was shaken, unsure -of herself, afraid of her own impulses. And then she remembered that she -loved Darrin, must love him. And she stepped back and shut the door -slowly between them. Even with the door shut she stood still, listening; -and she heard John turn and go back to his chair and sit down. - -She was swept by an unaccountable wave of angry disappointment. And the -girl turned into her room and with quick sharp movements loosed her -garments and put them aside and made herself ready for bed. She blew out -the light and lay down. But her eyes were wide, and she was wholly -without desire to sleep. And by and by she began to cry, for no reason -she could name. She was oppressed by a terrible weight of sorrow, -indefinable. It was as though this great sorrow were in the very air -about her. It was, she thought once gropingly, as though someone near -her were dying in the night. Once before she slept she heard Evered -moving to and fro in his room, adjoining hers. - -John had no heart for sleep that night. He sat in the kitchen alone for -a long time; and he went to bed at last, not because he was sleepy, but -because there was nothing else to do. He put wood in the stove and shut -it tightly; there would be some fire there in the morning. He put the -cats into the shed and locked the outer door, and so went at last to his -room. The man undressed slowly and blew out his light. When once he was -abed the healthy habit of his lusty youth put him quickly to sleep. He -slept with scarce a dream till an hour before dawn, and woke then, and -rose to dress for the morning’s chores. - -From his window, even before the light came, he saw that some wet snow -had fallen during the night. When he had made the fire in the kitchen -and filled the kettle he put on his boots and went to the barn. There -were inches of snow and half-frozen mud in the barnyard. It was cold and -dreary in the open. A little snow fell fitfully now and then. - -Within the barn the sweet odors that he loved greeted him. The place -steamed pleasantly with the body warmth of the cattle and the horse -stabled there; and he heard the pigs squealing softly, as though in -their sleep, in their winter pen at the farther end of the barn floor. -He lighted his lantern and hung it to a peg and fed the stock--a little -grain to the horse, hay to the cows, some cut-up squash and a basketful -of beets to the pigs. As an afterthought he gave beets to the cows as -well. John worked swiftly, cleaned up the horse’s stall and the tie-up -where the line of cows was secured. After he was done here he fed the -bull, the red bull in its strong stall; and while the creature ate he -cleaned the place and put fresh bedding in upon the floor. The bull -seemed undisturbed by his presence; it turned its great head now and -then to look at him with steady eyes, but there was no ugliness in its -movements. When he had finished his work John stroked the great -creature’s flank and shoulder and neck for a moment. - -He said under his breath, “You’re all right, old boy. You’re all right. -You’re clever, by golly. Clever as a cow.” - -When Fraternity says a beast is clever it means gentle and kind rather -than shrewd. The bull seemed to understand what John said; or what lay -in his tone. The great head turned and pressed against him, not roughly. -John stroked it a minute more, then left the stall and took a last look -round to be sure he had forgotten nothing, and then went to the house. -Day was coming now; there was a ghostly gray light in the farmyard. And -the snow had turned, for the time, to a drizzling, sleeting sprinkle of -rain. - -In the kitchen he found Ruth moving about; and she gave him the milk -pails and he went out to milk. There were only three cows giving milk at -that time. Two would come in in December; but for the present milking -was a small chore. John was not long about it, but by the time he had -finished and returned to the kitchen breakfast was almost ready. Evered -had not yet come from his room. - -Ruth half whispered: “He was up in the night. I think he’s asleep. I’m -going to let him sleep a while.” - -John nodded. “All right,” he agreed. - -“He’s so tired,” said Ruth; and there was a gentleness in her tone which -made John look at her with some surprise. She had not spoken gently of -Evered for months past. - -They separated the milk and gave the cats their morning ration and then -they sat themselves down and breakfasted. When they were half done Ruth -saw that day was fully come, and blew out the lamp upon the table -between them. It left the kitchen so bleak and cheerless, however, that -she lighted it again. - -“I don’t like a day like this,” she said. “It’s ugly. Everything is -ugly. It makes me nervous, somehow.” - -She shivered a little and looked about her as though she felt some -fearful thing at her very shoulder. John, more phlegmatic, watched her -in some bewilderment. Ruth was not usually nervous. - -They had not heard Evered stirring; and all that morning they moved on -tiptoe about their work. John forebore to split wood in the shed, his -usual task on stormy days, lest he waken his father. Ruth handled the -dishes gently, careful not to rattle them; she swept the floor with easy -strokes that made but little sound. When Evered came into the kitchen, a -little before noon, she and John looked at the man with quick curiosity, -not knowing what they would see. - -They saw only that Evered’s head was held a little higher than was his -custom of late; they saw that his eyes were sober and clear and -thoughtful; they marked that his voice was gentle. He had dinner with -them, speaking little, then went back to his room. - -Soon after dinner Darrin came to the door. Ruth asked him in, but the -man would not come. John was in the barn; and Ruth, a little uneasy and -afraid before this man, wished John were here. - -She asked Darrin, “Were you all right, last night?” - -He said he had been comfortable; that he had been able to keep dry. He -had come on no definite errand. - -“I just--wanted to see you,” he said. - -Ruth made no reply, because she did not know what to say. - -Darrin asked, “Are you all all right here?” - -“Why, yes,” she told him. - -He looked to right and left, his eyes unable to meet hers. “Is Evered -all right?” he asked. - -She felt the tension in his voice without understanding it. “Yes,” she -said uncertainly; and then: “Why?” - -He tried to laugh. “Why, nothing. Where’s John?” - -Ruth told him John was in the barn and Darrin went out there. Ruth was -left alone in the house. Once or twice during the afternoon she saw John -and Darrin in the barn door. They seemed to be doing nothing, sitting in -the shelter there, whittling, smoking, talking slowly. - -She felt the presence of Evered in his room, a presence like a brooding -sorrow. It oppressed her. She became nervous, restless, moving aimlessly -to and fro, and once she went to her room for something and found -herself crying. She brushed away the tears impatiently, unable to -understand. But she was afraid. There was something dreadful in the very -air of the house. - -At noon the wind had turned colder and for a time the sleet and rain -altogether ceased. The temperature was dropping; crystals of ice formed -on the puddles in the barnyard, and the patches of old snow which lay -here and there stiffened like hot metal hardening in a mold. Then with -the abrupt and surprising effect of a stage transformation snow began to -come down from the lowering, driving clouds. This was in its way a -whole-hearted snowstorm, in some contrast to the miserable drizzle of -the night. It was fine and wet, and hard-driven by the wind. There were -times when the barn, a little way from the house, was obscured by the -flying flakes; and the trees beyond were wholly hidden behind a veil of -white. - -Ruth went about the house making sure that the windows were snug. From a -front window she saw that the storm had thinned in that direction. She -was able to look down into the orchard, which lay a little below the -house, sloping away toward North Fraternity. The nearer trees were -plain, the others were hidden from sight. - -The driving wind plastered this wet snow against everything it touched. -One side of every tree, one side of every twig assumed a garment of -white. The windows which the wind struck were opaque with it. When Ruth -went back to the kitchen she saw that a whole side of the barn was so -completely covered by the snow blanket that the dark shingling was -altogether hidden. Against the white background of the storm it was as -though this side of the barn had ceased to exist. The illusion was so -abrupt that for a moment it startled her. - -The snow continued to fall for much of the afternoon; then the storm -drifted past them and the hills all about were lighted up, not by the -sun itself, but by an eerie blue light, which may have been the sun -refracted and reflected by the snow that was still in the air above. The -storm had left a snowy covering upon the world; and even this white -blanket had a bluish tinge. Snow clung to windward of every tree and -rock and building. Even the clothesline in the yard beside the house was -hung with it. - -At first, when the storm had but just passed, the scene was very -beautiful; but in the blue light it was pitilessly, bleakly cold. Then -distantly the sun appeared. Ruth saw it first indirectly. Down the -valley to the southward, a valley like a groove between two hills, the -low scurrying clouds began to lift; and so presently the end of the -valley was revealed, and Ruth was able to look through beneath the -screen of clouds, and she could see the slopes of a distant hill where -the snow had fallen lightly, brilliantly illumined by the golden -sun--gold on the white of the snow and the brown and the green of grass -and of trees. Mystically beautiful--blue sky in the distance there; and, -between, the sun-dappled hills. The scene was made more gorgeous by the -somber light which still lay about the farm. - -Then the clouds lifted farther and the sun came nearer. A little before -sunset blue skies showed overhead, the sun streamed across the farm, the -snow that had stuck against everything it touched began to sag and drop -away; and the dripping of melting snow sounded cheerfully in the -stillness of the late afternoon. - -Ruth saw John and Darrin in the farmyard talking together, watching the -skies. They came toward the house and John bade her come out to see. -The three of them walked round to the front, where the eye might reach -for miles into infinite vistas of beauty. They stood there for a little -time. - -The dropping sun bathed all the land in splendor; the winds had passed, -the air was still as honey. Earth was become a thing of glory beyond -compare. - -They were still standing here when they heard the hoarse and furious -bellow of the great red bull. - - - - -XVIII - - -Evered had not slept the night before. There was no sleep in the man. -And this was not because he was torn and agonized; it was because he had -never been so fully alive, so alert of mind and body. - -Darrin’s accusation had come to him as no shock; Darrin’s proof that his -wife was loyal had come as no surprise. He had expected neither; yet -when they came it seemed to the man that he must have known they would -come. It seemed to him that all the world must know what he had done; -and it seemed to him that he must always have known his wife was--his -wife forever. - -His principal reaction was a great relief of spirit. He was unhappy, -sorrowful; yet there was a pleasant ease and solace in his very -unhappiness. For he was rid now, at last, of doubts and of -uncertainties; his mind was no more beclouded; there were no more -shadows of mystery and questioning. All was clear before him; all that -there was to know he knew. And--his secret need no longer be borne -alone. Darrin knew; it was as though the whole world knew. He was -indescribably relieved by this certainty. - -He did not at first look into the future at all. He let himself breathe -the present. He came back to the farm and ate his supper and went to his -room; and there was something that sang softly within him. It was almost -as though his wife waited for him, comfortingly, there. Physically a -little restless, he moved about for a time; but his mind was steady, his -thoughts were calm. - -His thoughts were memories, harking backward through the years. - -Evered was at this time almost fifty years old. He was born in North -Fraternity, in the house of his mother’s father, to which she had gone -when her time came near. Evered’s own father had died weeks before, in -the quiet fashion of the countryside. That had been on this hillside -farm above the swamp, which Evered’s father had owned. His mother stayed -upon the farm for a little, and when the time came she went to her home, -and when Evered was a month old she had brought him back to the farm -again. - -She died, Evered remembered, when he was still a boy, nine or ten years -old. She had not married a second time, but her brother had come to live -with her, and he survived her and kept the farm alive and producing. He -taught Evered the work that lay before him. He had been a butcher, and -it was from him Evered learned the trade. A kind man, Evered remembered, -but not over wise; and he had lacked understanding of the boy. - -Evered had been a brilliant boy, active and wholly alive, his mind alert -and keen, his muscles quick, his temper sharp. Yet his anger was -accustomed to pass quickly, so that he had in him the stuff that makes -friends; and he had friends in those days. Still in his teens he won the -friendship of the older men, even as he dominated the boys of his own -age. He and Lee Motley had grown up together. There had always been -close sympathy between these two. - -When he was nineteen he married, in the adventurous spirit of youth, a -girl of the hills; a simple lovely child, not so old as he. Married her -gaily, brought her home gaily. There had been affection between them, he -knew now, but nothing more. He had thought himself heartbroken when, -their boy child still a baby, she had died. But a year later he met Mary -MacLure, and there had never been any other woman in the world for him -thereafter. - -Evered’s memories were very vivid; it needed no effort to bring back to -him Mary’s face as he first saw her. A dance in the big hall halfway -from North Fraternity to Montville. She came late, two men with her; and -Evered saw her come into the door. He had come alone to the dance; he -was free to devote himself to her, and within the half hour he had swept -all others aside, and he and Mary MacLure danced and danced together, -while their pulses sang in the soft air of the night, and their eyes, -meeting, glowed and glowed. - -Fraternity still talked of that swift, hot courtship. Evered had fought -two men for her, and that fight was well remembered. He had fought for a -clear field, and won it, though Mary MacLure scolded him for the -winning, as long as she had heart to scold this man. From his first -moment with her Evered had been lifted out of himself by the emotions -she awoke in him. He loved her hotly and jealously and passionately; -and in due course he won her. - -Not too quickly, for Mary MacLure knew her worth and knew how to make -herself dear to him. She humbled him, and at first he suffered this, -till one night he came to her house when the flowers were abloom and the -air was warm as a caress. And at first, seated on the steps of her porch -with the man at her feet, she teased him lightly and provokingly, till -he rose and stood above her. Something made her rise too; and then she -was in his arms, lips yielding to his, trembling to his ardent whispers. -For long minutes they stood so, conscious only of each other, drunk with -the mutual ecstasy of conquest and of surrender, tempestuously -embracing. - -They were married, and he brought her home to the farm above the swamp, -and because he loved her so well, because he loved her too well, he had -watched over her with jealous eyes, had guarded her. She became a -recluse. An isolation grew up about them. Evered wanted no human being -in his life but her; and when the ardor of his love could find no other -vent, it showed itself in cruel gibes at her, in reckless words. - -Youth was still hot in the man. He and Mary might have weathered this -hard period of adjustment, might have come to a quiet happiness -together; but it was in these years that Evered killed Dave Riggs, a -thing half accident. He had gone forth that day with bitterness in his -heart; he had quarreled with Mary, and hated himself for it; and hated -by proxy all the world besides. Riggs irritated him profoundly, roused -the quick anger in the man. And when the hot clouds cleared from before -his eyes Riggs was dead. - -A thing that could not be undone, it had molded Evered’s soul into harsh -and rugged lines. It was true, as he had told Darrin, that he had sought -to make some amends; had offered help to the dead man’s wife, first -openly, and then--when she cursed him from her door--in secret, hidden -ways. But she left Fraternity and took her child, and they lost -themselves in the outer world. - -So Evered could not ease his conscience by the reparation he longed to -make; and the thing lay with him always through the years thereafter. A -thing fit to change a man in unpleasant fashion, the killing had shaped -Evered’s whole life--to this black end that lay before him. - -The man during this long night alone in his room thought back through -all the years; and it was as though he sat in judgment on himself. There -was, there had always been a native justice in him; he never deceived -his own heart, never palliated even to himself his own ill deeds. There -was no question in his mind now. He knew the thing he had done in all -its ugly lights. And as he thought of it, sitting beside his bed, he -played with the heavy knife which he had carried all these years. He -fondled the thing in his hand, eyes half closed as he stared at it. He -was not conscious that he held it. Yet it had become almost a part of -him through long habit; and it was as much a part of him now as his own -hand that held it. The heavy haft balanced so familiarly. - -The night, and then the day. A steady calm possessed him. His memories -flowed smoothly past, like the eternal cycle of the days. The man’s face -did not change; he was expressionless. He was sunk so deep in his own -thoughts that the turmoil there did not disturb his outward aspect. His -countenance was grave and still. No tears flowed; this was no time for -tears. It was an hour too deep for tears, a sorrow beyond weeping. - -During the storm that day he went to the window now and then. And once -in the morning he heard the red bull bellow in its pen; and once or -twice thereafter, as the afternoon drove slowly on. Each time he heard -this sound it was as though the man’s attention was caught and held. He -stood still in a listening attitude, as though waiting for the bellow to -be repeated; and it would be minutes on end before his eyes clouded with -his own thoughts again. - -It would be easy to say that Evered during this solitary night and day -went mad with grief and self-condemning, but it would not be true. The -man was never more sane. His thoughts were profound, but they were quiet -and slow and unperturbed. They were almost impersonal. There is in most -men--though in few women--this power to withdraw out of oneself or into -an inner deeper self; this power to stand as spectator of one’s own -actions. It is a manifestation of a deeper, more remote consciousness. -It is as though there were a man within a man. And this inner soul has -no emotions. It is unmoved by love or passion, by anger or hatred, by -sorrow or grief, by hunger or by thirst. It watches warm caresses, it -hears ardent words, it sees fierce blows, and listens to curses and -lamentations with the same inscrutable and immutable calm. It can -approve, it can condemn; but it neither rejoices nor bemoans. It is -always conscious that the moment is nothing, eternity everything; that -the whole alone has portent and importance. This inner self has a depth -beyond plumbing; it has a strength unshakable; it has understanding -beyond belief. It is not conscience, for it sets itself up as no arbiter -of acts or deeds. It is simply a consciousness that that which is done -is good or evil, kind or harsh, wise or foolish. This calm inner soul of -souls might be called God in man. - -Evered this day lived in this inner consciousness. As though he sat -remote above the stream he watched the years of his memories flow by. He -was, after the first moments, torn by no racking grief and wrenched by -no remorseful torments and burned by no agonizing fires. He was without -emotion, but not without judgment and not without decision. He moved -through his thoughts as though to a definitely appointed and -pre-determined end. A strange numbness possessed him, in which only his -mind was alive. - -He did not pity himself; neither did he damn himself. He did not pray -that he might cancel all the past, for this inner consciousness knew the -past could never be canceled. He simply thought upon it, with grave and -sober consideration. - -When his thoughts evidenced themselves in actions it was done slowly, -and as though he did know not what he did. He got up from where he had -been sitting and went to the window and looked out. The snow had ceased; -the sun was breaking through. The world was never more beautiful, never -more gloriously white and clean. - -The man had held in his hands for most of the day that heavy knife of -his. He put it now back in its sheath. Then he took off his shirt and -washed himself. There was no fire of purpose in his eye; he was utterly -calm and unhurried. - -He put on a clean shirt. It was checked blue and white. Mary Evered had -made it for him, as she was accustomed to make most of his clothes. -When it was buttoned he drew his belt about him and buckled it snug. -Then he sat down and took off his slippers--old, faded, rundown things -that had eased his tired feet night by night for years. He took off -these slippers and put on hobnailed shoes, lacing them securely. - -When this was done the man stood for a little in the room, and he looked -steadily before him. His eyes did not move to this side and that; there -was no suggestion that he was taking farewell of the familiar things -about him. It was more as though he looked upon something which other -eyes could never see. And his face lighted a little; it was near -smiling. There was peace in it. - -I do not believe that there was any deadly purpose in Evered’s heart -when he left his room. Fraternity thinks so; Fraternity has never -thought anything else about the matter. He took his knife, in its -sheath. That is proof enough for Fraternity. “He went to do the bull, -and the bull done him.” That is what they say, have always said. - -It does not occur to them that the man took the knife because he was a -man; because it was not in him to lay down his life supinely; because -battle had always been in his blood and was his instinct. It does not -occur to them that there was in Evered’s mind this day the purpose of -atonement, and nothing more. For Fraternity had never plumbed the man, -had never understood him. - -No matter. No need to dig for hidden things. Enough to know what Evered -did. - -He went from his room into the kitchen. No one was there. Ruth and John -and Darrin were outside in front of the house. Thus they did not see him -come out into the barnyard and go steadily and surely across and past -the corner of the barn, till he came to the high-boarded walls of the -red bull’s pen. - -He put his hand against these board walls for a moment, with a gesture -not unlike that of a blind man. One watching would have supposed that he -walked unseeingly or that his eyes were closed. He went along the wall -of the pen until he came to the narrow gate, set between two of the -cedar posts, through which it was possible to enter. - -Evered opened this gate, stepped inside the pen and shut the gate behind -him. He took half a dozen paces forward, into the center of the -inclosure, and stood still. - -The red bull had heard the gate open; and the creature turned in its -stall and came to the door between stall and pen. It saw Evered standing -there; and after a moment the beast came slowly out, moving one foot at -a time, carefully, like a watchful antagonist--came out till it was -clear of the stall; till it and the man faced each other, not twenty -feet apart. - -After a moment the bull lowered its great head and emitted a harsh and -angry bellow that was like a roar. - - - - -XIX - - -The beauty of the whole world in this hour should be remembered. Houses, -trees, walls, shrubs, knolls--all were overlaid with the snow blanket -inches deep. It had been faintly blue, this carpet of snow, in the first -moments after the storm passed, and before the sun had broken through. -When the sun illumined the hill about the farm the snow was dazzling -white, blinding the eye with a thousand gleams, as though it were -diamond dust spread all about them. Afterward, when John and Darrin and -Ruth had passed to the front of the house to look across the valley and -away, the sun descending lost its white glare; its rays took on a -crimson hue. Where they struck the snow fairly it was rose pink; where -shadows lay the blue was coming back again. The air was so clear that it -seemed not to exist, yet did exist as a living, pulsing color which was -all about--faint, hardly to be seen. - -The three stood silent, watching all this. Ruth could not have spoken -if she had wished to do so; she could scarce breathe. Darrin watched -unseeingly, automatically, his thoughts busy elsewhere. John stood -still, and his eyes were narrowed and his face was faintly flushed, -either by the sun’s light or by the intoxication of beauty which was -spread before him. And they were standing thus when there came to them -through the still, liquid air the bellow of the bull. - -John and Ruth reacted automatically to that sound. They were accustomed -to the beast; they could to some extent distinguish between its -outcries, guess at its moods from them. Its roaring was always frightful -to an unaccustomed ear; but they were used to it, were disturbed only by -some foreign note in the sound. They both knew now that the bull was -murderously angry. They did not know, had no way of knowing what had -roused it. It might be a dog, a cat; it might be that one of the cows -had broken loose and was near its stall; it might be a pig; it might be -a hen; it might be merely a rat running in awkward loping bounds across -its pen. They did not stop to wonder; but John turned and ran toward the -pen, and Ruth followed him, stumbling through the soft snow. Darrin, to -whom the bull’s bellow had always been a frightful sound, was startled -by it, would have asked a question. When he saw them run round the house -he followed them. - -John was in the lead, but Ruth was swift footed and was at his shoulder -when he reached the gate of the pen. The walls of the inclosure and the -gate itself were so high that they could not look over the top. But just -beside the main gate there was a smaller one, like a door; too narrow -and too low for the bull to pass, but large enough for a man. John -fumbled with the latch of this gate; and his moment’s delay gave the -others time to come up with him. When he opened the way and stepped into -the pen Ruth and Darrin were at his shoulder. Thus that which was in the -pen broke upon them all three at once--a picture never to be forgotten, -indelibly imprinted on their minds. - -The snow that had fallen in the inclosure was trampled here and there by -the tracks of the bull and by the tracks of the man, and in one spot it -was torn and tossed and crushed into mud, as though the two had come -together there in some strange matching of strength. At this spot too -there was a dark patch upon the snow; a patch that looked almost black. -Yet Ruth knew what had made this patch, and clutched at her throat to -stifle her scream; and John knew, and Darrin knew. And the two men were -sick and shaken. - -At the other side of the pen, perhaps a dozen long paces from where they -stood, Evered and the bull faced each other. Neither had heard their -coming, neither had seen them. They were, for the fraction of a second, -motionless. The great bull’s head was lowered; its red neck was streaked -with darker red where a long gash lay. From this gash dripped and -dripped and spurted a little stream, a dark and ugly stream. - -The man, Evered, stood erect and still, facing the bull. They saw that -he bore the knife in his left hand; and they saw that his right arm was -helpless, hanging in a curiously twisted way, bent backward below the -elbow. The sleeve of his checked shirt was stained there, and his hand -was red. His shoulder seemed somehow distorted. Yet he was erect and -strong, and his face was steady and curiously peaceful, and he made no -move to escape or to flee. - -An eternity that was much less than a second passed while no man moved, -while the bull stood still. Then its short legs seemed to bend under it; -its great body hurtled forward. The vast bulk moved quick as light. It -was upon the man. - -They saw Evered strike, lightly, with his left hand; and there was no -purpose behind the blow. It had not the strength to drive it home. At -the same time the man leaped to one side, sliding his blade down the -bull’s shoulder; leaped lightly and surely to one side. The bull swept -almost past the man, the great head showed beyond him. - -Then the head swung back and struck Evered in the side, and he fell, -over and over, rolling like a rabbit taken in midleap by the gunner’s -charge of shot. And the red bull turned as a hound might have turned, -with a speed that was unbelievable. Its head, its forequarters rose; -they saw its feet come down with a curious chopping stroke--apparently -not so desperately hard--saw its feet come down once, and twice upon the -prostrate man. - -It must be remembered that all this had passed quickly. It was no more -than a fifth of a second that John Evered stopped within the gate of -the pen. Then he was leaping toward the bull, and Ruth followed him. -Darrin crouched in the gate, and his face was white as death. He cried, -“Come back, Ruth!” And even as she ran after John she had time to look -back toward Darrin and see him cowering there. - -John took off his coat as he ran, took it off with a quick whipping -motion. He swung it back behind him, round his head. And then as the -bull’s body rose for another deadly downward hoofstroke John struck it -in the flank with all his weight. He caught the beast faintly off -balance, so that the bull pivoted on its hind feet, away from the fallen -man; and before the great creature could turn John whipped his coat into -its face, lashing it again and again. The bull shook its great head, -turning away from the blinding blows; and John caught the coat about its -head and held it there, his arms fairly round the bull’s neck. He was -shouting, shouting into its very ear. Ruth even in that moment heard -him. And she marked that his tone was gentle, quieting, kind. There was -no harshness in it. - -She needed no telling what to do. John had swung the bull away from -Evered; he had the creature blinded. She bent beside the prostrate man -and tried to drag him to his feet, but Evered bent weakly in the middle. -He was conscious, he looked up at her, his face quite calm and happy; -and he shook his head. He said, “Go.” - -The girl caught him beneath the shoulders and tried to drag him backward -through the soft snow across the pen. It was hard work. John still -blinding the bull, still calling out to the beast, was working it away -from her. - -She could not call on him for help; she turned and cried to Darrin, -“Help me--carry him.” - -Darrin came cautiously into the pen and approached her and took her arm. -“Come away,” he said. - -Her eyes blazed at him; and she cried again, “Carry him out.” - -He said huskily, “Leave him. Leave him here. Come away.” - -She had never released Evered’s shoulders, never ceased to tug at him. -But Darrin took her arm now as though to pull her away; and she swung -toward him so fiercely that he fell back from her. The girl began -abruptly to cry; half with anger at Darrin, half with pity for the -broken man in her arms. And she tugged and tugged, sliding the limp body -inch by inch toward safety. - -Then she saw John beside her. He had guided the bull, half forcing, half -persuading, to the entrance into the stall; he had worked the creature -in, prodding it, urging; and shut and made secure the door. Now he was -at her side. He knelt with her. - -“He’s terribly hurt,” she said through her tears. - -John nodded. “I’ll take him,” he told her. - -So he gathered Evered into his arms, gathered him up so tenderly, and -held the man against his breast, and Ruth supported Evered’s drooping -head as she walked beside John. They came to the gate and it was too -narrow for them to pass through. So Ruth went through alone, to open the -wider gate from the outside. - -She found Darrin there, standing uncertainly. She looked at him as she -might have looked at a stranger. She was hardly conscious that he was -there at all. When he saw what she meant to do he would have helped her. -She turned to him then, and she seemed to bring her thoughts back from a -great distance; she looked at him for a moment and then she said, “Go -away!” - -He cried, “Ruth! Please----” - -She repeated, “I want you to go away. Oh,” she cried, “go away! Don’t -ever come here again!” - -Darrin moved back a step, and she swung the gate open so that John could -come through, and closed it behind him, and walked with him to the -kitchen door, supporting Evered’s head. Darrin hesitated, then followed -them uncertainly. - -When they came to the door Ruth opened it, and John--moving sidewise so -that his burden should not brush against the door frame--went into the -kitchen, and across. Ruth passed round him to open the door into -Evered’s own room; and John went through. - -When he reached the bedside and turned to lay Evered there he missed -Ruth. He looked toward the kitchen; and he saw her standing in the outer -doorway. Darrin was on the steps before her. John heard Darrin say -something pleadingly. Ruth stood still for a moment. Then John saw her -slowly shut the door, shutting out the other man. And he saw her turn -the key and shoot the bolt. - -She came toward him, running; and her eyes were full of tears. - -They laid Evered on his own bed, the bed he and Mary Evered had shared. -Ruth put the pillow under his head; and because it was cold in the room -she would have drawn a blanket across him. John shook his head. He was -loosening the other’s garments, making swift examination of his father’s -hurts, pressing and probing firmly here and there. - -Evered had drifted out of consciousness on the way to the house; but his -eyes opened now and there was sweat on his forehead. He looked up at -them steadily and soberly enough. - -“You hurt me, John,” he said. - -Ruth whispered, “I’ll telephone the doctor.” - -Evered turned his head a little on the pillow, and looked toward her. -“No,” he said, “no need.” - -“Oh, there must be!” she cried. “There must be! He can----” - -Evered interrupted her. “Don’t go, Ruthie. I want to talk to you.” - -She was crying; she came slowly back to the bedside. The sun was ready -to dip behind the hills. Its last rays coming through the window fell -across her face. She was somehow glorified. She put her hand on Evered’s -head, and he--the native strength still alive within him--reached up and -caught it in his and held it firmly thereafter for a space. - -“You’re crying,” he said. - -“I can’t help it,” she told him. - -“Why are you crying?” he asked. - -“Because I’m so sorry for you.” - -A slow wave of happiness crept into his eyes. “You’re a good girl, -Ruthie. You mustn’t cry for me.” - -She brushed her sleeve across her eyes. “Why did you do it?” she asked -almost fiercely. “Why did you let him get at you?” - -“You’ve been hating me, Ruthie,” he told her gently. “Why do you cry for -me?” - -“Oh,” she told him, “I don’t hate you now. I don’t hate you now.” - -He said weakly, “You’ve reason to hate me.” - -“No, no!” she said. “Don’t be unhappy. You never meant--you loved Mary.” - -“Aye,” he agreed, “I loved Mary. I loved Mary, and John loves you.” - -She was sitting on the edge of the bed, John standing beside her; but -she did not look up at him. Her eyes were all for Evered. - -“Please,” she said. “Rest. Let me get the doctor.” - -His head moved slowly in negation. “Something to tell you, Ruth, -first--before the doctor comes.” - -She looked toward John then, for decision or for reassurance. His eyes -answered her; they bade her listen; they told her there was no work for -the doctor here. So she turned back to Evered again. He was speaking -slowly; she caught his words bending above him. - -It was thus that the man told the story at last, without heat or -passion, neither sparing himself nor condemning himself, but as though -he spoke of another man. And he spoke of little things that he had not -been conscious of noticing at the time--how when he took down his -revolver to go after the bull the cats were frightened and ran from him; -how as he passed through the barnyard the horse whinnied from its stall; -how he was near stumbling over a ground sparrow’s nest in the open land -above the woodlot; how a red squirrel mocked at him from a hemlock as -he went on his way. It was as though he lived the day over while they -listened. He told how he had come out above the spring; how he saw Mary -and Dane Semler there. - -“I believed she loved him,” he said. - -And Ruth cried, “Oh, she never loved anyone but you.” She was not -condemning, she was reassuring him; and he understood, his hand -tightening on hers. - -“I know,” he said. “And my unbelief was my great wrong to Mary; worse -than the other.” - -He went on steadily enough. “There was time,” he told her. “I could have -turned him, stopped him, shot him. But I hated her; I let the bull come -on.” - -The girl scarce heard him. His words meant little to her; her sympathy -for him was so profound that her only concern was to ease the man and -make him happier. - -She cried, “Don’t, don’t torment yourself! Please, I understand.” - -“I killed her,” he said. - -And as one would soothe a child, while the tears ran down her cheeks she -bade him never mind. - -“There, there. Never mind,” she pleaded. - -“I killed her, but I loved her,” he went on implacably. - -And he told them something of his sorrow afterward, and told them how he -had stifled his remorse by telling himself that Mary was false; how he -had kept his soul alive with that poor unction. He was weakening fast; -the terrific battering which he had endured was having its effect upon -even his great strength; but his voice went steadily on. - -He came to Darrin, came to that scene with Darrin the night before, by -the spring; and so told how Darrin had proved to him that Mary -was--Mary. And at last, as though they must understand, he added, “So -then I knew.” - -They did not ask what he knew; these two did understand. They knew the -man as no others would ever know him--knew his heart, knew his -unhappiness. There was no need of his telling them how he had passed the -night, and then the day. He did not try. - -Ruth was comforting him; and he watched her with a strange and wistful -light in his eyes. - -“You’ve hated me, Ruthie,” he reminded her. “Do you hate me now?” - -There was no hate in her, nothing but a flooding sympathy and sorrow for -the broken man. She cried, “No, no!” - -“You’re forgiving----” - -“Yes. Please--please know.” - -“Then Mary will,” he murmured half to himself. - -Ruth nodded, and told him, “Yes, yes; she will. Please, never fear.” - -For a little while he was silent, while she spoke to him hungrily and -tenderly, as a mother might have spoken; and her arms round him seemed -to feel the man slipping away. She was weeping terribly; and he put up -one hand and brushed her eyes. - -“Don’t cry,” he bade her. “It’s all right, don’t cry.” - -“I can’t help it. I don’t want to help it. Oh, if there was only -anything I could do.” - -He smiled faintly; and his words were so husky she could scarcely hear. - -“Go to John,” he said. - -She held him closer. “Please----” - -“Please go to John,” he urged again. - -She still held him, but her arms relaxed a little. She looked up at -John, and saw the young man standing there beside her. And a picture -came back to her--the picture of John throwing himself against the red -bull’s flank, blinding it, urging it away. His voice had been so gentle, -and sure, and strong. She herself in that moment had burned with hate of -the bull. Yet there had been no hate in John, nothing but gentleness and -strength. - -She had coupled him with Evered in her thoughts for so long that there -was a strange illumination in her memories now; she saw John as though -she had never seen him before; and almost without knowing it she rose -and stood before him. - -John made no move to take her; but she put her arms round his neck and -drew his head down. Only then did his arms go about her and hold her -close. There was infinite comfort in them. He bent and kissed her. And -strangely she thought of Darrin. There had been something hard and cruel -in his embrace, there had been loneliness in his arms. There was only -gentleness in John’s; and she was not lonely here. She looked up, -smiling through her tears. - -“Oh, John, John!” she whispered. - -As they kissed so closely, the warm light from the west came through the -window and enfolded them. And Evered, upon the bed, wearily turned his -head till he could see them, watch them. While he watched, his eyes -lighted with a slow contentment. And after a little a smile crept across -his face, such a smile as comes only with supreme happiness and peace. A -kindly, loving smile. - -He was still smiling when they turned toward him again; but they -understood at once that Evered himself had gone away. - - -THE END. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EVERED *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Evered</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Ben Ames Williams</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: January 27, 2021 [eBook #64398]</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images available at The Internet Archive)</div> - -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EVERED ***</div> -<hr class="full" /> - -<p class="c"><b>EVERED</b></p> - -<div class="c"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" height="550" alt="" /> -</div> - -<h1> -EVERED</h1> - -<p class="c">BY<br /> -BEN AMES WILLIAMS<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -NEW YORK<br /> -E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY<br /> -681 <span class="smcap">Fifth Avenue</span><br /> -<br /> -<br /> -Copyright, 1921,<br /> -By E. P. Dutton & Company<br /> -<br /> -<i>All Rights Reserved</i><br /> -<br /> -<br /> -PRINTED IN THE UNITED<br /> -STATES OF AMERICA<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_1" id="page_1">{1}</a></span><br /><br /><br /> -<b><big>EVERED</big></b></p> - -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#I">Chapter: I, </a> -<a href="#II">II, </a> -<a href="#III">III, </a> -<a href="#IV">IV, </a> -<a href="#V">V, </a> -<a href="#VI">VI, </a> -<a href="#VII">VII, </a> -<a href="#VIII">VIII, </a> -<a href="#IX">IX, </a> -<a href="#X">X, </a> -<a href="#XI">XI, </a> -<a href="#XII">XII, </a> -<a href="#XIII">XIII, </a> -<a href="#XIV">XIV, </a> -<a href="#XV">XV, </a> -<a href="#XVI">XVI, </a> -<a href="#XVII">XVII, </a> -<a href="#XVIII">XVIII, </a> -<a href="#XIX">XIX.</a> -</p> - -<h2><a name="I" id="I"></a>I</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HERE is romance in the very look of the land of which I write. Beauty -beyond belief, of a sort to make your breath come more quickly; and -drama—comedy or tragedy according to the eye and the mood of the seer. -Loneliness and comradeship, peace and conflict, friendship and enmity, -gayety and somberness, laughter and tears. The bold hills, little -cousins to the mountains, crowd close round each village; the clear -brooks thread wood and meadow; the birches and scrub hardwood are taking -back the abandoned farms. When the sun drops low in the west there is a -strange and moving purple tinge upon the slopes; and the shadows are as -blue as blue can be. When the sun is high there is a greenery about this -northern land which is almost tropical in its richness and variety.</p> - -<p>The little villages lie for the most part in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_2" id="page_2">{2}</a></span> sheltered valley spots. -Not all of them. Liberty, for example, climbs up along a steep hill road -on your way to St. George’s Pond, or over the Sheepscot Ridge, for -trout. No spot lovelier anywhere. But you will come upon other little -house clusters, a white church steeple topping every one, at unsuspected -crossroads, with some meadowland round and about, and a brook running -through the village itself, and perhaps a mill sprawled busily across -the brook. It is natural that the villages should thus seek shelter; for -when the winter snows come down this is a harsh land, and bitter cold. -So is it all the more strange that the outlying farms are so often set -high upon the hills, bare to the bleak gales. And the roads, too, like -to seek and keep the heights. From Fraternity itself, for example, there -is a ten-mile ridge southwest to Union, and a road along the whole -length of the ridge’s crest, from which you may look for miles on either -side.</p> - -<p>This is not a land of bold emprises; neither is it one of those -localities which are said to be happy because they have no history. -There is history in the very names of the villages hereabouts. Liberty, -and Union, and Freedom; Equality, and Fraternity. And men will tell<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_3" id="page_3">{3}</a></span> you -how their fathers’ fathers came here in the train of General Knox, when -that warrior, for Revolutionary services rendered, was given title to -all the countryside; and how he sub-granted to his followers; and how -they cleared farms, and tilled the soil, and lumbered out the forests, -and exterminated deer and moose and bear. Seventy years ago, they will -tell you, there was no big game hereabouts; but since then many farms, -deserted, have been overrun by the forests; and the bear are coming -back, and there are deer tracks along every stream, and moose in the -swamps, and wildcats scream in the night. Twenty or thirty or forty -miles to the north the big woods of Maine begin; so that this land is an -outpost of the wilderness, thrust southward among the closer dwellings -of man.</p> - -<p>The people of these towns are of ancient stock. The grandfathers of many -of them came in with General Knox; most of them have been here for fifty -years or more, they or their forbears. A few Frenchmen have drifted down -from Quebec; a few Scotch and Irish have come in here as they come -everywhere. Half a dozen British seamen escaped, once upon a time, from -a man-of-war in Penobscot Bay, and fled inland,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_4" id="page_4">{4}</a></span> and were hidden away -until their ship was gone. Whereupon they married and became part and -parcel of the land, and their stock survives. By the mere reading of the -names of these folk upon the R. F. D. boxes at their doors you may know -their antecedents. Bubier and Saladine, Varney and Motley, McCorrison -and MacLure, Thomas and Davis, Sohier and Brine—a five-breed blend of -French and English, Scotch and Welsh and Irish; in short, as clear a -strain of good Yankee blood as you are like to come upon.</p> - -<p>Sturdy folk, and hardy workers. You will find few idlers; and by the -same token you will find few slavish toilers, lacking soul to whip a -trout brook now and then or shoot a woodcock or a deer. Most men -hereabouts would rather catch a trout than plant a potato; most men -would rather shoot a partridge than cut a cord of wood. And they act -upon their inclinations in these matters. The result is that the farms -are perhaps a thought neglected; and no one is very rich in worldly -goods; and a man who inherits a thousand dollars has come into money. -Yet have they all that any man wisely may desire; for they have food and -drink and shelter, and good comradeship, and the woods<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5" id="page_5">{5}</a></span> to take their -sport in, and what books they choose to read, and time for solid -thinking, and beauty ever before their eyes. Whether you envy or scorn -them is in some measure an acid test of your own soul. Best hesitate -before deciding.</p> - -<p>Gregarious folk, these, like most people who dwell much alone. So there -are grange halls here and there; and the churches are white-painted and -in good repair; and now and then along the roads you will come to a -picnic grove or a dancing pavilion, set far from any town. Save in -haymaking time the men work solitary in the fields; but in the evening, -when cows have been milked and pigs fed and wood prepared against the -morning, they take their lanterns and tramp or drive half a mile or -twice as far, and drop in at Will Bissell’s store for the mail and for -an hour round Will’s stove.</p> - -<p>You will hear tales there, tales worth the hearing, and on the whole -surprisingly true. There is some talk of the price of hay or of feed or -of apples; but there is more likely to be some story of the woods—of a -bull moose seen along the Liberty road or a buck deer in Luke Hills’ -pasture or a big catch of trout in the Ruffingham Meadow streams. Now -and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6" id="page_6">{6}</a></span> then, just about mail time in the evening, fishermen will stop at -the store to weigh their catches; and then everyone crowds round to see -and remark upon the matter.</p> - -<p>The store is a clearing-house for local news; and this must be so, for -there is no newspaper in Fraternity. Whatever has happened within a -six-mile radius during the day is fairly sure to be told there before -Will locks up for the night; and there is always something happening in -Fraternity. In which respect it is very much like certain villages of a -larger growth, and better advertised.</p> - -<p>There is about the intimacy of life in a little village something that -suggests the intimacy of life upon the sea. There is not the primitive -social organization; the captain as lord of all he surveys. But there is -the same close rubbing of shoulders, the same nakedness of impulse and -passion and longing and sorrow and desire. You may know your neighbor -well enough in the city, but before you lend him money, take him for a -camping trip in the woods or go with him to sea. Thereafter you will -know the man inside and out; and you may, if you choose, make your loan -with a knowledge of what you are about. It is hard to keep a secret in -a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_7" id="page_7">{7}</a></span> little village; and Fraternity is a little village—that and nothing -more.</p> - -<p>On weekday nights, as has been said, Will Bissell’s store is the social -center of Fraternity. Men begin to gather soon after supper; they begin -to leave when the stage has come up from Union with the mail. For Will’s -store is post office as well as market-place. The honeycomb of mail -boxes occupies a place just inside the door, next to the candy counter. -Will knows his business. A man less wise might put his candies back -among the farming tools, and his tobacco and pipes and cigars in the -north wing, with the ginghams, but Will puts them by the mail boxes, -because everyone gets mail or hopes for it, and anyone may be moved to -buy a bit of candy while he waits for the mail to come.</p> - -<p>This was an evening in early June. Will’s stove had not been lighted for -two weeks or more; but to-night there was for the first time the warm -breath of summer in the air. So those who usually clustered inside were -outside now, upon the high flight of steps which led up from the road. -Perhaps a dozen men, a dog or two, half a dozen boys. Luke Hills had -just come and gone with the season’s best catch of trout<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_8" id="page_8">{8}</a></span>—ten of them; -and when they were laid head to tail they covered the length of a -ten-foot board. The men spoke of these trout now, and Judd, who was no -fisherman, suggested that Luke must have snared them; and Jim Saladine, -the best deer hunter in Fraternity and a fair and square man, told Judd -he was witless and unfair. Judd protested, grinning meanly; and Jean -Bubier, the Frenchman from the head of the pond, laughed and exclaimed: -“Now you, m’sieu’, you could never snare those trout if you come upon -them in the road, eh?”</p> - -<p>They were laughing in their slow dry way at Judd’s discomfiture when the -hoofs of a horse sounded on the bridge below the store; and every man -looked that way.</p> - -<p>It was Lee Motley who said, “It’s Evered.”</p> - -<p>The effect was curious. The men no longer laughed. They sat quite still, -as though under a half-fearful restraint, and pretended not to see the -man who was approaching.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_9" id="page_9">{9}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="II" id="II"></a>II</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HERE were two men in the buggy which came up the little ascent from the -bridge and stopped before the store. The men were Evered, and Evered’s -son, John. Evered lived on a farm that overlooked the Whitcher Swamp on -the farther side. He was a man of some property, a successful farmer. He -was also a butcher; and his services were called in at hog-killing time -as regularly as the services of Doctor Crapo in times of sickness. He -knew his trade; and he knew the anatomy of a steer or a calf or a sheep -as well as Doctor Crapo knew the anatomy of a man. He was an efficient -man; a brutally efficient man. His orchard was regularly trimmed and -grafted and sprayed; his hay was re-seeded year by year; his garden -never knew the blight of weeds; his house was clean, in good repair, -white-painted. A man in whom dwelt power and strength; and a man whom -other men disliked and feared.</p> - -<p>He was a short man, broad of shoulder, with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_10" id="page_10">{10}</a></span> a thick neck and a square, -well-shaped head, a heavy brow and a steady burning eye. A somber man, -he never laughed; never was known to laugh. There was a blighting -something in his gaze which discouraged laughter in others. He was known -to have a fierce and ruthless temper; in short, a fearsome man, hard to -understand. He puzzled his neighbors and baffled them; they let him well -alone.</p> - -<p>He was driving this evening. His horse, like everything which was his, -was well-groomed and in perfect condition. It pranced a little as it -came up to the store, not from high spirits, but from nervousness. So -much might be known by the white glint of its eye. The nervousness of a -mettled creature too much restrained. It pranced a little, and Evered’s -hand tightened on the rein so harshly that the horse’s lower jaw was -pulled far back against its neck, and the creature was abruptly still, -trembling, and sweating faintly for no cause at all. Evered paid no more -heed to the horse. He looked toward the group of men upon the steps, and -some met his eye, and some looked away.</p> - -<p>He looked at them, one by one; and he asked Lee Motley: “Is the mail -come?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_11" id="page_11">{11}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Motley shook his head. He was a farmer of means, a strong man, moved by -no fear of Evered. “No,” he said.</p> - -<p>Evered passed the reins to his son. “Hold him still,” he told the young -man, and stepped out over the wheel to the ground, dropping lightly as a -cat. The horse gave a half leap forward and was caught by John Evered’s -steady hand; and the young man spoke gently to the beast to quiet it.</p> - -<p>Evered from the ground looked up at his son and said harshly, “I bade -you hold him still.”</p> - -<p>The other answered, “I will.”</p> - -<p>“You’d best,” said Evered, and turned and strode up the steps into the -store.</p> - -<p>The incident had brought out vividly enough the difference between -Evered and his son. They were two characters sharply contrasting; for -where Evered was harsh, John was gentle of speech; and where Evered was -abrupt, John was slow; and where Evered’s eye was hard and angry, John’s -was mild. They contrasted physically. The son was tall, well-formed and -fair; the father was short, almost squat in his broad strength, and -black of hair and eye. Nevertheless, it was plain to the seeing eye<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_12" id="page_12">{12}</a></span> -that there was strength in John as there was strength in -Evered—strength of body and soul.</p> - -<p>When Evered had gone into the store Motley said to the son, “It’s warm.”</p> - -<p>The young man nodded in a wistfully friendly way. “Yes,” he agreed. “So -warm it’s brought up our peas this day.”</p> - -<p>“That south slope of yours is good garden land,” Motley told him, and -John said:</p> - -<p>“Yes. As good as I ever see.”</p> - -<p>Everyone liked John Evered; and someone asked now: “Been fishing any, -over at Wilson’s?”</p> - -<p>John shook his head. “Too busy,” he explained. “But I hear how they’re -catching some good strings there.”</p> - -<p>“Luke Hills brought in ten to-night that was ten feet long,” Jim -Saladine offered. “Got ’em at Ruffingham.”</p> - -<p>The young man in the buggy smiled delightedly, his eyes shining. “Golly, -what a catch!” he exclaimed.</p> - -<p>Then Evered came to the door of the store and looked out, and silence -fell upon them all once more. The mail was coming down the hill; the -stage, a rattling, rusted, do-or-die<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_13" id="page_13">{13}</a></span> automobile of ancient vintage, -squeaked to a shrill stop before the very nose of Evered’s horse. John -spoke to the horse, and it was still. The stage driver took the mail -sacks in, and Evered left the doorway. The others all got up and turned -toward the door.</p> - -<p>Motley said to Saladine, “Did you mark the horse? It was scared of the -stage, but it was still at his word, and he did not tighten rein.”</p> - -<p>“I saw,” Saladine agreed. “The boy handles it fine.”</p> - -<p>“It’s feared of Evered; but the beast loves the boy.”</p> - -<p>“There’s others in that same way o’ thinking,” said Saladine.</p> - -<p>Inside the store Will Bissell and Andy Wattles, his lank and loyal -clerk, were stamping and sorting the mail. No great matter, for few -letters come to Fraternity. While this was under way Evered gathered up -the purchases he had made since he came into the store, and took them -out and stowed them under the seat of the buggy. He did not speak to his -son. John sat still in his place, moving his feet out of the other’s -way. When the bundles were all bestowed Evered went back up the steps -and Will gave him his daily paper<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_14" id="page_14">{14}</a></span> and a letter addressed to his wife, -and Evered took them without thanks, and left the store without farewell -to any man, and climbed into the buggy and took the reins. He turned the -horse sharply and they moved down the hill, and the bridge sounded for a -moment beneath their passing. In the still evening air the pound of the -horse’s hoofs and the light whirring of the wheels persisted for long -moments before they died down to blend with the hum and murmur of tiny -sounds that filled the whispering dusk.</p> - -<p>As they drove away one or two men came to the door to watch them go; and -Judd, a man with a singular capacity for mean and tawdry malice, said -loudly, “That boy’ll break Evered, some day, across his knee.”</p> - -<p>There was a moment’s silence; then Jean Bubier said cheerfully that he -would like to see the thing done. “But that Evered, he is one leetle -fighter,” he reminded Judd.</p> - -<p>Judd laughed unpleasantly and said Evered had the town bluffed. “That’s -all he is,” he told them. “A black scowl and some cussing. Nothing else. -You’ll see.”</p> - -<p>Motley shook his head soberly. “Evered’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_15" id="page_15">{15}</a></span> no bluff,” he said. “You’re -forgetting that matter of the knife, Judd.”</p> - -<p>Motley’s reminder put a momentary silence upon them all. The story of -the knife was well enough known; the knife they had all seen. The thing -had happened fifteen or twenty years before, and was one of the tales -many times told about Will’s stove. One Dave Riggs, drunken and -worthless, farming in a small way in North Fraternity, sent for Evered -to kill a pig. Evered went to Riggs’ farm. Riggs had been drinking; he -was quarrelsome; he sought to interfere with Evered’s procedure. Motley, -a neighbor of Riggs, had been there at the time, and used to tell the -story.</p> - -<p>“Riggs wanted him to tie up the pig,” he would explain. “You know Evered -does not do that. He says they will not bleed properly, tied. He did not -argue with the man, but Riggs persisted in his drunken way, and cursed -Evered to his face, till I could see the blood mounting in the butcher’s -cheeks. He is a bad-tempered man, always was.</p> - -<p>“He turned on Riggs and told the man to hush; and Riggs damned him. -Evered knocked him flat with a single fist stroke; and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_16" id="page_16">{16}</a></span> while Riggs was -still on the ground Evered turned and got the pig by the ears and -slipped the knife into its throat, in that smooth way he has. When he -drew it out the blood came after; and Evered turned to Riggs, just -getting on his feet.</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>There’s your pig,’ said Evered. ‘Butchered right. Now, man, be still.’</p> - -<p>“Well, Riggs took a look at the pig and another at Evered. He was -standing by the chopping block, and his hand fell on the ax stuck there. -Before I could stir he had lifted it, whirling it, and was sweeping down -on Evered.</p> - -<p>“It was all over quick, you’ll mind. Riggs rushing, with the ax -whistling in the air. Then Evered stepped inside its swing, and drove at -Riggs’ head. I think he forgot he had the knife in his hand. But it was -there; his hand drove it with the cunning that it knew—at the forehead -of the other man.</p> - -<p>“I mind how Riggs looked, after he had dropped. On his back he was, the -knife sticking straight up from his head. And it still smeared with the -pig’s blood, dripping down on the dead man’s face. Oh, aye, he was dead. -Dead as the pig, when it quit its walking round<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_17" id="page_17">{17}</a></span> in a little, and laid -down, and stopped its squeal.”</p> - -<p>Someone asked him once, when he had told the tale: “Where was Riggs’ -wife? Married, wa’n’t he?”</p> - -<p>“In the house,” said Motley. “The boy was there, though. He’d come to -see the pig stuck, and when he saw the blood come out of its throat he -yelled and run. So he didn’t have to see the rest—the knife in his -father’s head.”</p> - -<p>There had been no prosecution of Evered for that ancient tragedy. -Motley’s story was clear enough; it had been self-defense at the worst, -and half accident besides. Riggs’ wife went away and took her son, and -Fraternity knew them no more.</p> - -<p>They conned over this ancient tale of Evered in Will’s store that night; -and some blamed him, and some found him not to blame. And when they were -done with that story they told others; how when he was called to butcher -sheep he had a trick of breaking their necks across his knee with a -twist and a jerk of his hands. There was no doubt of the man’s strength -nor of his temper.</p> - -<p>A West Fraternity man came in while they<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_18" id="page_18">{18}</a></span> were talking; one Zeke Pitkin, -a mild man, and timid. He listened to their words, and asked at last, -“Evered?”</p> - -<p>They nodded; and Pitkin laughed in an awkward way. “He killed my bull -to-day,” he said.</p> - -<p>Will Bissell asked quickly, “Killed your bull? You have him do it?”</p> - -<p>Pitkin nodded, gulping at his Adam’s apple. “Getting ugly, the bull -was,” he said. “I didn’t like to handle him. Decided to beef him. So I -sent for Evered, and he came over.”</p> - -<p>He looked round at them, laughed uneasily. “He scared me,” he said.</p> - -<p>Motley asked slowly. “What happened, Zeke?”</p> - -<p>Pitkin rubbed one hand nervously along his leg. “We-ell,” he explained. -“I’m nervous like. Git excited easy. So when he come I told him the bull -was ugly. Told him to look out for it.</p> - -<p>“He just only looked at me in that hard way of his. I had the bull in -the barn; and he went in where it was and fetched it out in the barn -floor. Left the bull standing there and begun to fix his tackle to h’ist -it up.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_19" id="page_19">{19}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I didn’t want to stay in there with the bull. I was scared of it—it -loose there, nothing to hold it. And Evered kept working round it, back -to the beast half the time. Nothing to stop it tossing him. I didn’t -like to get out, but I didn’t want to stay. And I guess I talked too -much. Kept telling him to hurry, and asking him why he didn’t kill it -and all. Got him mad, I guess.”</p> - -<p>The man shivered a little, his eyes dim with the memory of the moment. -He took off his hat and rubbed his hand across his head, and Motley -said, “He did kill it?”</p> - -<p>Pitkin nodded uneasily. “Yeah,” he said. “Evered turned round to me by -and by; and he looked at me under them black eyebrows of his, and he -says: ‘Want I should kill this bull, do you?’ I ’lows that I did. ‘Want -him killed now, do you?’ he says, and I told him I did. And I did too. I -was scared of that bull, I say. But not the way he did kill it.”</p> - -<p>He shuddered openly; and Motley asked again, “What did he do?”</p> - -<p>“Stepped up aside the bull,” said Pitkin hurriedly. “Yanked out that -knife of his—that same knife—out of his sheath. Up with it, and down, -so quick I never see what he did.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_20" id="page_20">{20}</a></span> Down with the knife right behind the -bull’s horns. Right into the neck bone. And that bull o’ mine went down -like a ton o’ brick. Like two ton o’ brick. Stone dead.”</p> - -<p>Will Bissell echoed, “Stabbed it in the neck?”</p> - -<p>“Right through the neck bone. With that damned heavy knife o’ his.” He -wiped his forehead again. “We had a hell of a time h’isting that bull, -too,” he said weakly. “A hell of a time.”</p> - -<p>No one spoke for a moment. They were digesting this tale of Evered. Then -Judd said: “I’d like to see that red bull of his git after that man.”</p> - -<p>One or two nodded, caught themselves, looked sheepishly round to -discover whether they had been seen. Evered’s red bull was as well and -unfavorably known as the man himself. A huge brute, shoulder high to a -tall man, ugly of disposition, forever bellowing challenges across the -hills from Evered’s barn, frightening womenfolk in their homes a mile -away. A creature of terror, ruthlessly curbed and goaded by Evered. It -was known that the butcher took delight in mastering the bull, torturing -the beast with ingenious twists of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_21" id="page_21">{21}</a></span> the nose ring, with blows on the leg -joints, and nose, and the knobs where horns should have been. The red -bull was of a hornless breed. The great head of it was like a buffalo’s -head, like a huge malicious battering ram. It was impossible to look at -the beast without a tremor of alarm.</p> - -<p>“It’s ugly business to see Evered handle that bull,” Will Belter said, -half to himself.</p> - -<p>And after a little silence Jean Bubier echoed: “Almost as ugly as to see -the man with his wife. When I have see that, sometime, I have think I -might take his own knife to him.”</p> - -<p>Judd, the malicious, laughed in an ugly way; and he said, “Guess Evered -would treat her worse if he got an eye on her and that man Semler.”</p> - -<p>It was Jim Saladine’s steady voice which put an end to that. “Don’t put -your foul mouth on her, Judd,” he said quietly. “Not if you want to walk -home.”</p> - -<p>Judd started to speak, caught Saladine’s quiet eye and was abruptly -still.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_22" id="page_22">{22}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="III" id="III"></a>III</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">E</span>VERED and his son drove home together through the clotting dusk in a -silence that was habitual with them. The buggy was a light vehicle, the -horse was swift and powerful, and they made good time. Evered, driving, -used the whip now and then; and at each red-hot touch of the light lash -the horse leaped like a stricken thing; and at each whiplash John -Evered’s lips pressed firmly each against the other, as though to hold -back the word he would have said. No good in speaking, he knew. It would -only rouse the lightly slumbering anger in his father, only lead to more -hurts for the horse, and a black scowl or an oath to himself. There were -times when John Evered longed to put his strength against his father’s; -when he was hungry for the feel of flesh beneath his smashing fists. But -these moments were few. He understood the older man; there was a blood -sympathy between them. He knew his fathe<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_23" id="page_23">{23}</a></span>r’s heart as no other did or -could; and in the last analysis he loved his father loyally. Thus had he -learned long patience and restraint. It is very easy to damn and hate a -man like Evered, hot and fierce and ruthlessly overbearing. But John -Evered, his son, who had suffered more from Evered than any other man, -neither damned nor hated him.</p> - -<p>They drove home together in silence. Evered sat still in his seat, but -there was no relaxation in his attitude. He was still as a tiger is -still before the charge and the leap. John at his side could feel the -other’s shoulder muscles tensing. His father was always so, always a -boiling vessel of emotions. You might call him a powerful man, a -masterful man. John Evered knew him for a slave, for the slave of his -own hot and angry pulse beats. And he loved and pitied him.</p> - -<p>Out of Fraternity they took the Liberty road, and came presently to a -turning which led them to the right, and so to the way to Evered’s farm, -a narrow road, leading nowhere except into the farmyard, and traveled by -few men who had no business there.</p> - -<p>When they came into the farmyard it was almost dark. Yet there was still -light enough<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_24" id="page_24">{24}</a></span> to see, beyond the shadow of the barn, the sloping -hillside that led down to Whitcher Swamp; and the swamp itself, brooding -beneath its gray mists in the thickening night. The farm buildings were -set on a jutting shoulder of the hill, looking out across the valley -where the swamp lay, to Fraternity, and off toward Moody Mountain beyond -the town. By day there was a glory in this valley that was spread below -them; by night it was a place of dark and mystery. Sounds used to come -up the hill from the swamp; the sounds of thrashing brush where the -moose fed, or perhaps the clash of ponderous antlers in the fall, or the -wicked scream of a marauding cat, or the harsh cries of night-hawks, or -the tremolo hoot of an owl.</p> - -<p>Built against the barn on the side away from the house there was a stout -roofed stall; and opening from this stall a pen with board walls higher -than a man’s head and cedar posts as thick as a man’s leg, set every -four feet to support the planking of the walls. As the horse stopped in -the farmyard and Evered and his son alighted, a sound came from this -stall—a low, inhuman, monstrous sound, like the rumbling of a storm, -like the complaint of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_25" id="page_25">{25}</a></span> a hungry beast, like the promise of evil things -too dreadful for describing; the muffled roaring of Evered’s great red -bull, disturbed by the sound of the horse. John Evered stood still for -an instant, listening. It was impossible for most men to hear that sound -without an appalling tremor of the heart. But Evered himself gave no -heed to it. He spoke to the horse. He said “Hush, now. Still.”</p> - -<p>The horse was as still as stone, yet it trembled as it had trembled at -Will’s store. Evered gathered parcels from beneath the seat; and John -filled his arms with what remained. They turned toward the house -together, the son a little behind the father.</p> - -<p>There was a light in the kitchen of the farmhouse; and a woman had come -to the open door and was looking out toward them. She was silhouetted -blackly by the light behind her. It revealed her figure as slim and -pleasantly graven. The lamp’s rays turned her hair into an iridescent -halo about her head. She rested one hand against the frame of the door; -and her lifted arm guided her body into graceful lines.</p> - -<p>She called to them in a low voice, “Do you need light?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_26" id="page_26">{26}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Evered answered. “If you were out of the door there’d be light enough,” -he said.</p> - -<p>The woman lifted her hand to her lips in a hurt little gesture; and she -stepped aside with no further word. She still stood thus, at one side of -the door, when they came in. The lamplight fell full upon her, full upon -her countenance.</p> - -<p>The woman’s face, the face of this woman whose body still bore youthful -lines, was shocking. There were weary contours in it; there were shadows -of pain beneath the eyes; there was anguish in the mobile lips. The hair -which had seemed like a halo showed now like a white garland; snow -white, though it still lay heavy and glossy as a girl’s. She was like a -statue of sorrow; the figure of a sad and tortured life.</p> - -<p>The woman was Evered’s second wife; Evered’s wife, Mary Evered. His -wife, whom he had won in a courtship that was like red flowers in -spring; whom he had made to suffer interminably, day by day, till -suffering became routine and death would have been happiness; and -whom—believe it or no—Evered had always and would forever love with a -love that was like torment. There is set per<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_27" id="page_27">{27}</a></span>versely in man and woman -alike an impulse to tease and hurt and distress those whom we love. It -is, of this stuff that lovers’ quarrels are made; it is from this that -the heartbreaks of the honeymoon are born. The men and women of the -fairy tales, who marry and live happily ever after, are fairy tales -themselves; or else they never loved. For loving, which is sacrifice and -service and kindness and devotion, is also misunderstanding and -distortion and perversity and unhappiness most profound. It is a part of -love to quarrel; the making-up is often so sweet it justifies the -anguish of the conflict. Mary Evered knew this. But Evered had a stiff -pride in him which would not let him yield; be he ever so deeply wrong -he held his ground; and Mary was sick with much yielding.</p> - -<p>Annie Paisley, who lived at the next farm on the North Fraternity road, -had given Mary Evered something to think about when Paisley died, the -year before.</p> - -<p>For over Paisley’s very coffin Annie had said in a thoughtful, -reminiscent way: “Yes, Mary; Jim ’uz a good husband to me for nigh on -thirty year. A good pervider, and a kind man, and a good father. He -never drunk, nor<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_28" id="page_28">{28}</a></span> ever wasted what little money we got; and we always -had plenty to do with; and the children liked him. Kind to me, he was. -Gentle.” Her eyes had narrowed thoughtfully. “But Mary,” she said, “you -know I never liked him.”</p> - -<p>Mary Evered had been a girl of spirit and strength; and if she had not -loved Evered she would never have stayed with him a year. Loving him she -had stayed; and the bitter years rolled over her; stayed because she -loved him, and because she—like her son—understood the heart of the -man, and knew that through all his ruthless strength and hard purpose, -with all his might he loved her.</p> - -<p>She said now in the kitchen: “You got the salt pork?”</p> - -<p>“Of course I got the salt pork,” Evered told her in a level tone that -was like a whip across her shoulders. He dumped his parcels on the -table, pointed to one; and she took it up in a hurried furtive way and -turned to the stove. John laid down his bundles, and Evered said to him: -“Put the horse away.” The young man nodded, and went out into the -farmyard.</p> - -<p>The horse still stood where Evered had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_29" id="page_29">{29}</a></span> bade it stand. John went to the -creature’s head and laid his hand lightly on the velvety nose, and spoke -softly; and after a moment the horse mouthed his hand with its lips. He -took the bridle and led it toward the stable. There was a lantern -hanging by the door, but he did not light it. The young man loved the -still darkness of the night; there was some quality in the damp cool air -which was like wine to him. And he needed no light for what he had to -do; he knew every wooden peg in the barn’s stout frame, blindfolded; for -the barn and the farm had been his world for more than twenty years.</p> - -<p>Outside the stable door he stopped the horse and loosed the traces and -led it out of the thills, which he lowered carefully to the ground. The -horse turned, as of habit, to a tub full of water which stood beside the -barn door; and while the creature drank John backed the buggy into the -carriage shed and propped up the thills with a plank. When he came to -the stable door again the horse was waiting for him; and he heard its -breath whir in a soundless whinny of greeting. He stripped away the -harness expertly, hanging it on pegs against the wall, and adjusted the -halter. Once, while<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_30" id="page_30">{30}</a></span> he worked, the red bull in its closed stall on the -farther side of the barn bellowed softly; and the young man called to -the beast in a tone that was at once strong and kindly.</p> - -<p>He put the horse in its stall, tied the halter rope, and stepped out -into the open floor of the barn to pull down hay for the beast. It was -when he did so that he became conscious that someone was near. He could -not have told how he knew; but there was, of a sudden, a warmth and a -friendliness in the very air about him, so that his breath came a little -more quickly. He stood very still for a moment; and then he looked -toward the stable door. His eyes, accustomed to the dark, discovered -her. She had come inside the barn and was standing against the wall, -watching him. He could see the dim white blur of her face in the -darkness; he could almost see the glow that lay always in her eyes for -him.</p> - -<p>He said quietly, “Hello, Ruth.”</p> - -<p>And she answered him, “Hello, John.”</p> - -<p>“I’ve got to pull down a little hay,” he said. It was as though he -apologized for not coming at once to her side.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she told him, and stood there while he finished tending the -horse.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_31" id="page_31">{31}</a></span></p> - -<p>When he had done he went toward her slowly and stood before her, and she -moved a little nearer to him, so that he put his arms awkwardly round -her shoulders and kissed her. He felt her lips move against his; felt -her womanly and strong. There was no passion in their caress; only an -awkward tenderness on his part, a deep affection on hers.</p> - -<p>“I’m glad you came out,” he said; and she nodded against his shoulder.</p> - -<p>They went into the barnyard, and his arm was about her waist.</p> - -<p>“It’s warm to-night,” she told him. “Summer’s about here.”</p> - -<p>He nodded. “We’ll have green peas by the Fourth if we don’t git a -frost.”</p> - -<p>Neither of them wanted to get at once to the house. There was youth in -them; the house was no place for youth. She was Ruth MacLure, Mary -Evered’s sister. Not, by that token, John Evered’s aunt; for John -Evered’s mother was dead many years gone, before Evered took Mary -MacLure for wife. A year ago old Bill MacLure had died and Ruth had come -to live with her sister. John had never known her till then; since then -he found it impossible to understand how he had ever lived<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_32" id="page_32">{32}</a></span> without -knowing her. She was years younger than her sister, three years younger -than John Evered himself; and he loved her.</p> - -<p>They crossed the barnyard to the fence and looked down into the shadowy -pit of blackness where the swamp lay, half a mile below them. They -rested their elbows on the top bar of the fence. Once or twice the bull -muttered in his stall a few rods away. They could hear the champ of the -horse’s teeth as the beast fed before sleeping; they could hear Evered’s -cows stirring in their tie-up. The night was very still and warm, as -though heaven brooded like a mother over the earth.</p> - -<p>The girl said at last, “Semler was here while you were gone.”</p> - -<p>The young man asked slowly, “What fetched him here?”</p> - -<p>“He was on his way home from fishing, down in the swamp stream.”</p> - -<p>“Did he do anything down there?”</p> - -<p>“Had seventeen. One of them was thirteen inches long. He wanted to leave -some, but Mary wouldn’t let him.”</p> - -<p>They were silent for a moment, then John Evered said, “Best not tell my -father.”</p> - -<p>The girl cried under her breath, with an im<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_33" id="page_33">{33}</a></span>patient gesture of her hand, -“I’m not going to. But I hate it. It isn’t fair. Mary wants him to keep -away. He bothers her.”</p> - -<p>“I can keep him away.”</p> - -<p>“You did tell him not to come.”</p> - -<p>“I can make him not come,” said John Evered; and the girl fell silent, -and said at last, “He’s writing to her. Oh, John, what can she do? More -than she has done?”</p> - -<p>“I’ll see to’t he stays away,” the young man promised; and the girl’s -hand fell on his arm.</p> - -<p>“Please do,” she said. “He’s so unfair to Mary.”</p> - -<p>A little later, when they turned at last toward the house, John said -half to himself, “If my father ever heard, he’d bust that man.”</p> - -<p>“I wish he would,” the girl said hotly. “But—I’m afraid he’d find some -way to blame Mary. He mustn’t know.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll see Dane Semler,” John promised.</p> - -<p>On the doorstep they kissed again. Then they went into the house -together. Evered sitting by the lamp with his paper looked up at them -bleakly, but said no word. Mary Evered smiled at her sister, smiled at -John. She loved her husband’s son, had loved him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_34" id="page_34">{34}</a></span> like a mother since -she came to the house and found him, a boy not four years old, helping -with the chores as a grown man might have done. She had found something -pitiful in the strength and the reserve of the little fellow; and she -had mothered out of him some moments of softness and affection that -would have surprised his father.</p> - -<p>There was a certain measure of reassurance in his eyes as he returned -her smile. But when he had sat down across the table from his father, -where she could not see his face, he became sober and very thoughtful. -He was considering the matter of Dane Semler.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_35" id="page_35">{35}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="IV" id="IV"></a>IV</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">F</span>IRST word of the tragedy came to Will Bissell’s store at seven o’clock -in the evening of the next day but one; and the manner of the coming was -this:</p> - -<p>The day had been lowering and sultry; such a day as Fraternity was -accustomed to expect in mid-August, when the sun was heavy on the land -and the air was murky with sea fogs blown in from the bay. A day when -there seemed to be a malignant spirit in the very earth itself; a day -when to work was torment, and merely to move about was sore discomfort. -A day when dogs snarled at their masters, and masters cursed at their -dogs; when sullen passions boiled easily to the surface, and tempers -were frayed to the last splitting strand.</p> - -<p>No breath of air was stirring as the evening came down. The sun had -scarce shown itself all day; the coming of night was indicated only by a -growing obscurity, by a thickening of the murky shadows in the valleys -and the gray<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_36" id="page_36">{36}</a></span> clouds that hid the hills. Men slighted their evening -chores, did them hurriedly or not at all, and made haste to get into the -open air. From the houses of the village they moved toward Will’s store; -and some of them stopped on the bridge above the brook, as though the -sound of running water below them had some cooling power; and some -climbed the little slope and sat on the high steps of the store. They -talked little or none, spoke in monosyllables when they spoke at all. -They were too hot and weary and uncomfortable for talking.</p> - -<p>No one seemed to be in any hurry. The men moved slowly; the occasional -wagon or buggy that drove into town came at a walk; even the automobiles -seemed to move with a sullen reluctance. So it was not surprising that -the sound of a horse’s running feet coming along the Liberty road should -quickly attract their ears.</p> - -<p>They heard it first when the horse topped the rise above the mill, -almost a mile away. The horse was galloping. The sounds were hushed -while the creature dipped into a hollow, and rang more loudly when it -climbed a nearer knoll and came on across the level meadow road toward -the town. The beat of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_37" id="page_37">{37}</a></span> its hoofs was plainly audible; and men asked each -other whose horse it was, and what the hurry might be; and one or two, -more energetic than the rest, stood up to get a glimpse of the road by -which the beast was coming.</p> - -<p>Just before it came into their sight they heard it stop galloping and -come on at a trot; and a moment later horse and rider came in sight, and -every man saw who it was.</p> - -<p>Jean Bubier exclaimed, “It is M’sieu’ Semler.”</p> - -<p>And Judd echoed, “Dane Semler. In a hell of a hurry, too.”</p> - -<p>Then the man pulled his horse to a stand at the foot of the store steps -and swung off. He had been riding bareback; and he was in the garments -which he was accustomed to wear when he went fishing along the brooks. -They all knew him; for though he was a man of the cities he had been -accustomed to come to Fraternity in June for a good many years. They -knew him, but did not particularly like him. There was always something -of patronage in his attitude, and they knew this and resented it.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless, one or two of them answered his greeting. For the rest, -they studied him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_38" id="page_38">{38}</a></span> with an acute and painful curiosity. There was some -warrant for their curiosity. Semler, usually an immaculate man, was hot -and dusty and disordered; his face was white; his eyes were red and -shifting, and there was an agonized haste in his bearing which he was -unable to hide.</p> - -<p>He asked, almost as his foot touched ground, “Anyone here got a car?”</p> - -<p>Two or three of the men had come in automobiles; and one, George Tower, -answered, “Sure.”</p> - -<p>Tower was a middle-aged man of the sort that remains perpetually young; -and he had recently acquired a swift and powerful roadster of which he -was mightily proud. It was pride in this car, more than a desire to help -Dane Semler, that prompted his answer.</p> - -<p>Semler took a step toward him and lowered his voice a little. “I’ve had -bad news,” he said. “How long will it take you to get me to town?”</p> - -<p>That was a drive of ten or a dozen miles, over roads none too good.</p> - -<p>Tower answered promptly: “Land you there in twenty minutes.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll give you a dollar for every minute<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_39" id="page_39">{39}</a></span> you do it under half an hour,” -said Semler swiftly; and Tower got to his feet.</p> - -<p>“Where’s your grip?” he asked.</p> - -<p>Semler shook his head. “I’m having that sent on. Can’t wait. I’m ready -to start now.” He looked toward the men on the steps. “Some of you take -care of the horse,” he said quickly. “Garvey will send for it.”</p> - -<p>Garvey was the farmer at whose house Semler had been staying. Will -Bissell took the horse’s bridle and promised to stable the beast till -Garvey should come. Tower was already in his car; Semler jumped in -beside him. They were down the hill and across the bridge in a -diminuendo roar of noise as the roadster, muffler cut out, rocketed away -toward town. Two or three of the men got to their feet to watch them go, -sat down again when they were out of sight.</p> - -<p>There was a moment’s thoughtful silence before someone said, “What do -you make o’ that? Semler in some hurry, I’d say.”</p> - -<p>Jean Bubier laughed a little. “One dam’ hurry,” he agreed.</p> - -<p>“Like something was after him—or he was after someone.”</p> - -<p>Judd the mean cackled to himself. “By<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_40" id="page_40">{40}</a></span> Gad,” he cried, “I’ll bet -Evered’s got on to him. I’ll bet Evered’s after that man. No wonder he -run.”</p> - -<p>The other men looked at Judd, and they shifted uncomfortably. Will -Bissell had gone round to stable the horse; Lee Motley had not yet come -to the store, nor had Jim Saladine. Lacking these three there was no one -to silence Judd, and the man might have gone on to uglier speech.</p> - -<p>But he was silenced, and silenced by so inconsiderable a person as Zeke -Pitkin. Zeke drove up just then, drove hurriedly; and they saw before he -stopped his horse that he was shaking with excitement.</p> - -<p>He cried out, “Hain’t you heard?”</p> - -<p>Judd answered, “Heard what? What ails you, Zeke?”</p> - -<p>Pitkin scarce heard him, he was so intent on crying out his dreadful -news. It came in a stumbling burst of half a dozen words.</p> - -<p>“Evered’s red bull’s killed Mis’ Evered,” he stammered.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_41" id="page_41">{41}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="V" id="V"></a>V</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">E</span>VERED’S red bull was a notorious and dangerous figure in the -countryside. It was like some primordial monster of the forests, and -full as fierce of temper. Evered had bought it two years before, and two -men on horseback, with ropes about the creature’s neck, brought it from -town to his farm. Evered himself, there to receive it, scowled at their -precautions. There was a ring in the monstrous beast’s nose; and to this -ring Evered snapped a six-foot stick of ash, seasoned and strong. -Holding the end of this stick he was able to control the bull; and he -set himself to teach it fear. That he succeeded was well enough -attested. The bull did fear him, and with reason. Nevertheless, Evered -took no chances with the brute, and never entered its stall without -first snapping his ash stick fast to the nose ring. Those who watched at -such times said that the bull’s red eyes burned red and redder so long -as Evered was near; and those who saw were apt to warn<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_42" id="page_42">{42}</a></span> the man to take -care. But Evered paid no heed to their warnings; or seemed to pay no -heed.</p> - -<p>The bull had never harmed a human being, because it had never found the -opportunity. Men and women and children shunned it, kept well away from -its stout-fenced pasture, its high-boarded pen and its stall. The -creature was forever roaring and bellowing; and when the air was still -its clamor carried far across the countryside and frightened children -and women, and made even men pause to listen and to wonder whether -Evered’s bull was loose at last. Some boys used to come and take a -fearsome joy from watching the brute; and at first they liked to tease -the bull, pelting it with sticks and stones. Till one day they -came—Jimmy Hills, and Will Motley, and Joe Suter, and two or three -besides—with a setter pup of Lee Motley’s at their heels. The pup -watched their game, and wished to take a hand, so slipped through the -fence to nip at the great bull’s heels; and the beast wheeled and pinned -the dog against the fence with its head like a ram, and then trod the -pup into a red pudding in the soft earth, while Will Motley shrieked -with rage and sorrow and fear.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_43" id="page_43">{43}</a></span></p> - -<p>Evered heard them that day, and came down with a whip and drove them -away; and thereafter a boy who teased the bull had trouble on his hands -at home. And the tale of what the brute had done to that setter pup was -told and retold in every farmhouse in the town.</p> - -<p>Evered, even while he mastered the bull and held it slave, took pains to -maintain his dominance. The stall which housed it was stout enough to -hold an elephant; the board-walled pen outside the stall was doubly -braced with cedar posts set five feet underground; and even the -half-mile pasture in which, now and then, he allowed the brute to range, -had a double fence of barbed-wire inside and stone wall without.</p> - -<p>This pasture ran along the road and bent at right angles to work down to -the edge of the swamp. It was, as has been said, about a half mile long; -but it was narrow, never more than a few rods wide. It formed the -southern boundary of Evered’s farm; and no warning signs were needed to -keep trespassers from crossing this area. When the bull was loose here -it sometimes ranged along the fence that paralleled the road, tossing -its great head and snorting and muttering at people who passed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_44" id="page_44">{44}</a></span> by, so -that they were apt to hurry their pace and leave the brute behind.</p> - -<p>It was timid Zeke Pitkin, on his way to North Fraternity, who saw the -bull break its fence on the afternoon that Mary Evered was killed. Zeke -did not usually take the road past Evered’s place, because he did not -like to pass under the eye of the bull. But on this day he was in some -haste; and he thought it likely the bull would be stalled and out of -sight, and on that chance took the short hill road to his destination.</p> - -<p>When he approached Evered’s farm he began to hear the bull muttering and -roaring in some growing exasperation. But it was then too late to turn -back without going far out of his way, so he pressed on until he came in -sight of the pasture and saw the beast, head high, tramping up and down -along the fence on the side away from the road. Zeke was glad the bull -was on that side, and hurried his horse, in a furtive way, hoping the -bull would not mark his passing.</p> - -<p>When he came up to where the brute was he saw that the bull was watching -something in Evered’s woodlot, beyond the pasture; and Zeke tried to see -what it was. At first he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_45" id="page_45">{45}</a></span> could not see; but after a moment a dog yapped -there, and Zeke caught a glimpse of it; a half-bred terrier from some -adjacent farm, roving the woods.</p> - -<p>The dog yapped; and the bull roared; and the dog, its native impudence -impelling it, came running toward the pasture, and began to dance up and -down, just beyond the bull’s reach, barking in a particularly shrill and -tantalizing way.</p> - -<p>Zeke yelled to the dog to be off; but the dog took his yell for -encouragement, and barked the harder; and then Zeke saw a thing which -made him turn cold.</p> - -<p>He saw the bull swing suddenly, with all its weight, against the high -wire fence; and he saw one of the posts sag and give way, and another -smashed off short. So, quicker than it takes to tell it, the bull was -floundering across the barbed wires, roaring with the pain of them, and -Zeke saw it top the wall, tail high and head down, and charge the little -dog.</p> - -<p>Zeke might have tried to drive the bull back into its pasture; but that -was a task for a bold man, and Zeke was not bold. He whipped his horse -and drove on to warn Evered; and when he looked back from the top of the -hill<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_46" id="page_46">{46}</a></span> the bull and the dog had disappeared into the scrub growth of -alder and hardwood along a little run that led down to the swamp. He -whipped his horse again, and turned into the road that led to Evered’s -farmhouse.</p> - -<p>When he got to the farmhouse there was no one at home; and after he had -convinced himself of this Zeke drove away again, planning to stop at the -first neighboring farm and leave word for Evered. But after a quarter of -a mile or so he met the butcher, and stopped him and told him that the -bull was loose in his woodlot.</p> - -<p>Evered asked a question or two; but Zeke’s voluble answers made him -impatient, and he left the other and hurried on. At home he stabled his -horse, got his ash stave with the snap on the end, and as an -afterthought went into the house for his revolver. He had no illusions -about the bull; he knew the beast was dangerous.</p> - -<p>While he was in the house he marked that his wife was not there, and -wondered where she was, and called to her, but got no answer. He knew -that John and Ruth MacLure, his wife’s sister, were in the orchard on -the other side of the farm from the pasture and wood<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_47" id="page_47">{47}</a></span>lot; and he decided -that his wife must have gone to join them there. So with the revolver in -his pocket and the stave in his hand, Evered went down past the barn and -through the bars into the woodlot. Somewhere in the thickets below him -he expected to find the bull. He could hear nothing, so he understood -that the little dog which had caused the trouble had either fled or been -killed by the beast. He hoped for the latter; for he was an impatient -man, and angered at the whole incident. Also, the sultry heat of the day -had irked him; irked him so that he had cursed to himself because his -wife was not at home when he wished to speak to her.</p> - -<p>In this impatient mood he began to work down through the woodlot. He -went carefully, knowing the treacherous temper of the brute he was -hunting. He passed through a growth of birches along a little run, and -across a rocky knoll, and through more birches, and so came out upon the -lower shelf of his farm, a quarter of a mile from the house, and halfway -down to the borders of the swamp.</p> - -<p>He remembered, when he had come thus far, that there was a spring in the -hillside a little below him, with two or three old trees above<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_48" id="page_48">{48}</a></span> it, and -some clean grass beside it. His wife occasionally came here in the -afternoon, when her work was done, to sit and read or rest or give -herself to her thoughts. Evered knew of this habit of hers; but till -this moment he had forgotten it. The spot was cool; it caught what air -was stirring. He had a sudden conviction that she might be there now; -and the idea angered him. He was angry with her because by coming down -here she had put herself in a dangerous position. He was angry with her -because he was worried about her safety. This was a familiar reaction of -the man’s irascible temperament. Two years before, when Mary Evered took -to her bed for some three weeks’ time with what was near being -pneumonia, Evered had been irritable and morose and sullen until she was -on her feet again. Unwilling to confess his concern for her, he -expressed that concern by harsh words and scowls and bitter taunts, till -his wife wept in silent misery. His wife whom he loved wept in misery -because of him.</p> - -<p>Thus it was now with him. He was afraid she had come to the spring; he -was afraid the bull would come upon her there; and because<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_49" id="page_49">{49}</a></span> he was -afraid for her he was angry with her for coming.</p> - -<p>He went forward across the level rocky ground, eyes and ears alert; and -so came presently atop a little rise from which he could look down to -the spring. And at what he saw the man stopped stock-still, and all the -fires of hell flared up in his heart till he felt his whole body burn -like a flaming ember.</p> - -<p>His wife was there; she was sitting on a low smooth rock a little at one -side of the spring. But that was not all; she was not alone. A man sat -below her, a little at one side, looking up at her and talking -earnestly; and Mary Evered’s head was drooping in thought as she -listened.</p> - -<p>Evered knew the man. The man was Dane Semler. Dane Semler and his wife, -together here, talking so quietly.</p> - -<p>They did not see him. Their backs were toward him, and they were -oblivious and absorbed. Evered stood still for a moment; then he was so -shaken by the fury of his own anger that he could not stand, and he -dropped on one knee and knelt there, watching them. And the blood boiled -in him, and the pulse pounded in his throat, and the breath choked<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_50" id="page_50">{50}</a></span> in -his lungs. His veins swelled, his face became purple. One watching him -would have been appalled.</p> - -<p>Evered was in that moment a terrible and dreadful spectacle, a man -completely given over to the ugliest of angers, to the black and -tempestuous fury of jealousy.</p> - -<p>He did not stop to wonder, to guess the meaning of the scene before him. -He did not wish to know its explanation. If he had thought soberly he -must have known there was no wrong in Mary Evered. But he did not think -soberly; he did not think at all. He gave himself to fury. Accustomed to -yield to anger as a man yields to alcohol, accustomed to debauches of -rage, Evered in this moment loosed all bounds on himself. He hated his -wife as it is possible to hate only those whom we love; he hated Dane -Semler consumingly, appallingly. He was drunk with it, shaking with it; -his lips were so hot it was as though they smoked with rage.</p> - -<p>The man and the woman below him did not move. He could catch, through -the pounding in his own ears, the murmur of their voices. Semler spoke -quickly, rapidly, lifting a hand now and then in an appealing gesture; -the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_51" id="page_51">{51}</a></span> woman, when she spoke at all, raised her head a little to look at -the man, and her voice was very low. Evered did not hear their words; he -did not wish to. The very confidence and ease and intimacy of their -bearing damned them unutterably in his eyes.</p> - -<p>He was like a figure of stone, there on the knoll just above them. It -seemed impossible that they could remain unconscious of his presence -there. The unleashed demons in the man seemed to cry out, they were -almost audible.</p> - -<p>But the two were absorbed; they saw nothing and heard nothing; nothing -save each other. And Evered above them, a concentrated fury, was as -absorbed and oblivious as they. His whole being was so focused in -attention on these two that he did not see the great red bull until it -came ponderously round a shoulder of the hill, not thirty paces from -where the man and woman sat together. He did not see it then until they -turned their heads that way, until they came swiftly to their feet, the -man with a cry, the woman in a proud and courageous silence.</p> - -<p>The bull stood still, watching them. And in the black soul of Evered an -awful triumph<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_52" id="page_52">{52}</a></span> leaped and screamed. His ash stave was beside him, his -revolver was beneath his hand. There was time and to spare.</p> - -<p>He flung one fist high and brought it smashing down. It struck a rock -before him and crushed skin and knuckles till the blood burst forth. But -Evered did not even know. There was a dreadful exultation in him.</p> - -<p>He saw the bull’s head drop, saw the vast red bulk lunge forward, quick -as light; saw Semler dodge like a rabbit, and run, shrieking, screaming -like a woman; saw Mary Evered stand proudly still as still.</p> - -<p>In the last moment Evered flung himself on the ground; he hid his face -in his arms. And the world rocked and reeled round him so that his very -soul was shaken.</p> - -<p>Face in his arms there, the man began presently to weep like a little -child.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_53" id="page_53">{53}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="VI" id="VI"></a>VI</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">A</span>FTER an interval, which seemed like a very long time, but was really -only a matter of seconds, Evered got to his feet, and with eyes half -averted started down the knoll toward the spring.</p> - -<p>Yet even with averted eyes he was able to see what lay before him; and a -certain awed wonder fell upon the man, so that he was shaken, and -stopped for a moment still. And there were tremorous movements about his -mouth when he went on.</p> - -<p>His wife’s body lay where it had been flung by the first blunt blow of -the red bull’s awful head. But—this was the wonder of it—the red bull -had not trampled her. The beast stood above the woman’s body now, still -and steady; and Evered was able to see that there was no more murder in -him. He had charged the woman blindly; but it was now as though, having -struck her, he knew who she was and was sorrowing. It was easy to -imagine an almost<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_54" id="page_54">{54}</a></span> human dejection in the posture of the huge beast.</p> - -<p>And it was this which startled and awed Evered; for the bull had always -been, to his eyes, an evil and a murderous force.</p> - -<p>A few feet from where the woman’s body lay Evered stopped and looked at -the bull; and the bull stood quite still, watching Evered without -hostility. Evered found it hard to understand.</p> - -<p>He turned to one side and knelt beside his wife’s body; but this was -only for an instant. He saw at once that she was dead, beyond chance or -question. There was no blood upon her, no agony of torn flesh; her -garments were a little rumpled, and that was all. The mighty blow of the -bull had been swift enough, and merciful. She lay a little on her side, -and her lips were twisted in a little smile, not unhappily.</p> - -<p>Evered at this time was not conscious of feeling anything at all. His -mind was clear enough; his perceptions were never more acute. But his -emotions seemed to be in abeyance. He looked upon his wife’s body and -felt for her neither the awful hate of the last minutes nor the -torturing love of the years<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_55" id="page_55">{55}</a></span> that were gone. He looked simply to see if -she were dead; and she was dead. So he took off his coat and made of it -a pillow for her, and laid her head upon it, and composed her where she -lay. And the great red bull stood by, with that unbelievable hint of -sorrow and regret in its bearing; stood still as stone, and watched so -quietly.</p> - -<p>Evered did not think of Semler; he had scarce thought of the man at all, -from the beginning. When he was done with his wife he went to where the -bull stood, and snapped his ash stave fast to the creature’s nose. The -bull made no move, neither backed away nor snorted nor jerked aside its -vast head. And Evered, his face like a stone, led the beast to one side -and up the slope and through the woodlot toward the farm.</p> - -<p>As he approached the barn he turned to one side and came to the boarded -pen outside the bull’s stall. He led the beast inside this pen, loosed -the stave from the nose ring, and stepped back outside the gate. -Watching for a moment he saw the red bull walk slowly across the pen and -go into its stall; and once inside it turned round and stood with its -head in the doorway of the stall, watching him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_56" id="page_56">{56}</a></span></p> - -<p>He made fast the gate, then passed through the barn and approached the -kitchen door. Ruth, his wife’s sister, came to the door to meet him. His -face was steady as a rock; there was no emotion in the man. Yet there -was something about him which appalled the girl.</p> - -<p>She asked huskily, “Did you get the bull in? I heard him, didn’t I?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Evered. “He’s in.”</p> - -<p>“I heard him bellowing,” she explained. “And then I saw a man run up -across the side field to the road.”</p> - -<p>“That was Semler,” Evered explained coldly. “Dane Semler. He was afraid -of the bull.”</p> - -<p>“I was worried,” the girl persisted timidly, not daring to say what was -in her mind. “I was worried—worried about Mary.”</p> - -<p>“The bull killed her,” said Evered; and passed her and went into the -kitchen.</p> - -<p>Ruth backed against the wall to let him go by; and she pressed her two -hands to her lips in a desperate frightened way; and her eyes were wide -and staring with horror. She stared at the man, and her hands held back -the clamor of her grief. She stared at him as at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_57" id="page_57">{57}</a></span> a monstrous thing, -while Evered washed his hands at the sink and dried them on the roller -towel, and combed his hair before the clean mirror hanging on the wall. -There was a dreadful deliberation about his movements.</p> - -<p>After a moment the girl began to move; she went by little sidewise steps -as far as the door, and then she leaped out into the barnyard, and the -screams poured from her in a frenzy of grief that was half madness. -Evered turned at the first sound and watched her run, still screaming, -across the barnyard to the fence; and he saw her fumble fruitlessly with -the topmost bars, and at last scramble awkwardly over the fence itself -in her stricken haste. She was still crying out terribly as she -disappeared from his sight in the direction of the woodlot and the -spring.</p> - -<p>Evered watching her said to himself bitterly: “She knew where Mary was; -knew where to look for her.”</p> - -<p>He flung out one hand in a weak gesture of despair that came strangely -from so harshly strong a man; and he began to move aimlessly about the -kitchen, not knowing what he did. He took a drink at the pump; he -changed his shoes for barnyard boots; he cut tobacco from<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_58" id="page_58">{58}</a></span> a plug and -filled his pipe and forgot to light it; he stood in the door, the cold -pipe in his teeth, and stared out across his farm; and his teeth set on -the pipestem till it cracked and roused him from his own thoughts.</p> - -<p>Then he heard someone running, and his son, John Evered, came from the -direction of the orchard, and flung a quick glance at his father, and -another into the kitchen at his father’s back.</p> - -<p>Evered looked at him, and the young man, panting from his run, said, “I -heard Ruth cry out. What’s happened, father?”</p> - -<p>Evered’s tight lips did not stir for a moment; then he took the pipe in -his hand, and he said stiffly, “The red bull killed Mary.”</p> - -<p>They were accustomed to speak of Evered’s second wife as Mary when they -spoke together. John, though he loved her, had never called her mother. -He loved her well; but the blood tie was strong in him, and he loved his -father more. At his father’s word now he stepped nearer the older man, -watching, sensing something of the agony behind Evered’s simple -statement; and their eyes met and held for a little.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_59" id="page_59">{59}</a></span></p> - -<p>Then Evered said, “She was with Dane Semler at the spring.”</p> - -<p>The gentler lines of his son’s face slowly hardened into a likeness of -his own. The young man asked, “Where’s Semler?”</p> - -<p>“Ran away,” said Evered.</p> - -<p>“I had wanted a word with him.”</p> - -<p>Evered laughed shortly; and it was almost the first time that John had -ever seen him laugh, so that the sight was shocking and terrible. Then -the older man turned back into the house.</p> - -<p>John followed him and asked quickly, “It was at the spring?”</p> - -<p>“Yes. The bull broke down his fence to get at a dog.”</p> - -<p>“We must bring her home,” the son suggested quietly. “Where is Ruth?”</p> - -<p>“Down there,” Evered told him.</p> - -<p>John turned to the door again. “We’ll bring her home,” he said; and -Evered saw the young man go swiftly across the farmyard and vault the -fence and start at an easy run in the direction Ruth had gone.</p> - -<p>Evered stayed in the house alone for a moment; and when he could bear to -be alone no longer he went out into the farmyard. As<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_60" id="page_60">{60}</a></span> he did so Zeke -Pitkin drove in, on his way back from that errand in North Fraternity.</p> - -<p>The bleak face of Evered appalled the timid man and frightened him; and -he stammered apologetically: “W-wondered if you got the b-bull in.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Evered. “After he had killed Mary.”</p> - -<p>Zeke stared at Evered with a face that was a mask of terror for a -moment, and Evered stood still, watching him. Then Pitkin gathered his -reins clumsily, and clumsily turned his horse, so sharply that his wagon -was well-nigh overthrown by the cramped wheel. When it was headed for -the road he lashed out with the whip, and the horse leaped forward. -Evered could hear it galloping out to the main road, and then to the -left, toward Fraternity.</p> - -<p>“Town’ll know in half an hour,” he said half to himself.</p> - -<p>The man was still in a stupor, his emotions numb. But he did not want to -be alone. After a moment he went out into the stable and harnessed the -horse to his light wagon and started down a wood road toward the spring. -The wagon would serve to bring his wife’s body home.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_61" id="page_61">{61}</a></span></p> - -<p>The vehicles on a Fraternity farm are there for utility, almost without -exception. Evered had a mowing machine, a rake, a harrow, a sledge, a -single-seated buggy and this light wagon. He was accustomed to take the -wagon when he went butchering; and it had served to haul the carcasses -of any number of sheep or calves or pigs or steers from farm to market. -He had no thought that he was piling horror on horror in taking this -wagon to bring home his wife’s body.</p> - -<p>He laid a double armful of hay in the bed of the wagon before he -started; and he himself walked by the horse’s head, easing it over the -rough places. The wood road which he followed would take him within two -or three rods of the spring.</p> - -<p>John Evered, going before his father, had found Ruth MacLure -passionately sobbing above the body of her sister. And at first he could -not bring himself to draw near to her; he was held by some feeling that -to approach her would be sacrilege. There had been such a love between -the sisters as is not often seen; there was a spiritual intimacy between -them, a sympathy of mind and heart akin to that sometimes marked between -twins. John<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_62" id="page_62">{62}</a></span> knew this; he knew all that Ruth’s grief must be. And so he -stood still, a little ways off from her, and waited till the tempest of -her grief should pass.</p> - -<p>When she was quieter he spoke to her; and at the sound of his voice the -girl whirled to face him, still kneeling; and there were no more tears -in her. He was frightened at the stare of challenge in her eyes. He said -quickly, “It’s me.”</p> - -<p>She shook her head as though something blurred her sight. “I thought it -was your father,” she told him, and there was a bitter condemnation in -her tone.</p> - -<p>John said, “You mustn’t blame him.”</p> - -<p>“He’s not even sorry,” she explained softly, thoughtfully.</p> - -<p>“He is,” John insisted. “You never understood him. He loved her so.”</p> - -<p>She flung her head to one side impatiently and got to her feet, brushing -at her eyes with her sleeve, fumbling with her hair, composing her -countenance. “It’s growing dark,” she said. “We must take her home.”</p> - -<p>He nodded. “I’ll carry her,” he said; and he crossed and bent above the -dead woman, and looked at her for a moment silently. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_63" id="page_63">{63}</a></span> girl, watching -him, saw in the still strength of his features a likeness to his father -that was suddenly terrible and appalling.</p> - -<p>She shuddered; and when he would have lifted her sister’s body she cried -out in passionate hysterical protest, “Don’t touch her! Don’t touch her! -You shan’t touch her, John Evered!”</p> - -<p>John looked at her slowly; and with that rare understanding which was -the birthright of the man he said, “You’re blaming father.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes,” she cried, “I am.”</p> - -<p>“It was never his fault,” he said.</p> - -<p>“He kept that red, killing brute about,” she protested. “Oh, he killed -her, he killed Mary, he killed my sister, John.”</p> - -<p>“That is not fair,” he told her.</p> - -<p>Before she could answer they both hushed to the sound of the approaching -wagon; and Evered came toward them, leading the horse, and he turned it -and backed the wagon in below the spring.</p> - -<p>They did not speak to him, nor he to them. But when he was ready he went -toward the dead woman to lift her into the wagon bed; and Ruth pushed -between them and cried:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_64" id="page_64">{64}</a></span> “You shan’t touch her! You shan’t touch her, -ever!”</p> - -<p>Evered looked at her steadily; and after a moment he said, “Stand to one -side.”</p> - -<p>The girl wished to oppose him; but it was a tribute to his strength that -even in this moment the sheer will of the man overpowered her. She moved -aside; and Evered lifted his wife’s body with infinite gentleness and -disposed it upon the fragrant hay in the wagon bed. He put the folded -coat again beneath his wife’s head as a pillow, as though she were only -sleeping.</p> - -<p>Still with no word to them he took the horse’s rein and started to lead -it toward the road and up the hill. And Ruth and John, after a moment, -followed a little behind.</p> - -<p>When they came up into the open, out of the scattering trees, a homing -crow flying overhead toward its roost saw them. It may have been that -the wagon roused some memory in the bird, offered it some promise. At -any rate, the black thing circled on silent wing, and lighted in the -road along which they had come, and hopped and flopped behind them as -they went slowly up the hill toward the farm.</p> - -<p>Ruth saw the bird and shuddered; and John<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_65" id="page_65">{65}</a></span> went back and drove it into -flight; but it took earth again, farther behind them.</p> - -<p>It followed them insistently up the hill; and it was still there, a -dozen rods away, as they brought Mary Evered home.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_66" id="page_66">{66}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="VII" id="VII"></a>VII</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">W</span>HEN they came into the farmyard night was falling. In the west the sky -still showed bright and warm; and against this brilliant sky the hills -were purple and deeper purple in the distance. In the valleys mists were -rising and black pools of night were forming beneath these mists; and -while Evered bore his wife’s body into the house and laid it on the bed -in the spare room, these pools rose and rose until they topped the hills -and overflowed the world with darkness. The air was still hot and heavy, -as it had been all day; and the sultry sky which had intensified the -heat of the sun served now to hide the stars. When it grew dark it was -as dark as pitch. The blackness seemed tangible, as though a man might -catch it in his hand.</p> - -<p>Ruth stayed beside her sister; but John built a fire in the stove while -Evered sat by in stony calm, and he made coffee and fried salt pork<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_67" id="page_67">{67}</a></span> and -boiled potatoes. There were cold biscuits which Mary Evered had made -that morning, and doughnuts from the crock in the cellar. When the -supper was ready he called Ruth; and she came. The most tragic thing -about death is that it accomplishes so little. The dropping of man or -woman into the pool of the infinite is no more than the dropping of a -pebble into a brook. The surface of the pool is as calm, a little after, -as it was before. Thus, now, save that Mary was not at the table, their -supping together was as it had always been.</p> - -<p>And after they had eaten they must go with the familiarity of long habit -about their evening chores. Ruth washed the dishes; John and his father -fed the beasts and milked the cows; and when they came in John turned -the separator while Ruth attended to the milk and put away, afterward, -the skim milk and the cream.</p> - -<p>By that time two or three neighbors had come in, having heard of that -which had come to pass. There was genuine sorrow in them, for Mary -Evered had been a woman to be loved; but there was also the ugly -curiosity native to the human mind; and there was speculation in each -eye as they watched Evered<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_68" id="page_68">{68}</a></span> and John and Ruth. They would discuss, for -days to come, the bearing of each one of the three on that black night.</p> - -<p>For Evered, the man was starkly silent, saying no word. He sat by the -table, eyes before him, puffing his pipe. Ruth stayed by her sister as -though some instinct of protection kept her there. John talked with -those who came, told them a little. He did not mention Semler’s part in -the tragedy. He said simply that the bull had broken loose; that Mary -Evered was by the spring, where she liked to go; that the bull came upon -her there.</p> - -<p>They asked morbidly whether she was trampled and torn; and they seemed -disappointed when he told them that she was not, that even the terrible -red bull had seemed appalled at the thing which he had done. And through -the evening others came and went, so that he had to say the same things -over and over; and always Evered sat silently by the table, giving no -heed when any man spoke to him; and Ruth, in the other room, kept guard -above the body. The women went in there, some of them; but no men went -in.</p> - -<p>John had telephoned to Isaac Gorfinkle, whose business it was to prepare -poor human<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_69" id="page_69">{69}</a></span> clay for its return to earth again; and Gorfinkle came about -midnight and put all save Ruth out of the room where the dead woman lay. -Gorfinkle was a little, fussy man; a man who knew his doleful trade. -Before day he and Ruth had done what needed doing; and Mary Evered lay -in the varnished coffin he had brought. Her white hair and the sweet -nobility of her countenance, serenely lying there, made those who looked -forget the ugly splendor of Gorfinkle’s wares.</p> - -<p>It was decided that she should be buried on the second day. On the day -after her death many people came to the farm; and some came from -curiosity, and some from sympathy, and some with an uncertain purpose in -their minds.</p> - -<p>These were the selectmen of the town—Lee Motley, chairman; and Enoch -Thomas, of North Fraternity; and Old Man Varney. Motley, a sober man and -a man of wisdom, was of Evered’s own generation; Enoch Thomas and Varney -were years older. Old Varney had a son past thirty, whom to this day he -thrashed with an ax stave when the spirit moved him, his big son -good-naturedly accepting the outrage.</p> - -<p>Thomas and Varney came to demand that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_70" id="page_70">{70}</a></span> Evered kill his red bull; and -Motley put the case for them.</p> - -<p>“We’ve talked it over,” he said. “Seem’s like the bull’s dangerous; like -he ought to be killed. That’s what we’ve—what we’ve voted.”</p> - -<p>Evered turned his heavy eyes from man to man; and Old Varney brandished -his cane and called the bull a murdering beast, and bade Evered take his -rifle and do the thing before their eyes. Evered’s countenance changed -no whit; he looked from Varney to Thomas, who was silent, and from -Thomas to Lee Motley.</p> - -<p>“I’ll not kill the bull,” he said.</p> - -<p>Before Motley could speak, Varney burst into abuse and insistent demand; -and Evered let him talk. When the old man simmered to silence they -waited for Evered to answer, but Evered held his tongue till Lee Motley -asked, “Come, Evered, what do you say?”</p> - -<p>“What I have said,” Evered told them.</p> - -<p>“The town’ll see,” Old Varney shrilled, and shook his fist in Evered’s -face. “The town’ll see whether a murdering brute like that is to range -abroad. If you’ve not shame enough—your own wife, man—your own——” he -wagged his head. “The town’ll see.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_71" id="page_71">{71}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Said Evered: “I’ll not take rifle to the bull; but if any man comes here -to kill the beast, I’ll have use for that rifle of mine.”</p> - -<p>Which fanned Varney to a fresh outbreak, till Evered flung abruptly -toward him, and abruptly said, “Be still.”</p> - -<p>So were they still; and Evered looked them in the eye, man by man, till -he came to Motley; and then he said, “Motley, I thought there was more -wisdom in you.”</p> - -<p>“Aye,” cried Varney. “He’s as big a fool as you.”</p> - -<p>And Motley said, “I voted against this, Evered. The bull’s yours, if -you’re a mind to kill him. I’m not for making you. It’s your own affair, -you mind. And—the ways of a bull are the ways of a bull. The brute’s -not overmuch to be blamed.”</p> - -<p>Evered nodded and turned his back on them; and after a time they went -away. But when Evered went into the house he met Ruth, and the girl -stopped him and asked him huskily, “You’re not going to kill that red -beast?”</p> - -<p>Evered hesitated; then he said, with something like apology in his -tones, “No, Ruth.”</p> - -<p>She began to tremble, and he saw that words were hot on her lips; and he -lifted one<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_72" id="page_72">{72}</a></span> hand in a placating gesture. She turned into the other room, -and the door shut harshly at her back. Evered’s eyes rested on the door -for a space, a curious questioning in them, a wistful light that was -strange to see.</p> - -<p>All that day Ruth was still, saying little. No word passed between her -and Evered, and few words between her and John. But that night, when -they were alone, John spoke to her in awkward comfort and endearment.</p> - -<p>“Please, Ruthie,” he begged. “You’re breaking yourself. You’ll be sick. -You must not be so hard.”</p> - -<p>He put an arm about her, as though he would have kissed her; but the -girl’s hands came up against his chest, and the girl’s eyes met his in a -fury of horror and loathing, and she flung him away.</p> - -<p>“Don’t! Don’t!” she cried in a voice that was like a scream. “Don’t -ever! You—his son!”</p> - -<p>John, inexpressibly hurt, yet understanding, left her alone; he told -himself she was not to be blamed, with the agony of grief still -scourging her.</p> - -<p>One of the neighbor women came in that night to sit with Ruth; and Ruth -slept a little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_73" id="page_73">{73}</a></span> through the night. John was early abed; he had had no -sleep the night before, and he was tired. He sank fathoms deep in -slumber; a slumber broken by fitful, unhappy dreams. His own grief for -the woman who had been mother to him had been stifled, given no chance -for expression, because he had fought to comfort Ruth and to ease his -father. The reaction swept over him while he slept; he rested little.</p> - -<p>Evered, about nine o’clock, went to the room he and his wife had shared -for so many years. He had not, before this, been in the room since she -was killed. Some reluctance had held him; he had shunned the spot. But -now he was glad to be alone, and when he had shut the door he stood for -a moment, looking all about, studying each familiar object, his nerves -reacting to faint flicks of pain at the memories that were evoked.</p> - -<p>He began to think of what the selectmen had said, of their urgency that -he should kill the bull. And he sat down on the edge of the bed and -remained there, not moving, for a long time. Once his eye fell on his -belt hanging against the wall, with the heavy knife that he used in his -butchering in its sheath.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_74" id="page_74">{74}</a></span> He reached out and took down the belt and -drew the knife forth and held it in his hands, the same knife that had -killed drunken Dave Riggs long ago. A powerful weapon, it would strike a -blow like an ax; the handle of bone, the blade heavy and keen and -strong. He balanced it between his fingers, and thought of how he had -struck it into the neck of Zeke Pitkin’s bull, and how the bull had -dropped in midlife and never stirred more. The knife fascinated him; he -could not for a long time take his eyes away from it. At the last he -reached out and thrust it into its sheath with something like a shudder, -strange to see in so strong a man.</p> - -<p>Then he undressed and got into bed, the bed he had shared with Mary -Evered. He had blown out the lamp; the room was dark. There was a little -current of air from the open window. And after a little Evered began to -be as lonely as a boy for the first time away from home.</p> - -<p>There is in every man, no matter how stern his exterior, a softer side. -Sometimes he hides it from all the world; more often his wife gets now -and then a glimpse of it. There was a side of Evered which only Mary -Evered<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_75" id="page_75">{75}</a></span> had known. And she had loved it. When they had come to bed -together it always seemed to her that Evered was somehow gentler, -kinder. He put away his harshness, as though it were a part he had felt -called upon to play before men. The child in him, strong in most men, -came to the surface. He was never a man overgiven to caresses, but when -they were alone at night together, and he was weary, he would sometimes -draw her arm beneath his head as a pillow or take her hand and lift it -to rest upon his forehead, while she twined her fingers gently through -his hair.</p> - -<p>They used to talk together, sometimes far into the night; and though he -might have used her bitterly through the day, with caustic tongue and -hard, condemning eye, he was never unkind in these moments before they -slept. A man the world outside had never seen. It was these nights -together which had made life bearable for Mary Evered; and they had been -dear to Evered too. How dreadful and appalling, then, was this, his -first night alone.</p> - -<p>Her shoulder was not there to cradle his sick and weary head; her gentle -hand was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_76" id="page_76">{76}</a></span> not there to cool his brow. When he flung an arm across her -pillow, where she used to lie, it embraced a gulf of emptiness that -seemed immeasurably deep and terrible. After a little, faint -perspiration came out upon the man’s forehead. He turned on his right -side, in the posture that invited sleep; but at first sleep would not -come. His limbs jerked and twitched; his eyelids would not close. He -stared sightlessly into the dark. Outside in the night there were faint -stirrings and scratchings and movings to and fro; and each one brought -him more wide awake than the last. He got up and closed the window to -shut them out, and it seemed to him the closed room was filled with her -presence. When he lay down again he half fancied he felt her hand upon -his hair, and he reached his own hand up to clasp and hold hers, as he -had sometimes used to do; but his groping fingers found nothing, and -came sickly away again.</p> - -<p>How long he lay awake he could not know. When at last he dropped asleep -the very act of surrender to sleep seemed to fetch him wide awake again. -Waking thus he thought that he held his wife in his arms; he had often -wakened in the past to find her there. But as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_77" id="page_77">{77}</a></span> his senses cleared he -found that the thing which he held so tenderly against his side was only -the pillow on which her head was used to lie.</p> - -<p>The man’s nerves jangled and clashed; and he threw the pillow -desperately away from him as though he were afraid of it. He sat up in -bed; and his pulses pounded and beat till they hurt him like the blows -of a hammer. There was no sleep in Evered.</p> - -<p>He was still sitting thus, bolt upright, sick and torn and weary, when -the gray dawn crept in at last through the window panes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_78" id="page_78">{78}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="VIII" id="VIII"></a>VIII</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HE day of Mary Evered’s burial was such a day as comes most often -immediately after a storm, when the green of the trees is washed to such -a tropical brightness that the very leaves radiate color and the air is -filled with glancing rays of light. There were white clouds in the blue -sky; clouds not dense and thick, but lightly frayed and torn by the -winds of the upper reaches, and scudding this way and that according to -the current which had grip of them. Now and then these gliding clouds -obscured the sun; and the sudden gloom made men look skyward, half -expecting a burst of rain. But for the most part the sun shone steadily -enough; and there was an indescribable brilliance in the light with -which it bathed the earth. Along the borders of the trees, round the -gray hulks of the bowlders, and fringing the white blurs of the houses -there seemed to shimmer a halo of colors so faint and fine they could be -sensed but not seen by the eye. The trees and the fields were an -unearthly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_79" id="page_79">{79}</a></span> gaudy green; the shadows deep amid the branches were -trembling, changing pools of color. A day fit to bewitch the eye, with a -soft cool wind stirring everywhere.</p> - -<p>Evered himself was early about, attending to the morning chores. Ruth -MacLure had fallen asleep toward morning, and the woman with her let the -girl rest. John woke when he heard his father stirring; and it was he -who made breakfast ready, when he had done his work about the barn. He -and his father ate together, and Ruth did not join them.</p> - -<p>Evered, John saw, was more silent than his usual silent custom; and the -young man was not surprised, expecting this. John himself, concerned for -Ruth, and wishing he might ease the agony of her grief, had few words to -say. When they were done eating he cleared away the dishes and washed -them and put them away; and then he swept the floor, not because it -needed sweeping, but because he could not bear to sit idle, doing -nothing at all. He could hear the women stirring in the other room; and -once he heard Ruth’s voice.</p> - -<p>John’s grief was more for the living than for the dead; he had loved -Mary Evered truly enough, but there was a full measure of philos<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_80" id="page_80">{80}</a></span>ophy in -the young man. She was dead; and according to the simple trust which was -a part of him she was happy. But Ruth was unhappy, and his father was -unhappy. He wished he might comfort them.</p> - -<p>Evered at this time was soberly miserable; his mind was still numb, his -emotions were just beginning to assert themselves. He could not think -clearly, could scarce think at all. What passed for thought with him was -merely a jumble of exclamations, passionate outcries, curses and -laments. Mary was dead; and he knew that dimly, without full -comprehension of the knowledge. More clearly he remembered Mary and Dane -Semler, sitting so intimately side by side; and the memory was -compounded of anguish and of satisfaction—anguish because she was -false, satisfaction because her frailty in some small measure justified -the monstrous thing he had permitted, and in permitting had done. Evered -did not seek to deceive himself; he knew that he had killed Mary Evered -as truly as he had killed Dave Riggs many a year ago. He did not put the -knowledge into words; nevertheless, it was there, in the recesses of his -mind, concrete and ever insistent. And when sor<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_81" id="page_81">{81}</a></span>row and remorse began to -prick at him with little pins of fire he told himself, over and over, -that she had been frail, and so got eased of the worst edge of pain.</p> - -<p>A little after breakfast people began to come to the house. Isaac -Gorfinkle was first of them all, and he busied himself with his last -ugly preparations. Later the minister came—a boy, or little more; fresh -from theological school. His name was Mattice, and he was as prim and -meticulous as the traditional maiden lady who is so seldom found in -life. He tried to speak unctuous comfort to Evered, but the man’s scowl -withered him; he turned to John, and John had to listen to him with what -patience could be mustered. And more men came, and stood in groups about -the farmyard, smoking, spitting, shaving tiny curls of wood from -splinters of pine; and their women went indoors and herded in the front -room together, and whispered and sobbed in a hissing chorus -indescribably horrible. There is no creation of mankind so hideous as a -funeral; there is nothing that should be more beautiful. The hushed -voices, the damp scent of flowers, the stifling closeness of -tight-windowed rooms, the shuffling of feet, the raw<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_82" id="page_82">{82}</a></span> snuffles of those -who wept—these sounds filled the house and came out through the open -doors to the men, whispering in little groups outside.</p> - -<p>Ruth MacLure was not weeping; nor Evered; nor John. And the mourning, -sobbing women kissed Ruth and called her brave; and they whispered to -each other that Evered was hard, and that John was like his father. And -the lugubrious debauch of tears went on interminably, as though -Gorfinkle—whose duty it would be to give the word when the time should -come—thought these preliminaries were requisites to a successful -funeral.</p> - -<p>But at last it was impossible to wait longer without going home for -dinner, and Gorfinkle, who was accustomed to act as organist on such -occasions, took his seat, pumped the treadles and began to play. Then -everyone crowded into the front room or stood in the hall; and a woman -sang, and young Mattice spoke for a little while, dragging forth verse -after verse of sounding phrase which rang nobly even in his shrill and -uncertain tones. More singing, more tears. A blur of pictures -photographed themselves on Ruth’s eyes; words that she would never -forget struck her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_83" id="page_83">{83}</a></span> ears in broken phrases. She sat still, steady and -quiet. But her nerves were jangling; and it seemed to the girl she must -have screamed aloud if the thing had not ended when it did.</p> - -<p>Then the mile-long drive to the hilltop above Fraternity, with its iron -fence round about, and the white stones within; and there the brief and -solemn words, gentle with grief and glorious with triumphant hope, were -spoken above the open grave. And the first clod fell. And by and by the -last; and those who had come began to drift away to their homes, to -their dinners, to the round of their daily lives.</p> - -<p>Evered and John and Ruth drove home together in their light buggy, and -Ruth sat on John’s knee. But there was no yielding in her, there was no -softness about the girl. And no word was spoken by any one of them upon -the way.</p> - -<p>At home, alighting, she went forthwith into the house; and John put the -horse up, while his father fed the pigs and the red bull in his stall. -When they were done Ruth called them to dinner, appearing for an instant -at the kitchen door. John reached the kitchen before<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_84" id="page_84">{84}</a></span> his father; and -the pain in him made him speak to the girl before Evered came.</p> - -<p>“Ruthie,” he said softly. “Please don’t be too unhappy.”</p> - -<p>She looked at him with steady eyes, a little sorrowful. “I’m not -unhappy, John,” she said. “Because Mary is not unhappy, now. Don’t think -about me.”</p> - -<p>“I can’t help thinking about you,” he told her; and she knew what was -behind his words, and shook her head.</p> - -<p>“You’ll have to help it,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Why, Ruthie,” he protested, “you know how I feel about you.”</p> - -<p>Her eyes shone somberly. “It’s no good, John,” she answered. “You’re too -much Evered. I can see clearer now.”</p> - -<p>They had not, till then, marked Evered himself in the doorway. Ruth saw -him and fell silent; and Evered asked her in a low steady voice, “You’re -blaming me?”</p> - -<p>“I’m cursing you,” said the girl.</p> - -<p>Evered held still for a little, as though it were hard for him to muster -words. Then he asked huskily, “What was my fault?”</p> - -<p>She flung up her hand. “Everything!” she cried. “I’ve lived here with -you. I’ve seen<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_85" id="page_85">{85}</a></span> you—breaking Mary by inches, and nagging and teasing -and pestering her. Till she was sick with it. And she kept loving you, -so you could hurt her more. And you did. You loved to hurt her. Hard and -cruel and mean and small—you’d have beat her as you do your beasts, if -you’d dared. Coward too. Oh!”</p> - -<p>She flung away, began to move dishes aimlessly about upon the table. -Evered was gripped by a desire to placate her, to appease her; he -thought of Dane Semler, wished to cry out that accusation against his -wife. But he held his tongue. He had seen Semler with Mary; he had told -John; Ruth knew that Semler had been upon the farm. But neither of them -spoke of the man, then or thereafter. They told no one; and though -Fraternity might wonder and conjecture, might guess at the meaning of -Semler’s swift flight on the day of the tragedy, the town would never -know.</p> - -<p>Evered did not name Semler now; and it was not any sense of shame that -held his tongue. He believed wholly in that which his eyes had seen, and -all that it implied. Himself scarce knew why he did not speak; and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_86" id="page_86">{86}</a></span> he -would never have acknowledged that it was desire to shield his wife, -even from her own sister, which kept him silent. After a moment he sat -down and they began to eat.</p> - -<p>Toward the end of the meal he said to Ruth uneasily: “Feeling so, you’ll -not be like to stay here with John and me.”</p> - -<p>Ruth looked at him with a quick flash of eyes; she was silent, -thoughtfully. She had not considered this; had not considered what she -was to do. But instantly she knew.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I’m going to stay,” she told Evered. “This thing isn’t done. -There’s more to come. It must be so. For all you did there’s something -that will come to you. I want to be here, to see.” Her hands clenched on -the table edge. “I want to see you when it comes—see you squirm and -crawl.”</p> - -<p>There was such certainty in her tone that Evered, spite of himself, was -shaken. He answered nothing; and the girl said again, “Yes; I am going -to stay.”</p> - -<p>The red bull in his stall bellowed aloud; a long, rumbling, terrible -blare of challenge. It set the dishes dancing on the table before them; -and when they listened they could hear the monstrous beast snorting in -his stall.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_87" id="page_87">{87}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="IX" id="IX"></a>IX</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">A</span>FTER the death of Mary Evered the days slipped away, and June passed to -July, and July to August. Gardens prospered; the hay ripened in the -fields; summer was busy with the land. But winter is never far away in -these northern hills; and once in July and twice in August the men of -the farms awoke in early morning to find frost faintly lying, so that -there were blackened leaves in the gardens, and the beans had once to be -replanted. Customary hazards of their arduous life.</p> - -<p>The trout left quick water and moved into the deep pools; and a careful -fisherman, not scorning the humble worm, might strip a pool if he were -murderously inclined. The summer was dry; and as the brooks fell low and -lower little fingerlings were left gasping and flopping upon the gravel -of the shallows here and there. Nick Westley, the game warden for the -district, and a Fraternity man, went about with dip net and pail, -bailing penned<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_88" id="page_88">{88}</a></span> trout from tiny shallows and carrying them to the larger -pools where they might have a chance for life. Some of the more ardent -fishermen imitated him; and some took advantage of the trout’s extremity -to bring home catches they could never have made in normal times.</p> - -<p>John Evered loved fishing; and he knew the little brook along the hither -border of Whitcher Swamp, below the farm, as well as he knew his own -hand. But this year had been busy; he found no opportunity to try the -stream until the first week of July. One morning then, with steel rod -and tiny hooks, and a can of bait at his belt, he struck down through -the woodlot, past the spring where Mary had been killed, into the timber -below, and so came to the wall that was the border of his father’s farm, -and crossed into the swamp.</p> - -<p>Whitcher Swamp is on the whole no pleasant place for a stroll; yet it -has its charms for the wild things, and for this reason John loved it. -Where he struck the marshy ground it was relatively easy going; and he -took a way he knew and came to the brook and moved along it a little -ways to a certain broad and open pool.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_89" id="page_89">{89}</a></span></p> - -<p>He thought the brook was lower than he had ever seen it at this season; -and once he knelt and felt the water, and found it warm. He smiled at -this with a certain gratification for the pool he sought was a spring -hole, water bubbling up through pin gravel in the brook’s very bed, and -the trout would be there to dwell in that cooler stream. When he came -near the place, screened behind alders so that he could not be seen, he -uttered an exclamation, and became as still as the trees about him while -he watched.</p> - -<p>There were trout in the pool, a very swarm of them, lying close on the -yellow gravel bottom. The water, clear as crystal, was no more than -three feet deep; and he could see them ever so plainly. Big fat fish, -monsters, if one considered the brook in which he found them. He judged -them all to be over nine inches, several above a foot, one perhaps -fourteen inches long; and his eyes were shining. They were so utterly -beautiful, every line of their graceful bodies, and every dappled spot -upon their backs and sides as clear as though he held them in his hands.</p> - -<p>He rigged line and hook, nicked a long worm upon the point, and without -so much<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_90" id="page_90">{90}</a></span> as shaking an alder branch thrust his rod through and swung the -baited hook and dropped it lightly in the very center of the pool, full -fifteen feet from shore. Then he swung upward with a strong steady -movement, for he had seen a great trout strike as the worm touched the -water, had seen the chewing jaws of the fish mouthing its titbit. And as -he swung, the gleaming body came into the air, through an arc above his -head, into the brush behind him, where he dropped on his knees beside it -and gave it merciful death with the haft of his heavy knife, and dropped -it into his basket.</p> - -<p>Fly fishermen will laugh with a certain scorn; or they will call John -Evered a murderer. Nevertheless, it is none so easy to take trout even -in this crude fashion of his. A shadow on the water, a stirring of the -bushes, a too-heavy tread along the bank—and they are gone. Nor must -they be hurried. The capture of one fish alarms the rest; the capture of -two disturbs them; the taking of three too quickly will send them flying -every whither.</p> - -<p>John, after his first fish, filled and lighted his pipe, then caught a -second; and after<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_91" id="page_91">{91}</a></span> another interval, a third—fat, heavy trout, all of -them; as much as three people would care to eat; and John was not minded -to kill more than he could use. He covered the three with wet moss in -his basket, and then he crept back through the alders and lay for a long -time watching the trout in the pool, absorbing the beauty of their -lines, watching how they held themselves motionless with faintest -quivers of fin, watching how they fed.</p> - -<p>A twelve-inch trout rose and struck at a leaf upon the pool’s surface, -and John told himself, “They’re hungry.” He laughed a little, and got an -inch-long twig and tied it to the end of his line in place of hook. This -he cast out upon the pool, moving it to and fro erratically. Presently a -trout swirled up and took it under, and spat it out before John could -twitch the fish to the surface. John laughed aloud, and cast again. He -stayed there for a long hour at this sport, and when the trout sulked he -teased them with bits of leaf or grass. Once he caught a cricket and -noosed it lightly and dropped it on the water. When the fish took it -down John waited for an instant, then tugged and swung the trout<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_92" id="page_92">{92}</a></span> half a -dozen feet into the air before he could disgorge the bait.</p> - -<p>“Hungry as sin,” John told himself at last; and his eyes became sober as -he considered thoughtfully. There were other men about, as good -fishermen as he, and not half so scrupulous. If they should come upon -this pool on such a day——</p> - -<p>He did a thing that might seem profanation to the fisherman who likes a -goodly bag. He gathered brush and threw it into the pool; he piled it -end to end and over and over; he found two small pines; dead in their -places among their older brethren; and he pushed them from their rotting -roots and dragged them to the brook and threw them in. When he was done -the pool was a jungle, a wilderness of stubs and branches; a sure haven -for trout, a spot almost impossible to fish successfully. While he -watched, when his task was finished, he saw brown darting shadows in the -stream as the trout shot back into the covert he had made; and he smiled -with a certain satisfaction.</p> - -<p>“They’ll have to fish for them now,” he told himself.</p> - -<p>He decided to try and see whether a man<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_93" id="page_93">{93}</a></span> might take a trout from the -pool in its ambushed state. It meant an hour of waiting, a snagged hook -or two, a temper-trying ordeal with mosquitoes and flies. But in the end -he landed another fish, and was content. He went back through the swamp -and up to the farm, well pleased.</p> - -<p>Moving along the brook he saw other pools where smaller fish were lying; -and that night he told Ruth what he had seen. “You can see all the trout -you’re minded to, down there now,” he said.</p> - -<p>The girl nodded unsmilingly. She had not yet learned to laugh again, -since her sister’s death. They were a somber household, these -three—Evered steadily silent, the girl sober and stern, John striving -in his awkward fashion to win mirth from her and speech from Evered.</p> - -<p>The early summer was to pass thus. And what was in Evered’s mind as the -weeks dragged by no man could surely know. His eye was as hard as ever, -his voice as harsh; yet to Ruth it seemed that new lines were forming in -his cheeks, and his hair, that had been black as coal, she saw one -afternoon was streaked with gray. Watching, thereafter,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_94" id="page_94">{94}</a></span> she marked how -the white hairs increased in number. Once she spoke of it to John, -constrainedly, for there was no such pleasant confidence between these -two as there had been.</p> - -<p>John nodded. “Yes,” he said, “he’s aging. He loved her, Ruth; loved her -hard.”</p> - -<p>Ruth made no comment, but there was no yielding in her eyes. She was in -these days implacable; and Evered watched her now and then with -something almost pleading in his gaze. He began to pay her small -attentions, which came absurdly from the man. She tried to hate him for -them.</p> - -<p>Once John sought to comfort his father, spoke to him gently of the dead -woman; and Evered cried out, as though to assure himself as well as -silence John: “She was tricking me, John! Leaving me. With Semler, that -very day.”</p> - -<p>He would not let John reply, silenced him with a fierce oath and flung -away. It might have been guessed that his belief in his wife’s treachery -was like an anchor to which Evered’s racked soul clung; as though he -found comfort and solace in the ugly thought, a justifying consolation.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_95" id="page_95">{95}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="X" id="X"></a>X</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">J</span>OHN went no more to the brooks that summer; but what he had told Ruth -led her that way more than once. Westley, the game warden, stopped at -the house one day, and found her alone, and asked her whether John was -fishing. She told him of John’s one catch.</p> - -<p>“Swamp Brook is full of trout,” she said; “penned in the holes and the -shallows.”</p> - -<p>Westley nodded. “It’s so everywhere,” he agreed. “I’m dipping and -shifting them. Tell John to do that down in the swamp if he can find the -time.”</p> - -<p>She asked how it should be done; and when Westley had gone she decided -that she would herself go down and try the trick of it if the drought -still held.</p> - -<p>The drought held. No rain came; and once in early August she spent an -afternoon along the stream, and transported scores of tiny trout to -feeding grounds more deep and more secure.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_96" id="page_96">{96}</a></span> Again a week later; and -still again as the month drew to a close.</p> - -<p>It was on this third occasion that the girl came upon Darrin. Working -along the brook with dip net and pail she had marked the footprints of a -man in the soft earth here and there. The swamp was still, no air -stirring, the humming of insects ringing in her ears. A certain gloom -dwelt in these woods even on the brightest day; and the black mold bore -countless traces and tracks of the animals and the small vermin which -haunted the place at night. Ruth might have been forgiven for feeling a -certain disquietude at sight of those man tracks in the wild; but she -had no such thought. She had never learned to be afraid.</p> - -<p>She came upon Darrin at last with an abruptness that startled her. The -soft earth muffled her footsteps; she was within two or three rods of -him before she saw him, and even then the man had not heard her. He was -kneeling by the brook and at first she thought he had been drinking the -water. Then she saw that he was studying something there upon the -ground; and a moment later he got up and turned and saw her standing -there. At first he was so surprised that he could not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_97" id="page_97">{97}</a></span> speak, and they -were still, looking at each other. The girl, bareheaded, in simple waist -and heavy short skirt, with rubber boots upon her feet so that she might -wade at will, was worth looking at. The man himself was no mean -figure—khaki flannel shirt, knickerbockers, leather putties over stout -waterproof shoes. She carried pail in one hand, dip net in the other; -and she saw that he had a revolver slung in one hip, a camera looped -over his shoulder.</p> - -<p>He said at last, “Hello, there!” And Ruth nodded in the sober fashion -that was become her habit. The man asked, “What have you got? Milk, in -that pail? Is this your pasture land?”</p> - -<p>“Trout,” she told him; and he came to see the fish in a close-packed -mass; and he exclaimed at them, and watched while she put them into the -stream below where he had been kneeling. He asked her why she did it, -and she told him. At the same time she looked toward where he had knelt, -wondering what he saw there. She could see only some deep-imprinted -moose tracks; and moose tracks were so common in the swamp that it was -not worth while to kneel to study them.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_98" id="page_98">{98}</a></span></p> - -<p>He saw her glance, and said, “I was looking at those tracks. Moose, -aren’t they?”</p> - -<p>She nodded. “Yes.”</p> - -<p>“They told me there were moose in here,” he said. “I doubted it, though. -So far south as this.”</p> - -<p>“There are many moose in the swamp,” she declared.</p> - -<p>He asked, “Have you ever seen them?”</p> - -<p>She smiled a little. “Once in a while. A cow moose wintered in our barn -two years ago.”</p> - -<p>He slapped his thigh lightly. “Then this is the place I’m looking for,” -he exclaimed.</p> - -<p>She asked softly, “Why?” She was interested in the man. He was not like -John, not like anyone whom she had known; except, perhaps, Dane Semler. -A man of the city, obviously. “Why?” she asked.</p> - -<p>“I want to get some pictures of them,” he explained. “Photographs. In -their natural surroundings. Wild. In the swamp.”</p> - -<p>“John took a snapshot of the cow that wintered with us,” she said. “I -guess he’d give you one.”</p> - -<p>The man laughed. “I’d like it,” he told<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_99" id="page_99">{99}</a></span> her; “but I want to get a great -many.” He hesitated. “Where is your farm?”</p> - -<p>She pointed out of the swamp toward the hill.</p> - -<p>“Near?” he asked.</p> - -<p>And she said, “It’s right over the swamp.”</p> - -<p>“Listen,” he said eagerly. “My name’s Darrin—Fred Darrin. What’s -yours?”</p> - -<p>“Ruth MacLure.”</p> - -<p>“Why you’re Evered’s sister-in-law, aren’t you?”</p> - -<p>She nodded, her cheeks paling a little. “Yes.”</p> - -<p>“I was coming to see Evered to-night,” he said. “I want to board at the -farm while I work on these pictures—that is, I want permission to camp -down here by the swamp somewhere, and get milk and eggs and things from -you. Do you think I can?”</p> - -<p>“Camp?” she echoed.</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>She looked round curiously, as though she expected to see his equipment -there. “Haven’t you a tent?”</p> - -<p>He laughed. “No. I’ve a tarp for a shelter; and I can cut some hemlock -boughs and build a shack; if you’ll let me trespass.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100">{100}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“You could sleep in the barn I guess,” she said. “Or maybe in the -house.”</p> - -<p>He shook his head. “No roof for mine. This is my vacation, you -understand. I can sleep under a roof at home.”</p> - -<p>“You’ll be getting wet all the time.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll dry when the sun comes out.”</p> - -<p>She asked, “Who’s going to cook for you?”</p> - -<p>“I’m a famous cook,” he told her.</p> - -<p>She had the rooted distrust of the open air which is common among the -people of the farms. She could not see why a man should sleep on the -ground when he might have hay or a bed; and she could not believe in the -practicality of cooking over an open fire; especially when there was a -stove at hand.</p> - -<p>“You’ll have to see Mr. Evered,” she said uneasily.</p> - -<p>So it happened that they two went back through the swamp together and up -the hill; and they came side by side to meet Evered and John in the -barnyard by the kitchen door.</p> - -<p>They had their colloquy there in the open barnyard, while the slanting -rays of the sun drew lengthening shadows from where they stood. Darrin -spoke to Evered. John went into the house after a moment and built a -fire<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101">{101}</a></span> for Ruth; and then he came out again while the girl went about the -business of supper.</p> - -<p>Darrin was a good talker; and Evered’s silence made him seem like a good -listener. When John came out he was able to tell Darrin something of the -moose in the swamp, their haunts and their habits. Darrin listened as -eagerly as he had talked. He told them at last what he had come to do; -he explained how by trigger strings and hidden cameras and flash-light -powders he hoped to capture the images of the shy giants of the forest. -John listened with shining eyes. The project was of a sort to appeal to -him. As for Evered, he had little to say, smoked stolidly, stared out -across his fields. The sunlight on his hair accentuated the white -streaks in it, and John looking toward him once thought he had never -seen his father look so old.</p> - -<p>When Darrin put forward his request for permission to camp in the -woodlot near the swamp, Evered swung his heavy head round and gave the -other man his whole attention for a space. It was John’s turn for -silence now. He expected Evered to refuse, perhaps abusively. Evered had -never liked trespassers. He said they scared his cows, trampled his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102">{102}</a></span> -hay, stole his garden stuff or his apples. But Evered listened now with -a certain patience, watching Darrin; and Darrin with a nimble tongue -talked on and made explanations and promises.</p> - -<p>In the end Evered asked, “Where is it your mind to camp?”</p> - -<p>“I’ve picked no place. I’ll find a likely spot.”</p> - -<p>“You could sleep in the barn,” said Evered, as Ruth had said before him; -and Darrin laughed.</p> - -<p>“As a matter of fact,” he explained, “half the sport of this for me is -in sleeping out of doors on the ground. I’m on vacation, you know. Other -men like hunting, and so do I; but mine is a somewhat different kind, -that’s all. I won’t bother you; you’ll not see much of me, for I’ll be -about the swamp at all hours of the night, and I’ll sleep a good deal in -the day. You’ll hardly know I’m there. Of course, I don’t want to urge -you against your will.”</p> - -<p>Evered’s lips flickered into what might have passed for a smile. “I’m -not often moved against my will,” he said. “But I’ve no ob<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103">{103}</a></span>jection to -your sleeping in my ground. If you keep out of the uncut hay.”</p> - -<p>“I will.”</p> - -<p>“And put out your fires. I don’t want to be burned up.”</p> - -<p>Darrin laughed. “I’m not a novice at this, Mr. Evered,” he said. “You’ll -not have to kick me off.”</p> - -<p>Evered nodded; and John said, “You want to keep out of the bull’s -pasture too. You’ll know it. There’s a high wire fence round.”</p> - -<p>Darrin said soberly, “I’ve heard of the red bull.”</p> - -<p>“He killed my wife,” said Evered; and there was something so stark in -the bald statement that it shocked and silenced them. Evered himself -flushed when he had spoken, as though his utterance had been -unconsidered, had burst from his overfull heart.</p> - -<p>“I know,” Darrin told him.</p> - -<p>John said after a moment’s silence, “If there’s any way I can help—I -know the swamp. As much as any man. And I’ve seen the moose in there.”</p> - -<p>There was a certain eagerness in his voice; and Darrin said readily, “Of -course. I’d like it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104">{104}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>He said he would tramp to town and come with his gear next morning. John -offered to drive him over, but he shook his head. As he started away -Ruth came to the kitchen door, and he looked toward her, and she said -hesitantly, “Don’t you want to stay to supper?”</p> - -<p>He thanked her, shook his head. Evered and John in the barnyard watched -him go; and Evered saw Ruth leave the kitchen door and move to a window -from which she could see him go up the lane toward the main road.</p> - -<p>Evered asked John: “What do you make of him?”</p> - -<p>“I like him,” said John. “I’m—glad you let him stay.”</p> - -<p>“Know why I let him stay?”</p> - -<p>“Why—no.”</p> - -<p>“See him and Ruth together? See her watching him?”</p> - -<p>“I didn’t notice.”</p> - -<p>Evered’s lips twitched in the nearest approach to mirth he ever -permitted himself. “Ought to have better eyes, John; if you’re minded to -keep hold o’ Ruth. She likes him. If I’d swore at him, shipped him off, -she’d have been all on his side from the start.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105">{105}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>John, a little troubled, shook his head. “Ruth’s all right,” he said. -“Give her time.”</p> - -<p>Evered said, that wistful note in his voice plain for any man to hear, -“I don’t want Ruth leaving us. So I let Darrin stay.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106">{106}</a></span>”</p> - -<h2><a name="XI" id="XI"></a>XI</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">D</span>ARRIN came to the farm. He made his camp by the spring where Mary -Evered had loved to sit, and where she had been killed. John knew this -at the time, was on the spot when Darrin built his fireplace in a bank -of earth, waist high, and watched the other shape hemlock boughs into a -rain-shedding shelter.</p> - -<p>He did not remonstrate; but he did say, “Shouldn’t think you’d want to -sleep here.”</p> - -<p>Darrin looked at him curiously; and he laughed a little.</p> - -<p>“You mean—the red bull?” he asked. And when John nodded he said, “Oh, -I’m not afraid of ghosts. The world’s full of ghosts.” There was a -sudden hardness in his eye. “I’m a sort of a ghost myself, in a way.”</p> - -<p>John wondered what he meant; but he was not given to much questioning, -and did not ask. Nevertheless, Darrin’s word stayed hauntingly in his -mind.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107">{107}</a></span></p> - -<p>He told Ruth where Darrin was camping; and the girl listened -thoughtfully, but made no comment. John knew that Ruth was accustomed to -go to the spring now and then, as her sister had done. He wondered -whether she would go there now. There was no jealousy in John; his heart -was not built for it. Nevertheless, there was a deep concern for Ruth, -deeper than he had any way of expressing. The matter worried him a -little.</p> - -<p>They did not speak of Darrin’s camping place to Evered, and Evered asked -no questions. Darrin came to the house occasionally for supplies, but it -happened that he did not encounter Evered at such times. He was always -careful to ask for the man, to leave some word of greeting for him; and -once he bade them tell Evered to come down and see his camp. They did -not do so. Some instinct, unspoken and unacknowledged, impelled both -Ruth and John to keep Evered and Darrin apart. Neither was conscious of -this feeling, yet both were moved by it.</p> - -<p>John, prompted to some extent by his father’s warning, had begun in an -awkward fashion to seek to please Ruth and to win back favor in her -eyes. He felt himself un<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108">{108}</a></span>easy and at a loss in the presence of Darrin, -felt himself at a disadvantage in any contest with the other. John was a -man of the country, of the farm, and he had grace to know it. Darrin had -the ease of one who has rubbed shoulders with many men in many places; -he was not confused in Ruth’s presence; he was rather at his best when -she was near, while John was ill at ease and words came hard to him. -Darrin took care to be friendly with them both; and he and John on more -than one night drove deep into the swamp together on Darrin’s quest. -John, busy about the farm, was unable to join Darrin in the daytime; but -the other scoured through the marsh for tracks and traces, and then -enlisted John to help him move cameras into position, lay flash-powder -traps, or stalk the moose at their feeding in desperate attempts at -camera snap-shooting.</p> - -<p>Sometimes, in the afternoons, John knew that Ruth went down to the -spring and talked with Darrin. Darrin told her of his ventures in the -swamp; and she told Darrin in her turn the story of the tragedy that had -been enacted here by the spring where he was camping. John, crossing the -woodlot on some errand,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109">{109}</a></span> came upon them there one afternoon, and passed -by on the knoll above them without having been seen. The picture they -made remained with him and troubled him.</p> - -<p>When Darrin had been some ten days on the farm and September was coming -in with a full moon in the skies it happened one night that Evered drove -to Fraternity for the mail and left John and Ruth alone together. When -she had done with the dishes she came out to find him on the door-step, -smoking in the moonlight; and she stood above him for a moment, till he -looked up at her with some question in his eyes.</p> - -<p>She asked then, “Are you going into the swamp with Mr. Darrin to-night?”</p> - -<p>He said, “No. He’s out of plates. There’s some due to-morrow; and he’s -waiting.”</p> - -<p>She was silent a moment longer, then said swiftly, as though anxious to -be rid of the words, “Let’s go down and see him.”</p> - -<p>If John was hurt or sorry he made no sign. He got to his feet. “Why, all -right,” he said. “It’s bright. We’ll not need a lantern.”</p> - -<p>As they moved across the barnyard to the bars and entered the woodlot -the girl began to talk, in a swift low voice, as though to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110">{110}</a></span> cover some -unadmitted embarrassment. A wiser man might have been disturbed; but -John was not analytical, and so he enjoyed it. It was the first time -they had talked together at any length since Mary died. It was, he -thought, like the old happy times. He felt warmed and comforted and -happier than he had been for many weeks past. She was like the old Ruth -again, he told himself.</p> - -<p>Darrin was glad to see them. He built up his fire and made a place for -Ruth to sit upon his blankets, leaning against a bowlder, and offered -John cigars. The man knew how to play host, knew how to be interesting. -John saw Ruth laugh wholeheartedly for the first time in months. He -thought she was never so lovely as laughing.</p> - -<p>When they went back up the hill together she fell silent and sober -again; and he looked down and saw her eyes, clear in the moonlight. -Abruptly, without knowing what he did, he put his arm round her; and for -an instant she seemed to yield to him, so that he drew her toward him as -he was used to do. He would have kissed her.</p> - -<p>She broke away and cried out: “No, no, no! I told you no, John.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111">{111}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>He said gently, “I think a lot of you, Ruth.”</p> - -<p>She shook her head, backing away from him; and he heard the angry note -creep back into her voice. “You mustn’t, ever,” she told him. “Oh, can’t -you understand?”</p> - -<p>Some hot strain in the man came to the surface; he cried with an -eloquence that was strange on his slow lips, “I love you. That’s all I -understand. I always will. You’ve got to know that too. You——”</p> - -<p>She said, “Hush! I won’t listen. You—you’re your father over. He’s not -content but he master everyone and every thing; master everyone about -him. Break them. Master his beasts and his wife. You’re his own son. -You’re an Evered.” Her hands were tightening into fists at her side. -“Oh, you would want to boss me the way he—— I won’t, I won’t! You -shan’t—shan’t ever do it.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll be kind to you,” he said.</p> - -<p>There was a softer note in her voice. “John, John,” she told him. “I’m -sorry. I did love you. I tried to shut my eyes. I tried to pretend that -Mary was happy with him. You’re like him. I thought I’d be happy with -you. She told me one day how he used be. It frightened me, because he -was like you. But<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112">{112}</a></span> I did love you, John. Till Mary died. Then I knew. -He’d killed her. He made her want to die. And he had driven that great -bull into a killing thing—by the way he treated it.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I’ve seen your father clear, John. I know what he is. You’re like -him. I couldn’t ever love you.”</p> - -<p>He said in a hot quick tone—because she was very lovely—that she would -love him, must, some day; and she shook her head.</p> - -<p>“Don’t you see?” she told him. “You’re trying already to make me do what -you want. Oh, John, can’t you Evereds see any living thing without -crushing it? Mr. Darrin——” She caught herself, went on. “See how -different he is. He goes into the swamp, and he has to be a thousand -times more careful, more crafty than you when you hunt. But you come -home with a bloody ugly thing across your shoulders; and he comes with a -lovely picture, that will always be beautiful, and that so many people -will see. He outwits the animals; he proves himself against them. But he -doesn’t kill them to do it, John. You—your father—— Oh, can’t you -ever see?”</p> - -<p>His thoughts were not quick enough to cope with her; but he said -awkwardly, “I’m not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113">{113}</a></span>—always killing things. I’ve left many a trout go -that I might have killed. And deer too.”</p> - -<p>“Because it’s the law,” she said harshly. “But it’s in you to -kill—crush and bruise and destroy. Don’t you see the difference? You -don’t have to beat a thing, a beast, to make it yield to you. You -Evereds.”</p> - -<p>“I’m not a horse beater,” he said.</p> - -<p>“It’s the blood of you,” she told him. “You will be.”</p> - -<p>“There’s some times,” he suggested, “when you’ve got to be hard.”</p> - -<p>“I’ve heard your father say that very thing.”</p> - -<p>They were moving slowly homeward now, speaking brokenly, with longer -silences between. The night was almost as bright as day, the moon in -midheavens above them. Ahead the barn and the house bulked large, -casting dark shadows narrowly along their foundation walls. There was a -fragrance of the hayfields in the air. The rake itself lay a little at -one side as they came into the barnyard, its spindling curved tines -making it look not unlike a spider crouching there. The bars rattled -when John lowered them for her to pass through; and the red bull in the -barn<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114">{114}</a></span> heard the sound and snorted sullenly at them.</p> - -<p>John said to her, “You’d be having a man handle that bull by kindness, -maybe.”</p> - -<p>She swung about and said quickly, “I’d be having a man take an ax and -chop that red bull to little bits.”</p> - -<p>He stood still and she looked up at him; and after an instant she hotly -asked, “Are you laughing? Why are you laughing at me?”</p> - -<p>He said gently, “You that were so strong against any killing—talking so -of the red bull.”</p> - -<p>She cried furiously, “Oh, you—— John Evered, you! I hate you! I’ll -always hate you. You and your father—both of you. Don’t you laugh at -me!”</p> - -<p>A little frightened at the storm he had evoked he touched her arm. She -wrenched violently away, was near falling, recovered herself. “Don’t -touch me!” she bade him.</p> - -<p>He watched her run into the house.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115">{115}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="XII" id="XII"></a>XII</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">O</span>NE day in the first week of September, a day when there was a touch of -frost in the air, and a hurrying and scurrying of the clouds overhead as -though they would escape the grip of coming winter, Evered took down his -double-bitted ax from its place in the woodshed and went to the -grindstone and worked the two blades to razor edge. John was in the -orchard picking those apples which were already fit for harvesting. Ruth -was helping him.</p> - -<p>There was not much of the fruit, and Evered had said to them, “I’ll go -down into the woodlot and get out some wood.”</p> - -<p>When he was gone Ruth and John looked at each other; and John asked, -“Does he know Darrin is there, I wonder? Know where he is?”</p> - -<p>Ruth said, “I don’t know. He sees more than you think. Anyway, it won’t -hurt him to know.”</p> - -<p>Evered shaped the ax to his liking, slung<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116">{116}</a></span> it across his shoulder, and -walked down the wood road till he came to a growth of birch which was -ready for the ax. The trees would be felled and cut into lengths where -they lay, then hauled to the farm and piled in the shed to season under -cover for a full twelve months before it was time to use the wood. -Evered’s purpose now was simply to cut down the trees, leaving the later -processes for another day.</p> - -<p>He had chosen the task in response to some inner uneasiness which -demanded an outlet. The man’s overflowing energy had always been his -master; it drove him now, drove him with a new spur—the spur of his own -thoughts. He could never escape from them; he scarce wished to escape, -for he was never one to dodge an issue. But if he had wished to forget, -Fraternity would not have permitted it. The men of the town, he saw, -were watching him with furtive eyes; the women looked upon him -spitefully. He knew that most people thought he should have killed the -red bull before this; but Evered would not kill the bull, partly from -native stubbornness, partly from an unformed feeling that he, not the -bull, was actually responsible. He was growing old through much thought -upon the mat<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117">{117}</a></span>ter; and it is probable that only his own honest certainty -of his wife’s misdoing kept him from going mad. He slept little. His -nerves tortured him.</p> - -<p>He struck the ax into the first tree with a hot energy that made him -breathe deep with satisfaction. He sank the blade on one side of the -tree, and then on the other, and the four-inch birch swayed and toppled -and fell. The man went furiously to the next, and to the next -thereafter. The sweat began to bead his forehead and his pulses began to -pound.</p> - -<p>He worked at a relentless pace for perhaps half an hour, drunk with his -own labors. At the end of that time, pausing to draw breath, he knew -that he was thirsty. It was this which first brought the spring to his -mind, the spring where his wife had died.</p> - -<p>He had not been near the spot since the day he found her there. The -avoidance had been instinctive rather than conscious. He hated the place -and in some measure he feared it, as much as it was in the man to fear -anything. He could see it all too vividly without bringing the actual -surroundings before his eyes. The thought of it tormented him. And when -his thirst made him remem<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118">{118}</a></span>ber the spring now his first impulse was to -avoid it. His second—because it was ever the nature of the man to meet -danger or misfortune or unpleasantness face to face—was to go to the -place and drink his fill. He stuck his ax into a stump and started down -the hill. This was not like that other day when he had gone along this -way. That day his wife had been killed was sultry and lowering and -oppressive; there was death in the very air. To-day was bright, crisp, -cool; the air like wine, the earth a vivid panorama of brilliant -coloring, the sky a vast blue canvas with white clouds limned lightly -here and there. A day when life quickened in the veins; a day to make a -man sing if there was song in him.</p> - -<p>There was no song in Evered; nevertheless, he felt the influence of the -glory all about him. It made him, somehow, lonely; and this was strange -in a man so used to loneliness. It made him unhappy and a little sorry -for himself, a little wistful. He wanted, without knowing it, someone to -give him comradeship and sympathy and friendliness. He had never -realized before how terribly alone he was.</p> - -<p>His feet took unconsciously the way they had taken on that other day; -but his thoughts<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119">{119}</a></span> were not on the matter, and so he came at last to the -knoll above the spring with something like a shock of surprise, for he -saw a man sitting below; and for a moment it seemed to him this man was -Semler, that Mary sat beside him. He brushed a rough hand across his -eyes, and saw that what he had taken for his wife’s figure was just a -roll of blanket laid across a rock; and he saw that the man was not -Semler but Darrin.</p> - -<p>He had never thought of the possibility that Darrin might have camped -beside the spring. Yet it was natural enough. This was the best water -anywhere along the swamp’s edge. A man might drink from the brook, but -not with satisfaction in a summer of such drought as this had seen. But -the spring had a steady flow of cool clear water in the driest seasons. -This was the best place for a camp. Darrin was here.</p> - -<p>Evered stood still, looking down on Darrin’s camp, until the other man -felt his eyes and looked up and saw him.</p> - -<p>When he saw Evered, Darrin got to his feet and laid aside his book and -called cheerfully, “Come aboard, sir. Time you paid me a call.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120">{120}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Evered hesitated; then he went, stumbling a little, down to where Darrin -was. “I’m getting out some wood,” he said. “I just came down for a -drink.”</p> - -<p>“Sit down,” said Darrin in a friendly way. “Fill your pipe.”</p> - -<p>The old Evered, the normal Evered even now would have shaken his head, -bent for his drink from the spring and gone back to his work. But Evered -was in want of company this day; and Darrin had a cheerful voice, a -comradely eye. Darrin seemed glad to see him. Also the little hollow -about the spring had a fascination for Evered. Having come to the spot -he was unwilling to leave it, not because he wished to stay, but because -he wished to go. He stayed because he dreaded to stay. He took Darrin’s -cup and dipped it in the spring and drank; and then at Darrin’s -insistence he sat down against the bowlder and whittled a fill for his -pipe and set it going.</p> - -<p>Darrin during this time had been talking with the nimble wit which was -characteristic of the man. He made Evered feel more assured, more -comfortable than he had felt for a long time. And while Darrin talked<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121">{121}</a></span> -Evered’s slow eyes were moving all about, marking each spot in the -tragedy that was forever engraved upon his mind—there had sat his wife, -there Semler, yonder stood the bull—terribly vivid, terribly real, so -that the sweat burst out upon his forehead again.</p> - -<p>Darrin, watching, asked, “What’s wrong? You look troubled.”</p> - -<p>And Evered hesitated, then said huskily, “It’s the first time I’ve been -here.”</p> - -<p>He did not explain; but Darrin understood. “Since your wife was killed?”</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>Darrin nodded. “It was here by the spring, wasn’t it?”</p> - -<p>Evered answered slowly, “Yes. She was—lying over there when I found -her.” He pointed to the spot.</p> - -<p>Darrin looked that way; and after a moment, eyes upon the curling smoke -of his pipe, he asked casually, “Where was Semler?”</p> - -<p>His tone was easy, mildly interested and that was all; nevertheless, his -word came to Evered with an abrupt and startling force. Semler? He had -told no one save John that Semler was here that day; he knew John would -never have told. Ruth knew; but she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122">{122}</a></span> too was close-mouthed. Fraternity -did not know. Yet Darrin knew.</p> - -<p>“Where was Semler?” Darrin had asked, so casually.</p> - -<p>And Evered cried, “Semler? Who said he was here?”</p> - -<p>Darrin looked surprised. “Why, I did not know it was a secret. He told -me—himself.”</p> - -<p>Evered was tense and still where he sat. “He—you know him?”</p> - -<p>Darrin laughed a little. “I wouldn’t say that. I don’t care for the man. -I met him a little before I came up here, and told him where I was -coming; and he advised me not to come. Told me of this—tragedy.”</p> - -<p>“Told you he was here?”</p> - -<p>Darrin nodded. “Yes; how he tried to fight off the bull.”</p> - -<p>Evered came to his feet, half crouching. “The black liar and coward ran -like a rabbit,” he said under his breath; and his face was an ugly thing -to see.</p> - -<p>Darrin cried, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—waken old sorrows. It -doesn’t matter. Forget it.” He sought, palpably, to change to another -topic. “Are you getting in your apples yet?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123">{123}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Evered would not be put off. “See here,” he said. “What did Dane Semler -tell you?”</p> - -<p>“I’ve forgotten,” said Darrin. He smiled cheerfully. “That is to say, I -mean to forget. It’s not my affair. Let’s not talk about it.”</p> - -<p>Over Evered swept then one of those impulses to speech, akin to the -impulses of confession. He exclaimed with a tragic and miserable note in -his voice. “By God, if I don’t talk about it sometime it’ll kill me.”</p> - -<p>Darrin looked up at him, gently offered; “I’ll listen, then. It may ease -you to—tell the story over. Go ahead, Mr. Evered. Sit down.”</p> - -<p>Evered did not sit down. But the story burst from him. Something, -Darrin’s sympathy or the anger Darrin’s reference to Semler had roused, -touched hidden springs within the man. He spoke swiftly, eagerly, as -though with a pathetic desire to justify himself. He moved to and fro, -pointing, illustrating.</p> - -<p>He told how Zeke Pitkin had brought word that the red bull was loose in -the woodlot. “I stopped at the house,” he said. “There was no one there; -and that scared me. When I came down this way I thought of this spring.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124">{124}</a></span> -My wife used to like to come here. And I was scared, Darrin. I loved -Mary Evered, Darrin.”</p> - -<p>He caught himself, as though his words sounded strangely even in his own -ears. When he went on his voice was harsh and hard.</p> - -<p>“I came to the knoll up there”—he pointed to the spot—“and saw Mary -and Semler here, sitting together, talking together. Damn him! Like -sweethearts!” The red floods swept across the man’s face as the tide of -that old rage overwhelmed him. “Damn Semler!” he cried. “Let him come -hereabouts again!”</p> - -<p>He went on after a moment: “I was too late to do anything but shout to -them. The bull was coming at them from over there, head down. When I -shouted they heard me, and forgot each other; and then they saw the red -bull. Semler could have stopped him or turned him if he’d been a man. If -I had been nearer I could have killed the beast with my hands, in time. -But I was too far away; and Semler ran. I tell you, Darrin, he ran! He -turned tail, and squawked, and ran along the hillside there. But Mary -did not run. She could not; or she wouldn’t. And the red bull hit her -here; and tossed her there. One blow<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125">{125}</a></span> and toss. He has no horns, you’ll -mind. Semler running, all the time. Tell him, when you go back—tell him -he lied.”</p> - -<p>He was abruptly silent, his old habit of reticence upon him. And he was -instantly sorry that he had spoken at all. To speak had been relief, had -somehow eased him. Yet who was Darrin? Why should he tell this man?</p> - -<p>Darrin said gently, “The bull did not trample her?”</p> - -<p>Evered answered curtly, “No. I reached him.”</p> - -<p>Darrin nodded. “You could handle him?”</p> - -<p>“The beast knows me,” said Evered.</p> - -<p>And even while he spoke he remembered how the great bull, as though -regretting that which he had done, had stood quietly by until he was led -away. He did not tell Darrin this; there were no more words in him. He -had spoken too much already. Darrin was watching him now, he saw; and it -seemed to Evered that there was a hard and hostile light of calculation -in the other’s eye.</p> - -<p>He turned away his head, and Darrin asked, “How came she here with -Semler?”</p> - -<p>Evered swung toward the man so hotly that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126">{126}</a></span> for a moment Darrin was -afraid; and then the older man’s eyes misted and his lips twisted weakly -and he brushed them with the back of his hand.</p> - -<p>He did not answer Darrin at all; and after a moment Darrin said, -“Forgive me. It must hurt you to remember; to look round here. You must -see the whole thing over again.”</p> - -<p>Evered stood still for a moment; then he said abruptly: “I’ve sat too -long. I’ll be back at work.”</p> - -<p>He went stiffly up the knoll. Darrin called after him, “Come down again. -You know the way.”</p> - -<p>Evered did not turn, he made no reply. When he was beyond the other’s -sight he stopped once and looked back, and his eyes were faintly -furtive. He muttered something under his breath. He was cursing his -folly in having talked with Darrin.</p> - -<p>Back at his work Evered was uneasy; but his disquiet would have been -increased if he could have seen how Darrin busied himself when he was -left alone. The man sat still where he was till Evered had passed out of -sight above the knoll; sat still with thoughtful eyes, studying the -ground about him and con<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127">{127}</a></span>sidering the things which Evered had said. And -once while he sat with his eyes straight before him, thinking on -Evered’s words, he said to himself: “The man did love his wife.” And -again: “There’s something hurting him.”</p> - -<p>After a little he got up and climbed the knoll cautiously, till he could -look in the direction Evered had taken. Evered was not in sight; and -when he could be sure of this Darrin went along the shelf above the -spring, toward the wood road that came down from the farm. At the road -he turned round and retraced his steps, trying to guess the path Evered -would have taken to come in sight of the spring itself.</p> - -<p>When he came to the edge of the knoll he noted the spot, and cast back -and tried again, and still again. He seemed to seek the farthest spot -from which the spring was visible. When he had chosen this spot he stood -still, surveying the land below, picturing to himself the tragedy that -had been enacted there.</p> - -<p>He seemed to come to some conclusion in the end, for he paced with -careful steps the distance from where he stood to the rock where Mary -Evered had been sitting. From that spot again he paced the distance to -the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128">{128}</a></span> alder growth through which the bull had come. Returning, eyes -thoughtful, he took pencil and paper and plotted the scene round him, -and set dots upon it to mark where Evered must have stood, and where -Mary and Semler had sat, and the way by which the bull had come.</p> - -<p>The man sat for a long hour that afternoon with this rude map before -him, considering it; and he set down distances upon it, and marked the -trees. Once he took pebbles and moved them upon his map as the bull and -Semler and Evered must have moved upon this ground.</p> - -<p>In the end, indecision in his eyes, he folded the paper and put it -carefully into his pocket. Then he made a little cooking fire and -prepared his supper and ate it. When he had cleaned up his camp he put -on coat and cap and started along the hillside below the bull pasture to -the road that led toward Fraternity.</p> - -<p>This was not unusual with Darrin. He was accustomed to go to the village -three or four times a week for his mail or to sit round the stove in -Will Bissel’s store and listen to the talk of the country. He had got -some profit from this: Jim Saladine, for example, told him one night of -a fox den, and took him next<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129">{129}</a></span> day to the spot; and by a week’s patience -Darrin had been able to get good pictures of the little foxes at their -play. And Jean Bubier had taken him up to the head of the pond to see a -cow moose pasturing with Jean’s own cows. Besides these tangible pieces -of fortune he had acquired a fund of tales of the woods. He liked the -talk about the stove, and took his own share in it so modestly that the -men liked him.</p> - -<p>Once or twice during his stay in the town there had been talk of Evered; -and Darrin had led them to tell the man’s deeds. Great store of these -tales, for Evered’s daily life had an epic quality about it. From the -murdering red bull the stories went back and back to that old matter of -the knife and Dave Riggs, now years agone. Telling this story Lee Motley -told Darrin one night that it had made a change in Evered.</p> - -<p>Darrin had asked, “What did he do?”</p> - -<p>And Motley said: “First off, he didn’t seem bothered much. But it -changed him. He’d been wild and strong and hard before, but there was -some laughing in him. I’ve always figured he took the thing hard. I’ve -not seen the man laugh, right out, since then.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130">{130}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Darrin said, “You can’t blame him. It’s no joke to kill a man.”</p> - -<p>Motley nodded his agreement. “It made a big change in Evered,” he -repeated.</p> - -<p>Darrin’s interest in Evered had not been sufficiently marked to attract -attention, for Evered was a figure of interest to all the countryside. -Furthermore, there was talk that Darrin and Ruth MacLure liked each -other well; and the town thought it natural that Darrin should be -curious as to the man who might be his brother-in-law. Everyone knew -that Ruth and John Evered had been more than friends. There was a -friendly and curious interest in what looked like a contest between -Darrin and John.</p> - -<p>This night at Will’s store Darrin had little to say. He bought paper and -envelopes from Will and wrote two letters at the desk in Will’s office; -and he mailed them, with a special-delivery stamp upon each one. That -was a thing not often done in Fraternity; and Will noticed the addresses -upon the letters. To Boston men, both of them.</p> - -<p>Afterward, Darrin sat about the store for a while, and then set off -along the road toward Evered’s farm. Zeke Pitkin gave him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131">{131}</a></span> a lift for a -way; and Darrin remembered that Evered had named this man, and he said -to Zeke: “You saw Evered’s bull break out, that day the beast killed -Mary Evered, didn’t you?”</p> - -<p>Zeke said yes; and he told the tale, coloring it with the glamor of -tragedy which it would always have in his eyes. And he told -Darrin—though Darrin had heard this more than once before—how Evered -had killed his, Zeke’s, bull with a knife thrust in the neck, a day or -two before the tragedy. “That same heavy knife of his,” he said. “The -one he killed Dave Riggs with.”</p> - -<p>Darrin asked, “Still uses it—to butcher with?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir,” said Zeke. “I’ve seen him stick more’n one pig with that old -knife in the last ten year.”</p> - -<p>Darrin laughed a little harshly. “Not very sentimental, is he?”</p> - -<p>“There ain’t a human feeling in the man,” Pitkin declared.</p> - -<p>When Zeke stopped to let Darrin down at the fork of the road Darrin -asked another question. “Funny that Semler should skip out so sudden -that day, wasn’t it?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132">{132}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“You bet it uz funny,” Zeke agreed. “I’ve allus said it was.”</p> - -<p>“Did you see him the day he left?”</p> - -<p>Pitkin shook his head. “Huh-uh. I was busy all day, and over in North -Fraternity in the aft’noon. Got to the store right after he lit out.”</p> - -<p>Darrin walked to his camp, lighting his steps with an electric torch, -and made a little fire for cheerfulness’ sake, and wrapped in his -blankets for sleep. He had set a camera in the swamp that day, with a -string attached to the shutter in a fashion that should give results if -a moose came by. He wondered whether luck would be with him. His -thoughts as sleep crept on him shifted back to Evered again. A puzzle -there—a question of character, of reaction to emotional stimulus. He -asked himself: “Now if I were an emotional, hot-tempered man and came -upon my wife with another man, and saw her in swift peril of her -life—what would I do?”</p> - -<p>He was still wondering, still questioning, still trying to put himself -in Evered’s shoes when at last he dropped asleep.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133">{133}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="XIII" id="XIII"></a>XIII</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">D</span>ARRIN and Ruth had come to that point in friendship where they could -sit silently together, each busy with his or her own thoughts, without -embarrassment. The girl liked to come down the hill of an afternoon for -an hour with the man; and sometimes he read to her from one of the books -of which he had a store. And sometimes he showed her the pictures he had -made—strange glimpses of the life of the swamp. His camera trap caught -curious scenes. Now and then a deer, occasionally a moose, once a -wildcat screeching in the night. And again they had to look closely to -see what it was that had tugged the trigger string; and sometimes it was -a rabbit, and sometimes it was a mink; and at other times it was nothing -at all that they could discover in the finished photograph. Once a great -owl dropped on some prey upon the ground and touched the string; and the -plate caught him, wings flying, talons reaching—a picture of the wild -things that prey.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134">{134}</a></span></p> - -<p>Most of the pictures were imperfect—blurred or shadowed or ill-focused. -Out of them all there were only four or five that Darrin counted worth -the saving; but he and Ruth found fascination in the study of even the -worthless ones.</p> - -<p>It was inevitable that the confidence between them should develop -swiftly in these afternoons together. It was not surprising that Ruth -one afternoon dared ask Darrin a question. She had been curiously -silent, studying him, until he noticed it, and laughed at her for it; -and she told him then, “I’m wondering—whether we really know you here.”</p> - -<p>He looked at her with a quick intentness, smiled a little. “Why?” he -asked. “What are you thinking?”</p> - -<p>She shook her head. “I don’t know, exactly. Just that sometimes I felt -you’re hiding something; that you’re not thinking about the things -you—seem to think about.”</p> - -<p>He said good-naturedly, “You’re making a mystery out of me.”</p> - -<p>“A little,” she admitted.</p> - -<p>“There’s no mystery,” he said; and he added softly: “There’s a deal more -mystery about you, to me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135">{135}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>He had never, as they say, made love to her. Yet there was that in his -tone now which made her flush softly and look away from him. Watching -her he hesitated. His hand touched hers. She drew her hand away and rose -abruptly.</p> - -<p>“I must go back to the house,” she said. “It’s time I was starting -supper.”</p> - -<p>He was on his feet, facing her; but there was only cheerful friendliness -in his eyes. He would not alarm her. “Come again,” he said. “I like to -have you come.”</p> - -<p>“You never come to the house, except for eggs and things. You ought to -come and see us.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps I will,” he said; and he watched her as she climbed the knoll -and disappeared. His eyes were very gentle; there would have been in -them an exultant light if he could have seen the girl, once out of his -sight, stop and look back to where the smoke of his little fire rose -above the trees.</p> - -<p>Darrin was much in her thoughts during these days. She would have -thought of him more if she had been able to think less of John.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136">{136}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="XIV" id="XIV"></a>XIV</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">D</span>ARRIN’S departure came abruptly. He had gone to the village one night -for his mail, and found a letter waiting, which he read with avid eyes. -Having read it he put it away in his pocket, and came to Will Bissell -and asked how he might most quickly reach Boston.</p> - -<p>Will told him there was a morning train from town; and Darrin nodded and -left the store. He decided to walk the ten miles through the night. It -was cool and clear; the walk would be good for him. It would give him -time for thinking.</p> - -<p>He went back to his camp and slept till three in the morning. Then he -made a little breakfast and ate it and packed his camp belongings under -his tarpaulin for cover. To the tarp he fastened a note, addressed to -Ruth. He wrote simply:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“<i>Dear Ruth</i>: I have to go away for four or five days, hurriedly. I -would have said good<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137">{137}</a></span>by if there were time. If it rains will you -ask John to put my things under shelter somewhere? In the barn will -do. There is a camera set at the crossing of the brook where the -old pine is down. Perhaps he will find that and take care of it for -me. My other things in the box here are safe enough. The box is -waterproof.</p> - -<p>“I will not be long gone. I’m taking the morning train from town. -Please remember me to Mr. Evered.</p> - -<p class="r"> -“Yours, <span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">Fred</span>.”</span><br /> -</p></div> - -<p>At a little after four, dressed in tramping clothes, but with other -garments in a bundle under his arm, he started for town. He had time to -change his garments there, and cash a check at the bank, and have a more -substantial breakfast before he boarded the morning train.</p> - -<p>Ruth discovered that Darrin had gone on the afternoon of his going. She -went down to his camp by the spring with an eagerness of anticipation -which she did not admit even to herself; and when she saw that he was -not there she was at once relieved and unhappy.</p> - -<p>The girl had stopped on the knoll above the camp; and she stood there -for a moment look<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138">{138}</a></span>ing all about, thinking Darrin might be somewhere -near. Then she marked the careful order of the spot, and saw that all -the camp gear was stowed away; and abruptly she guessed what had -happened. She ran then down the knoll, and so came almost at once upon -the note he had left for her.</p> - -<p>She read this through, frowning and puzzling a little over the -intricacies of his handwriting; and she did not know whether to be -unhappy over his going or happy that he had remembered to leave this -word for her. She did not press the scribbled note against her bosom, -but she did read it through a second time, and then refold it carefully, -and then take it out and read it yet again. In the end it was still in -her hand when she turned reluctantly back up the hill. She put it in the -top drawer of her bureau in her room.</p> - -<p>She told John and Evered at suppertime that Darrin was gone. Evered -seemed like a man relieved of a burden, till she added, “He’s coming -back again, though.”</p> - -<p>John asked, “How do you know?”</p> - -<p>“He left a note for me,” she said.</p> - -<p>John bent over his plate, hiding the hurt in his eyes. The girl told him -of the camera set<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139">{139}</a></span> in the swamp, and John promised to go and fetch it, -and to bring Darrin’s other belongings under shelter in the woodshed or -the barn.</p> - -<p>He managed this the next day; and Ruth made occasion to go to the barn -more than once for the sheer happiness of looking upon them. John caught -her at it once; but he did not let her know that he had seen. The young -man was in these days woefully unhappy.</p> - -<p>It is fair to say that he had reason to be. Ruth was kind to him, never -spoke harshly or in an unfriendly fashion; in fact, she was almost too -friendly. There was a finality about her friendliness which baffled him -and erected a barrier between him and her. The man tried awkwardly to -bring matters back to the old sweet footing between them; but the girl -was of nimbler wit than he. She put him off without seeming to do so; -she erected an impassable defense about herself.</p> - -<p>On the surface they were as they had always been. Evered could see no -difference in their bearing. Neighbors who occasionally stopped at the -house decided that John and Ruth were going to be married when the time -should come; and they told each other they<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140">{140}</a></span> had always said so. Before -others the relations between the two were pleasantly friendly; but there -were no longer the sweet stolen moments when their arms entwined and -their lips met. When they were alone together Ruth treated John as -though others were about; and John knew no way to break through her -barriers.</p> - -<p>About the fifth day after Darrin’s going Ruth began to expect his -return. He did not come on that day, nor on the next, nor on the next -thereafter. She became a little wistful, a little lonely. Toward the -middle of the second week she found herself clinging with a desperate -earnestness to a despairing hope. He had promised to come back; she -thought he would come back. There had never been any word of more than -friendliness between them; yet the girl felt that such a word must come, -and that he would return to speak it.</p> - -<p>One night she dreamed that he would never come again, and woke to find -tears streaming across her cheeks. She lay awake for a long time, eyes -wide and staring, wondering if she loved him.</p> - -<p>During this interval of Darrin’s absence there manifested itself in -Evered a curious<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141">{141}</a></span> wistful desire to placate Ruth; to win her good will.</p> - -<p>She noticed it first one day when the man had been very still, sitting -all day in the kitchen with his eyes before him, brooding over unguessed -matters. It was a day of blustering, blowing rain, a day when the wind -lashed about the house and there was little that could be done out of -doors. Ruth, busy about the room, watched Evered covertly; her eyes -strayed toward him now and again.</p> - -<p>She had not fully realized till that day how much the man was aging. The -change had come gradually, but it had been marked. His hair, that had -been black as coal six months before, was iron gray now; it showed -glints that were snow white, here and there. The skin of his cheeks had -lost its bronze luster; it seemed to have grown loose, as though the man -were shrinking inside. It hung in little folds about his mouth and jaw.</p> - -<p>His head, too, was bowing forward; his head that had always been so -erect, so firm, so hard and sternly poised. His neck seemed to be -weakening beneath the load it bore; and his shoulders were less square. -They hung for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142">{142}</a></span>ward, as though the man were cold and were guarding his -chest with his arms.</p> - -<p>The fullness of the change came to Ruth with something of a shock, came -when she was thinking it strange that Evered should be content to remain -all day indoors. He was by nature an active man, of overflowing bodily -energy; he was used to go out in all weathers to his tasks. She had seen -him come in, dripping, in the past; his cheeks ruddy from the wet and -cold, his eyes glowing with the fire of health, his chest heaving to -great deep breaths of air. More and more often of late, she remembered, -he had stayed near the stove and the fire, as though it comforted him.</p> - -<p>Ruth had not John’s sympathetic understanding of the heart of Evered; -nevertheless, she knew, as John did, that the man had—in his harsh -fashion—loved his dead wife well. She had always known this, even -though she had never been able to understand how a man might hurt the -woman he loved. If she had not known, she would not have blamed Evered -so bitterly for all the bitter past. It was one of the counts of her -indictment of him that he had indeed loved Mary; and that even so he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143">{143}</a></span> -had made the dead woman unhappy through so many years.</p> - -<p>Watching him this day Ruth thought that sorrow was breaking him; and the -thought somewhat modified, without her knowing it, the strength of her -condemnation of the man. When in mid afternoon he took from her the -shovel and broom with which she was preparing to clean out the ashes of -the stove, and did the task himself, she was amazed and angry with -herself to find in her heart a spark of pity for him.</p> - -<p>“Let me do that, Ruthie,” he had said. “It’s hard for you.”</p> - -<p>He had never been a man given to small chores about the house; he was -awkward at it. His very awkwardness, the earnestness of his clumsy -efforts—warmed the girl’s heart; she found her eyes wet as she watched -him, and took recourse in an abrupt protest.</p> - -<p>“You’re spilling the ashes,” she said. “Here, let me.”</p> - -<p>She would have taken the broom from him, but Evered would not let it go. -He looked toward her as they held the broom between them, and there was -in his eyes such an<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144">{144}</a></span> agony of desire to please her that the girl had to -turn away.</p> - -<p>What was moving in Evered’s mind it is hard to say, hard to put in -words. He had not yet surrendered to regret for the thing he had done; -he was still able to bolster his courage, to strengthen himself by the -reflection that his wife had wronged him. He was still able to fan to -life the embers of his rage against her and against Semler. Yet the man -was finding it hard to endure the hatred in Ruth’s eyes, the silent -glances which met him when he went abroad, the ostracism of the village. -He wanted comradeship in these days as he had never wanted it before. He -desired the friendship of mankind; he desired, in an unformed way, the -affection of Ruth. The girl had come to symbolize in his thoughts -something like his own conscience. He was uncertainly conscious that if -she forgave him, looked kindly upon him, bore him no more malice, he -might altogether forgive himself for that which he had done.</p> - -<p>Yet when he put this thought in words it evoked a revolt in his own -heart; and he would cry out to himself, “I need no forgiveness! I’ve -nothing to forgive! I was right to let the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145">{145}</a></span> bull.... She was false as a -witch; false as hell!”</p> - -<p>He found poor comfort in this thought. So long as he believed his wife -was guilty he could endure the torment of his own remorse, could relieve -the pain of it. And if Ruth would only smile upon him, be her old -friendly self to him again....</p> - -<p>The man’s attentions to her were almost like an uncouth wooing. He began -to study the girl’s wants, to find little ways to help her, to -anticipate her desires, to ease her work about the house. He sought -opportunities to talk with her, and drove himself to speak gently and -ingratiatingly. He called her Ruthie, though she had always been Ruth to -him before.</p> - -<p>The man was pitiful; the girl could not wholly harden her heart against -him. Naturally generous and kindly she caught herself thinking that -after all he had loved Mary well; that he missed her terribly. Once or -twice hearing him move about his room in the night she guessed his -loneliness. She was more and more sorry for Evered.</p> - -<p>Ruth was not the only one who saw that the man was growing old too -swiftly. They<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146">{146}</a></span> marked the fact at Will Bissell’s store. Will saw it, and -Lee Motley saw it, and Jim Saladine; these three with a certain -sympathy. Jean Bubier saw it with sardonic amusement, tinged with -understanding. Old Man Varney saw it with malice; and Judd in the -meanness of his soul saw it with malignant delight.</p> - -<p>“Looking for friends now, he is,” Judd exclaimed one night. “Him that -was so bold before. Tried to start talk with me to-day. I turned my back -on the man. I’d a mind to tell him why.”</p> - -<p>Motley and Saladine spoke of the thing together. Motley said, “I think -he—thought a deal of Mary—in the man’s way.”</p> - -<p>And Saladine nodded and said: “Yes. But—there’s more to it than that, -Lee. More than we know, I figure. Something hidden behind it all. A -black thing, if the whole truth was to come out. Or so it looks to me.”</p> - -<p>Saladine was a steady, thoughtful man, and Motley respected his opinion, -and thought upon the matter much thereafter; but he was to come to no -conclusion.</p> - -<p>On his farm the change in Evered manifested itself in more than one way; -in no way more markedly than in his lack of energy.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147">{147}</a></span> He left most of the -chores to John; and, what was more significant, he gave over to John -full care of the huge red bull. It had been Evered’s delight to master -that brute and bend it to his will. John and Ruth both marked that he -avoided it in these later days. John had the feeding of it; he cleaned -its stall; he tossed in straw for the creature’s bed. The bull was -beginning to know him, to know that it need not fear him. He was -accustomed to go into its stall and move about the beast without -precautions, speaking gently when he spoke at all.</p> - -<p>Ruth never saw this. She seldom went near the red bull’s stall. She -hated the animal and dreaded it. On one occasion she did go near its -pen. It was suppertime and the food was hot upon the table. She called -John from the woodshed, and then came to the kitchen door to summon -Evered. He was leaning against the high gate of the bull’s plank-walled -yard looking in at the animal. Ruth called to him to come to supper, but -he did not turn. She called again, and still the man did not move.</p> - -<p>A little alarmed, for fear he might have been suddenly stricken sick, -she went swiftly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148">{148}</a></span> across the barnyard to where he stood, and looked at -him, and looked into the pen.</p> - -<p>Evered was watching the bull; and the bull stood a dozen feet away, -watching the man. There was a stillness about them both which frightened -the girl; a still intentness. Neither moved; their eyes met steadily -without shifting. There was no emotion in either of them. It was as -though the man were probing the bull’s mind, as though the bull would -read the man’s thoughts. They were like persons hypnotized. Ruth -shivered and touched Evered’s arm and shook it a little.</p> - -<p>“Supper’s ready,” she said.</p> - -<p>He turned to her with eyes still glazed from the intensity of their -stare.</p> - -<p>“Supper?” he echoed. Then remembrance came to him; and he nodded heavily -and said with that wistfully ingratiating note in his voice, “Yes, -Ruthie, I’m coming. Come; let’s go together.”</p> - -<p>He took her arm, and she had not the hardness of heart to break away -from him. They went into the house side by side.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149">{149}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="XV" id="XV"></a>XV</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span>N mid-October Darrin returned afoot, as he had departed; and there was -no warning of his coming. He reached the farm in the afternoon. John was -in the woodlot at the time, cutting the wood into cord lengths in -preparation for hauling. Evered had worked in the morning, but after -dinner he sat down by the kitchen stove and remained there, in the dull -apathy of thought which was becoming habitual to him. He was still there -and Ruth was busy about the room when Darrin came to the door. Ruth had -caught sight of him through the window; she was at the door to meet him -and opened it before he knocked. She wanted to tell him how glad she was -to see him; but all she could do was stand very still, her right hand at -her throat, her eyes on his.</p> - -<p>He said gently, “Well, I’ve come back. But it has been longer than I -thought it would be.”</p> - -<p>She nodded. “Yes, it has been a long time.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150">{150}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>There was so much of confession in her tone that the man’s heart pounded -and he stepped quickly toward her. But when she moved back he saw Evered -within the room, watching him with dull eyes; and he caught himself and -his face sobered and hardened.</p> - -<p>“My things are here?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“In the shed,” she said. “John brought them up. I’ll show you.”</p> - -<p>She stepped away and he followed her into the kitchen, toward the door -that opened at one side into the shed.</p> - -<p>She had already opened the door when Evered asked huskily, “Back, are -you?”</p> - -<p>Darrin said, “Yes.” There was an indescribable note of hostility in his -voice which he could not disguise.</p> - -<p>“Won’t be here long now, I figure,” Evered suggested.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” said Darrin. “I’ll be here till I’ve done what I came to -do.”</p> - -<p>Evered did not speak for a minute; then he asked, “Get them moose -pictures, you mean?”</p> - -<p>Ruth looked from one man to the other in a bewildered way, half sensing -the fact that both were wary and alert.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151">{151}</a></span></p> - -<p>Darrin said, “Of course.”</p> - -<p>Evered shook his head. “Dangerous business, this time o’ year. The old -bulls have got other things on their mind besides having their pictures -took.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll risk it,” said Darrin.</p> - -<p>“You’ve a right to,” Evered told him, and turned away.</p> - -<p>Darrin watched the man for an instant; then he followed Ruth into the -shed. She showed him his dunnage, packed in a stout roll; and he lifted -it by the lashing and slung it across his shoulder.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Evered is right,” she said. “The moose are dangerous—in the fall.”</p> - -<p>He touched his roll with his left hand affectionately. “I’ve a gun here. -My pistol, you know. I’ll be careful.”</p> - -<p>She urged softly, “Please do.”</p> - -<p>There was so much solicitude in her voice that Darrin was shaken by it; -he slid the roll to the floor.</p> - -<p>Then Evered came to the door that led into the shed; and he said, “I’ll -help you down with that stuff.”</p> - -<p>Darrin shook his head. “No need,” he replied. “I can handle it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152">{152}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>He swung it up again across his shoulder; and Ruth opened the outer door -for him. She and Evered stood together watching him cross the barnyard -and lower the bars and pass through and go on his way.</p> - -<p>When he was out of sight Ruth looked up at Evered; and the man said -gently, “Glad to see him, Ruthie?”</p> - -<p>She nodded, “I like him.”</p> - -<p>“More than you like John?” the man asked.</p> - -<p>And she said steadily, “I like them both. But Darrin is gentle, and -strong too. And you Evereds are only cruelly strong.”</p> - -<p>“I wouldn’t say John was cruel,” the man urged wistfully.</p> - -<p>“He’s your son,” she said, the old bitterness in her voice.</p> - -<p>And Evered nodded, as though in confession. He looked in the direction -Darrin had taken.</p> - -<p>“I wonder what he’s back for,” he said half to himself.</p> - -<p>Ruth did not answer, and after a little she went back into the kitchen. -She heard Evered working with his ax for a while, splitting up wood for -the stove; and presently he brought in an armful and dumped it in the -woodbox.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153">{153}</a></span> It was a thing he had done before, though John was accustomed -to carry her wood for her. As he dropped the wood now Evered looked -toward her, as though to make sure she had seen; he smiled in a -pleading, broken way. She thanked him, a certain sympathy in her voice -in spite of herself. The man was so broken; he had grown so old in so -short a time.</p> - -<p>Darrin, bound toward his old camping ground at the spring, heard John’s -ax in the birch growth at his left, but he did not turn aside. There was -a new purpose in the man; his old pleasantly amiable demeanor had -altered; his eyes were steady and hard. He reached the spring and -disposed his goods, with a packet of provisions which he had brought -from the village.</p> - -<p>A little later he went back up the hill to get milk and eggs from the -farm. It chanced that he found Evered in the barnyard; and Evered saw -him coming, and watched him approach. They came face to face at the -bars, and when Darrin had passed through he stood still, eying the other -man and waiting for Evered to speak. There was a steady scrutiny in -Evered’s eyes, a questioning; Dar<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154">{154}</a></span>rin met this questioning glance with -one that told nothing. His lips set a little grimly.</p> - -<p>Evered asked at last, “You say you came back for more pictures?”</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>“I’m wondering if you’ll get what you come for.”</p> - -<p>Darrin said, “I intend to.”</p> - -<p>Evered nodded quietly. “All right,” he agreed. “I don’t aim to hinder.”</p> - -<p>He turned toward the barn; and as he turned Darrin saw that he had his -knife slung in its leather sheath upon his hip. The sheath was deep; -only the tip of the knife’s haft showed. Yet Darrin’s eyes fastened on -this with a strange intentness, as though he were moved by a morbid -curiosity at sight of the thing. The heavy knife had taken so many -lives.</p> - -<p>Darrin did not move till Evered had gone into the barn and out of sight; -then the younger man turned toward the house, and knocked, and Ruth -opened the door.</p> - -<p>He asked, “Can I get milk to-night, and eggs; and have you made butter?”</p> - -<p>She had been surprised to see him so soon again; she was a little -startled, could not find<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155">{155}</a></span> words at once. But she nodded and he came into -the kitchen and she shut the door behind him, for the day was cold.</p> - -<p>“We haven’t milked,” she said. “It will be a little while.”</p> - -<p>Darrin, whose thoughts had been on other things, found himself suddenly -swept by a sense of her loveliness. He had always known that she was -beautiful, but he had held back the thought, had fought against it. Now -seeing her again after so long a time he forgot everything but her. She -saw the slow change in his eyes; and though she had longed for it, it -frightened her.</p> - -<p>She began to tremble, and tried to speak, but all she could say was, -“Oh!”</p> - -<p>Darrin came toward her then slowly. He had not meant to speak, yet the -words came before he knew. “Ah, Ruth, I have missed you so,” he said.</p> - -<p>Her eyes were dim and soft. She was miserably happy, an anguish of -happiness.</p> - -<p>He said, “I love you so, Ruth. I love you so.” And he kissed her.</p> - -<p>The girl was swept as by a tempest. She had dreamed of this man for -weeks, idealizing him, thinking him all that was fine and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156">{156}</a></span> gentle and -good. She gave herself to his kisses as though she were hungry for them. -She was crying, tears were flowing down her cheeks; and at first she -thought this was because she was so happy, while Darrin, half alarmed, -half laughing, whispered to comfort her.</p> - -<p>Then slowly the girl knew that she was not crying because she was so -happy. She could not tell why she cried; she could not put her heart in -words. It was as though she were lonely, terribly lonely. And she was -angry with herself at that. How could she be lonely in his arms? In -Darrin’s arms, his kisses on her wet cheeks?</p> - -<p>She could not put the thought away. While he still held her she wept for -very loneliness. He could not soothe her. She scarce heard him; she put -her hands against him and tried to push him away, feebly at first. She -did not want to push him away; yet something made her. He held her -still; his arms were like bands of iron. He was so strong, so hard. Thus -close against him she seemed to feel a rigor of spirit in the man. It -was as though she were pressed against a wall. He freed her. “Please,” -he said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157">{157}</a></span></p> - -<p>And she cried, as though to persuade herself, “Oh, I do love you! I do!”</p> - -<p>But when he would have put his arms round her again she shrank away from -him, so that he forbore. She turned quickly away to her tasks. She had -time to compose herself before Evered came in, and later John. Then -Darrin left with the things he had come to secure, and went down the -hill in the early dusk of fall.</p> - -<p>Ruth was thoughtful that evening; she went early to her room. She was -trying desperately to understand herself. She had been drawn so strongly -toward Darrin, she had found him all that she wanted a man to be. She -had been miserable at his going, had longed for his return. She had -wanted that which had come to pass this day. The girl was honest with -herself, had always been honest with herself. She had known she loved -him, longed for him.</p> - -<p>Yet now he was returned, he loved her and his kisses only served to make -her miserably lonely. She could not understand; slept, still without -comprehending.</p> - -<p>Darrin, next day, did not go into the swamp. He busied himself about the -spring, producing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158">{158}</a></span> again that sketch which he had made on the day Evered -told him the story of the tragedy. He was groping for something, groping -for understanding, his forehead wrinkled and his eyes were sober with -thought.</p> - -<p>After he had cooked his dinner and eaten it the man sat for a long time -by the fire, tending it with little sticks, watching the flames as -though he expected to find in them the answer to his riddle. Once he -took from his pocket a letter, and read it soberly enough, then put it -back again. And once he took fresh paper and made a new sketch of the -locality about him.</p> - -<p>He seemed at last to come to some decision. The aspect of his -countenance changed subtly. He got to his feet, pacing back and forth. -At about four o’clock in the afternoon he put on his coat and started up -the knoll toward the farm. When he had gone some fifty yards he stopped, -hesitated, and came back to his camp fire. From his kit he selected the -automatic pistol, saw that it held a loaded clip, belted it on. It hung -under his coat inconspicuously.</p> - -<p>He went on his way this time without hesitation; went steadily up the -hill, reached the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159">{159}</a></span> bars about the farmyard, passed through and knocked -on the kitchen door.</p> - -<p>Ruth came to the door; he asked her abstractedly, as though she were a -stranger, where Evered was. She said he was in the shed; and Darrin went -there and found Evered grinding an ax. The man looked up at his coming -with sober eyes. Ruth had stayed in the kitchen.</p> - -<p>Darrin said quietly, “Evered, I want to talk to you.”</p> - -<p>Evered hesitated, studying the other. He asked, “What about?”</p> - -<p>“A good many things,” Darrin told him.</p> - -<p>Evered laid aside the ax. “All right,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Come away from the house,” Darrin suggested.</p> - -<p>There was a certain dominant note in his voice. The old Evered would -have stayed where he was; but the old Evered was dead. “Come,” said -Darrin; and he stepped out into the yard and Evered followed him. Darrin -crossed to the bars and let them down. He and Evered passed silently -through.</p> - -<p>The men went, Darrin a little in the lead, down the hill toward the -spring.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160">{160}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="XVI" id="XVI"></a>XVI</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HE day was cold and damp and chill, with a promise of snow in the air; -one of those ugly October days when coming winter seems to sulk upon the -northern hills, awaiting summer’s tardy going. Clouds obscured the sky, -though now and then during the morning the sun had broken through, -laying a patch of light upon the earth and bringing out the nearer hills -in bold relief against those that were farthest off. The wind was -northeasterly, always a storm sign hereabouts. There was haste in it, -and haste in the air, and haste in all the wild things that were abroad. -The crows overhead flew swiftly, tumbling headlong in the racking air -currents. A flock of geese passed once, high in the murk, their honking -drifting faintly down to earth. The few ground birds darted from cover -to cover; the late-pasturing cows had gone early to the barn. Night was -coming early; an ominous blackness seemed about to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161">{161}</a></span> shut down upon the -world. The very air held threats and whispers of harm.</p> - -<p>Evered and Darrin walked in silence down along the old wood road, -through a birch clump, past some dwarfed oaks, and out into the open on -the shelf above the spring.</p> - -<p>Halfway across this shelf Darrin said “I’ve got some questions to ask -you, Evered.”</p> - -<p>Evered did not answer. Darrin had not stopped and Evered kept pace with -him.</p> - -<p>The younger man said, “This was the way you came that day your wife was -killed, wasn’t it?”</p> - -<p>Evered turned his head as though to speak, hesitated. Darrin stopped and -caught his eye.</p> - -<p>“Look here,” he demanded. “You’ve nothing to hide in that business, have -you?”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Evered mildly. He wondered why he answered the other at all; -yet there was something in the younger man’s bearing which he did not -care to meet, something dominant and commanding, as though Darrin had a -right to ask, and knew that he had this right. “No,” said Evered; -“nothing to hide.”</p> - -<p>And Darrin repeated his question: “Was this the way you came?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162">{162}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Evered nodded. As they went on nearer the spring Darrin touched his arm. -“I want you to show me where you were when you first saw them—your -wife, and Semler, and the bull.”</p> - -<p>Evered made no response; but a moment later he stopped. “Here,” he said. -Darrin looked down toward the spring and all about them. And Evered -repeated, “Here, by this rock.”</p> - -<p>The younger man nodded and passed down to the spring, with Evered beside -him. Darrin sat down and motioned Evered to sit.</p> - -<p>“What did you think, when you saw them?” he asked.</p> - -<p>Evered’s cheeks colored slowly; they turned from bronze to red, from red -to purple.</p> - -<p>Darrin prompted him: “When you saw your wife and Semler here together.”</p> - -<p>“What would you have thought?” Evered asked, his voice held steady.</p> - -<p>Darrin nodded understanding. “You were angry?” he suggested.</p> - -<p>Evered flung his head on one side with a fierce gesture, as though to -shut out some unwelcome sight that assaulted his eyes.</p> - -<p>Darrin, watching him acutely, waited for a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163">{163}</a></span> little before he asked: -“Where was the bull, when you saw him first?”</p> - -<p>Evered jerked his hand toward the right. “There,” he said.</p> - -<p>Darrin got up and went in that direction, and moved to and fro, asking -directions, till Evered told him he was near the spot. Darrin came back -then and sat down.</p> - -<p>“You thought she loved him?” he asked under his breath.</p> - -<p>Evered shook his head, not in negation but as though to brush the -question aside. Darrin filled his pipe and lighted it, and puffed at it -in silence for a while.</p> - -<p>“Pitkin told you the bull was loose, didn’t he?” he asked at last.</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>“So you came down to get the beast?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I came for that.”</p> - -<p>“Expect any trouble?”</p> - -<p>“You can always look for trouble with the red bull.”</p> - -<p>“How did you plan to handle him?”</p> - -<p>“Brad, and nose ring.”</p> - -<p>Darrin eyed the other sharply. “Wouldn’t have had much time to get hold -of his nose ring if he’d charged, would you?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164">{164}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“I had a gun,” said Evered. “A forty-five.”</p> - -<p>“Oh,” said Darrin. “You had a gun?”</p> - -<p>Evered, a little restive, cried, “Yes, damn it, I had a gun!”</p> - -<p>“You must have felt like shooting Semler,” Darrin suggested; and Evered -looked at him sidewise, a little alarmed. He seemed to put himself on -guard.</p> - -<p>Darrin got to his feet. “They were sitting by these rocks, weren’t -they?”</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>The younger man bent above the other. “Evered,” he said, “why didn’t you -turn the bull from its charge?”</p> - -<p>He saw Evered’s face go white, his eyes flickering to and fro. The man -came to his feet.</p> - -<p>“There was no time!” he exclaimed.</p> - -<p>His voice was husky and unsteady; Darrin dominated him, seemed to tower -above him. There was about Evered the air of a broken man.</p> - -<p>Darrin pointed to the knoll. “You were within half a dozen strides of -them. The bull was full thirty yards away.”</p> - -<p>Evered cried, “Damn you!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165">{165}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>He turned abruptly, climbed the knoll. Darrin stood still till Evered -was almost gone from his sight, then he shouted, “Evered!” Evered went -on; and Darrin with a low exclamation leaped after him. Evered must have -heard his pounding steps, but he did not turn. Darrin came up with him; -he tugged his pistol from its holster and jammed it against Evered’s -side.</p> - -<p>“Turn round,” he said, “or I’ll blow you in two.”</p> - -<p>Evered did not turn; he did not stop. Dusk had fallen upon them before -this; their figures were black in the growing darkness. A pelting spray -of rain swept over them, the drops like ice. Above them the hill was -black against the gray western sky. Behind them and below the swamp -brooded, dark and still. Surrounded by gloom and wind and rain the two -moved thus a dozen paces—Evered looking straight ahead, Darrin pressing -the pistol against the other’s ribs.</p> - -<p>Then Darrin leaped past the other, into Evered’s path, his weapon -leveled. “Stop!” he said, harshly. “You wife killer, stop, and listen to -me!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166">{166}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Evered came on; and Darrin in a voice that was like a scream warned him: -“I’ll shoot!”</p> - -<p>Evered did not stop. There was a certain dignity about the man, a -certain strength. Against it Darrin seemed to rebound helplessly. Their -rôles were reversed. Where Darrin had been dominant he was now weak; -where Evered had been weak he was strong. The older man came on; he was -within two paces. Darrin’s finger pressed the trigger—indecisively. -Then Evered’s great fist whipped round like light and struck Darrin’s -hand, and the pistol flew from his grip, end over end, and struck -against a bowlder with a flash of sparks in the darkness. Darrin’s hand -and wrist and arm were numbed by the blow; he hugged them against his -body. Evered watched him, still as still. And Darrin screamed at him in -a hoarse unsteady voice his black accusation.</p> - -<p>“You killed her!” he cried. “In that black temper of yours you let the -bull have her. You’re a devil on earth. Evered! You’re a devil among -men!”</p> - -<p>Evered lifted his hand, silencing the man. Darrin wished to speak and -dared not. There was something terrible in the other’s demea<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167">{167}</a></span>nor, -something terrible in his calm strength and purpose.</p> - -<p>He said at last in set tones: “It was my right. She was guilty as hell!”</p> - -<p>Darrin found courage to laugh. “You lie,” he said. “And that’s what I’m -here to tell you, man. I ought to take you and give you to other men, to -hang by the thick neck that holds up your evil head. But this is better, -Evered. This is better. I tell you your wife, whom you killed, was as -clean as snow.”</p> - -<p>When he had spoken he was afraid, for the light in Evered’s eyes was the -father of fear. He began to fumble in his coat in a desperate haste, not -daring to look away, not daring to take his eyes from Evered’s. He -fumbled there, and found the letter he had read beside his fire so -carefully; found it and drew it, crumpled, forth. He held it toward -Evered.</p> - -<p>“Read,” he cried. “Read that, and see.”</p> - -<p>Evered took the letter quietly; and before Darrin’s eyes the fury died -in the other man. Over his face there crept a mask of sorrow irrevocable -and profound. He said no word, but took the letter and opened it. The -light was dim; he could not read till Darrin flashed his electric torch -upon the page. A strange<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168">{168}</a></span> picture, in that moment, these two—Evered, -the old and breaking man; Darrin, young and vigorous; Evered dominant, -Darrin tremulously exultant; Evered, his great head bent, his -unaccustomed eyes scanning the written lines; Darrin holding the light -beside him.</p> - -<p>Evered was slow in reading the letter, for in the first place it was -written in his wife’s hand, and he had loved her; so that his eyes were -dimmed. He was not conscious of the words he read, though they were not -important. It was the message of the lines that came home to him; the -unmistakable truth that lay behind them. The letter of an unhappy woman -to a man whom she had found friendly and kind. She told Semler that she -loved Evered; told him this so simply there could be no questioning. -Would always love Evered. Bade Semler forget her, be gone, never return. -Nothing but friendliness for him. Bade him not make her unhappy. And at -the end, again, she wrote that she loved Evered.</p> - -<p>The man who had killed her did not so much read this letter as absorb -it, let it sink home into his heart and carry its own conviction there.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169">{169}</a></span></p> - -<p>It was not curiosity that moved him, not doubt that made him ask Darrin -quietly: “How got you this?”</p> - -<p>“From Semler,” Darrin told him. “I found him—followed him half across -the country—told him what I guessed. That was the only letter he ever -had from her. Written the day you killed her. Damn you, do you see!”</p> - -<p>“How came they together?”</p> - -<p>“He knew she liked to come to the spring; he found her there, argued -with her. She told him she loved you; there was no moving her. She loved -you, who killed her. You devil of a man!”</p> - -<p>Evered folded the letter carefully and put it into his coat. “Why do you -tell me?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“Because I know you cared for her!” Darrin cried. “Because I know this -will hurt you worse than death itself.”</p> - -<p>Evered standing very still shook his head slowly. “That was not my -meaning,” he explained patiently. “That is my concern. Why did you tell -me? Why so much trouble for this? How did the matter touch you, Darrin?”</p> - -<p>The younger man had waited for this mo<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170">{170}</a></span>ment, waited for it through the -years of his manhood. He had planned toward it for months past, shaping -it to his fancy. He had looked forward to it as a moment of triumph; he -had seen himself towering in just condemnation above one who trembled -before him. He had been drunk with this anticipation.</p> - -<p>But the reality was not like his dreams. He knew that Evered was broken; -that his soul must be shattered. Yet he could not exult. There was such -a strength of honest sorrow in the old man before him, there was so much -dignity and power that Darrin in spite of himself was shamed and shaken. -He felt something that was like regret. He felt himself mean and small; -like a malicious, mud-slinging, inconsiderable fragment of a man. His -voice was low, it was almost apologetic when he answered the other’s -question.</p> - -<p>“How did the matter touch you, Darrin?” Evered asked; and the rain swept -over them in a more tempestuous fusilade.</p> - -<p>Darrin said in a husky choking voice: “I’m Dave Riggs’ son. You killed -my father.”</p> - -<p>Evered, silent a moment, slowly nodded as though not greatly surprised. -“Dave Riggs’ boy,” he echoed. “Aye, I might have known.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171">{171}</a></span>” And he added: -“I lost you, years agone. I tried to make matters easier for you, for -Dave’s sake. I was sorry for that matter, Darrin.”</p> - -<p>Darrin tried to flog his anger to white heat again. “You killed my -father,” he exclaimed. “When I was still a boy I swore that I’d pay you -for that. And when I grew up I planned and planned. And when I heard -about your wife, I came up here, to watch you—find out. I felt there -was something. I told you I’d seen Semler, trapped you. You told me more -than you meant to tell. And then I got trace of him, followed him. I did -it to blast you, Evered; pay you for what you did to me. That’s why.”</p> - -<p>He ended lamely; his anger was dead; his voice was like a plea.</p> - -<p>Evered said gently and without anger. “It was your right.” And a moment -later he turned slowly and went away, up the hill and toward his home.</p> - -<p>Darrin, left behind, labored again to wake the exultation he had counted -on; but he could not. He had hungered for this revenge of his, but there -is no substance in raw and naked vengeance. You cannot set your teeth<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172">{172}</a></span> -in it. Darrin found that it left him empty, that he was sick of himself -and of his own deeds.</p> - -<p>“It was coming to him,” he cried half aloud.</p> - -<p>But he could not put away from his thoughts the memory of Evered’s proud -dignity of sorrow; he was abashed before the man.</p> - -<p>He stumbled back to his rain-swept camp like one who has done a crime.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173">{173}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="XVII" id="XVII"></a>XVII</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">W</span>HEN Evered reached the farm, dark had fully fallen; and the cold rain -was splattering against the buildings, driven by fierce little gusts of -wind from the northwest as the direction of the storm shifted. The man -walked steadily enough, his head held high. What torment was hidden -behind his proud bearing no man could guess. He went to the kitchen, and -Ruth told him that John must be near done with the milking. Evered -nodded, as though he were tired. Ruth saw that he was wet, and when he -took off his coat and hat she brought him a cup of steaming tea and made -him drink it. He said, “Thanks, Ruthie!” And he took the cup from her -hands and sipped it slowly, the hot liquid bringing back his strength.</p> - -<p>His trousers were soaked through at the knees. She bade him go in and -change them; and he went to his room. When John came from the barn -Evered had not yet come out<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174">{174}</a></span> into the kitchen again. Supper was ready -and Ruth went to his door and called to him.</p> - -<p>He came out; and both Ruth and John saw the strange light in the man’s -eyes. He did not speak and they did not speak to him. There was that -about him which held them silent. He ate a little, then went to his room -again and shut the door. They could hear him for a little while, walking -to and fro. Then the sound of his footsteps ceased.</p> - -<p>Only one door lay between his room and the kitchen; and unconsciously -the two hushed their voices, so that they might not disturb him. John -got into dry clothes, then helped Ruth with the dishes, brought fresh -water from the pump to fill the tank at the end of the stove, brought -wood for the morning, turned the separator, and finally sat smoking -while she cleaned the parts of that instrument. They spoke now and then; -but there was some constraint between them. Both of them were thinking -of Evered.</p> - -<p>Ruth, her work finished, came and sat down by the stove with a basket of -socks to be darned, and her needle began to move carefully to and fro in -the gaping holes she stretched across her darning egg.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175">{175}</a></span></p> - -<p>John asked her in a low voice, “Did you mark trouble in my father this -night?”</p> - -<p>She looked at him, concern in her eyes. “Yes. There was something. He -seemed happier, somehow; yet very sad too.”</p> - -<p>He said, “His eyes were shining, like.”</p> - -<p>“I saw,” she agreed.</p> - -<p>John smoked for a little while. Then: “I’m wondering what it is,” he -murmured. “Something has happened to him.”</p> - -<p>Ruth, head bent above her work, remembered Darrin’s coming, his summons. -But she said nothing till John asked: “Do you know what it was?”</p> - -<p>“He was talking with Fred,” she said; and slowly, cheeks rosy, amended -herself: “With Mr. Darrin.”</p> - -<p>John nodded. “I knew they were away together.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Darrin came for him,” said Ruth. “He took your father away.”</p> - -<p>They said no more of the matter, for there was nothing more to say; but -they thought a great deal. Now and then they spoke of other things. -Outside the house the wind was whistling and lashing the weatherboards -with rain; and after a while the sharp sound of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176">{176}</a></span> the raindrops was -intensified to a clatter and John said, “It’s turned to hail. There’ll -be snow by morning.”</p> - -<p>The girl thought of Darrin. “He’ll be wet and cold out in this. He ought -to come up to the barn.”</p> - -<p>John smiled. “He can care for himself. His shelter will turn this, easy. -He’d come if he wanted to come.”</p> - -<p>His tone was friendly and Ruth asked, watching him, “You like Mr. -Darrin, don’t you?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” John told her. “Yes,” he said slowly; “I like the man.”</p> - -<p>What pain the words cost him he hid from her eyes altogether. She was, -vaguely, a little disappointed. She had not wanted John to like Darrin; -and yet she—loved the man. She must love him; she had longed for him -so. Thinking of him as she sat here with her mending in her lap she felt -again that unaccountable pang of loneliness. And the girl looked -sidewise at John. John was watching the little flames that showed -through the grate in the front of the stove. He seemed to pay no heed to -her.</p> - -<p>After a while Ruth said she would go to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177">{177}</a></span> bed; and she put away her -basket of mending, set her chair in place by the table and went to the -door that led toward her own room. John, still sitting by the stove, had -not turned. She stood in the doorway for a moment, watching him. There -was a curious yearning in her eyes.</p> - -<p>By and by she said softly, “Good night, John.”</p> - -<p>He got up from his chair, and turned toward her and stood there. “Good -night, Ruth,” he answered.</p> - -<p>She did not close the door between them; and after a moment, as though -without his own volition, his feet moved. He came toward her, came -nearer where she stood.</p> - -<p>She did not know whether to stay or to go. The girl was shaken, unsure -of herself, afraid of her own impulses. And then she remembered that she -loved Darrin, must love him. And she stepped back and shut the door -slowly between them. Even with the door shut she stood still, listening; -and she heard John turn and go back to his chair and sit down.</p> - -<p>She was swept by an unaccountable wave of angry disappointment. And the -girl<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178">{178}</a></span> turned into her room and with quick sharp movements loosed her -garments and put them aside and made herself ready for bed. She blew out -the light and lay down. But her eyes were wide, and she was wholly -without desire to sleep. And by and by she began to cry, for no reason -she could name. She was oppressed by a terrible weight of sorrow, -indefinable. It was as though this great sorrow were in the very air -about her. It was, she thought once gropingly, as though someone near -her were dying in the night. Once before she slept she heard Evered -moving to and fro in his room, adjoining hers.</p> - -<p>John had no heart for sleep that night. He sat in the kitchen alone for -a long time; and he went to bed at last, not because he was sleepy, but -because there was nothing else to do. He put wood in the stove and shut -it tightly; there would be some fire there in the morning. He put the -cats into the shed and locked the outer door, and so went at last to his -room. The man undressed slowly and blew out his light. When once he was -abed the healthy habit of his lusty youth put him quickly to sleep. He -slept with scarce a dream till an hour before dawn, and woke<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179">{179}</a></span> then, and -rose to dress for the morning’s chores.</p> - -<p>From his window, even before the light came, he saw that some wet snow -had fallen during the night. When he had made the fire in the kitchen -and filled the kettle he put on his boots and went to the barn. There -were inches of snow and half-frozen mud in the barnyard. It was cold and -dreary in the open. A little snow fell fitfully now and then.</p> - -<p>Within the barn the sweet odors that he loved greeted him. The place -steamed pleasantly with the body warmth of the cattle and the horse -stabled there; and he heard the pigs squealing softly, as though in -their sleep, in their winter pen at the farther end of the barn floor. -He lighted his lantern and hung it to a peg and fed the stock—a little -grain to the horse, hay to the cows, some cut-up squash and a basketful -of beets to the pigs. As an afterthought he gave beets to the cows as -well. John worked swiftly, cleaned up the horse’s stall and the tie-up -where the line of cows was secured. After he was done here he fed the -bull, the red bull in its strong stall; and while the creature ate he -cleaned the place and put fresh bedding in upon the floor. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180">{180}</a></span> bull -seemed undisturbed by his presence; it turned its great head now and -then to look at him with steady eyes, but there was no ugliness in its -movements. When he had finished his work John stroked the great -creature’s flank and shoulder and neck for a moment.</p> - -<p>He said under his breath, “You’re all right, old boy. You’re all right. -You’re clever, by golly. Clever as a cow.”</p> - -<p>When Fraternity says a beast is clever it means gentle and kind rather -than shrewd. The bull seemed to understand what John said; or what lay -in his tone. The great head turned and pressed against him, not roughly. -John stroked it a minute more, then left the stall and took a last look -round to be sure he had forgotten nothing, and then went to the house. -Day was coming now; there was a ghostly gray light in the farmyard. And -the snow had turned, for the time, to a drizzling, sleeting sprinkle of -rain.</p> - -<p>In the kitchen he found Ruth moving about; and she gave him the milk -pails and he went out to milk. There were only three cows giving milk at -that time. Two would come in in December; but for the present milking<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181">{181}</a></span> -was a small chore. John was not long about it, but by the time he had -finished and returned to the kitchen breakfast was almost ready. Evered -had not yet come from his room.</p> - -<p>Ruth half whispered: “He was up in the night. I think he’s asleep. I’m -going to let him sleep a while.”</p> - -<p>John nodded. “All right,” he agreed.</p> - -<p>“He’s so tired,” said Ruth; and there was a gentleness in her tone which -made John look at her with some surprise. She had not spoken gently of -Evered for months past.</p> - -<p>They separated the milk and gave the cats their morning ration and then -they sat themselves down and breakfasted. When they were half done Ruth -saw that day was fully come, and blew out the lamp upon the table -between them. It left the kitchen so bleak and cheerless, however, that -she lighted it again.</p> - -<p>“I don’t like a day like this,” she said. “It’s ugly. Everything is -ugly. It makes me nervous, somehow.”</p> - -<p>She shivered a little and looked about her as though she felt some -fearful thing at her very shoulder. John, more phlegmatic,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182">{182}</a></span> watched her -in some bewilderment. Ruth was not usually nervous.</p> - -<p>They had not heard Evered stirring; and all that morning they moved on -tiptoe about their work. John forebore to split wood in the shed, his -usual task on stormy days, lest he waken his father. Ruth handled the -dishes gently, careful not to rattle them; she swept the floor with easy -strokes that made but little sound. When Evered came into the kitchen, a -little before noon, she and John looked at the man with quick curiosity, -not knowing what they would see.</p> - -<p>They saw only that Evered’s head was held a little higher than was his -custom of late; they saw that his eyes were sober and clear and -thoughtful; they marked that his voice was gentle. He had dinner with -them, speaking little, then went back to his room.</p> - -<p>Soon after dinner Darrin came to the door. Ruth asked him in, but the -man would not come. John was in the barn; and Ruth, a little uneasy and -afraid before this man, wished John were here.</p> - -<p>She asked Darrin, “Were you all right, last night?”</p> - -<p>He said he had been comfortable; that he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183">{183}</a></span> had been able to keep dry. He -had come on no definite errand.</p> - -<p>“I just—wanted to see you,” he said.</p> - -<p>Ruth made no reply, because she did not know what to say.</p> - -<p>Darrin asked, “Are you all all right here?”</p> - -<p>“Why, yes,” she told him.</p> - -<p>He looked to right and left, his eyes unable to meet hers. “Is Evered -all right?” he asked.</p> - -<p>She felt the tension in his voice without understanding it. “Yes,” she -said uncertainly; and then: “Why?”</p> - -<p>He tried to laugh. “Why, nothing. Where’s John?”</p> - -<p>Ruth told him John was in the barn and Darrin went out there. Ruth was -left alone in the house. Once or twice during the afternoon she saw John -and Darrin in the barn door. They seemed to be doing nothing, sitting in -the shelter there, whittling, smoking, talking slowly.</p> - -<p>She felt the presence of Evered in his room, a presence like a brooding -sorrow. It oppressed her. She became nervous, restless, moving aimlessly -to and fro, and once she went to her room for something and found<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184">{184}</a></span> -herself crying. She brushed away the tears impatiently, unable to -understand. But she was afraid. There was something dreadful in the very -air of the house.</p> - -<p>At noon the wind had turned colder and for a time the sleet and rain -altogether ceased. The temperature was dropping; crystals of ice formed -on the puddles in the barnyard, and the patches of old snow which lay -here and there stiffened like hot metal hardening in a mold. Then with -the abrupt and surprising effect of a stage transformation snow began to -come down from the lowering, driving clouds. This was in its way a -whole-hearted snowstorm, in some contrast to the miserable drizzle of -the night. It was fine and wet, and hard-driven by the wind. There were -times when the barn, a little way from the house, was obscured by the -flying flakes; and the trees beyond were wholly hidden behind a veil of -white.</p> - -<p>Ruth went about the house making sure that the windows were snug. From a -front window she saw that the storm had thinned in that direction. She -was able to look down into the orchard, which lay a little below the -house, sloping away toward North Fraternity. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185">{185}</a></span> nearer trees were -plain, the others were hidden from sight.</p> - -<p>The driving wind plastered this wet snow against everything it touched. -One side of every tree, one side of every twig assumed a garment of -white. The windows which the wind struck were opaque with it. When Ruth -went back to the kitchen she saw that a whole side of the barn was so -completely covered by the snow blanket that the dark shingling was -altogether hidden. Against the white background of the storm it was as -though this side of the barn had ceased to exist. The illusion was so -abrupt that for a moment it startled her.</p> - -<p>The snow continued to fall for much of the afternoon; then the storm -drifted past them and the hills all about were lighted up, not by the -sun itself, but by an eerie blue light, which may have been the sun -refracted and reflected by the snow that was still in the air above. The -storm had left a snowy covering upon the world; and even this white -blanket had a bluish tinge. Snow clung to windward of every tree and -rock and building. Even the clothesline in the yard beside the house was -hung with it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186">{186}</a></span></p> - -<p>At first, when the storm had but just passed, the scene was very -beautiful; but in the blue light it was pitilessly, bleakly cold. Then -distantly the sun appeared. Ruth saw it first indirectly. Down the -valley to the southward, a valley like a groove between two hills, the -low scurrying clouds began to lift; and so presently the end of the -valley was revealed, and Ruth was able to look through beneath the -screen of clouds, and she could see the slopes of a distant hill where -the snow had fallen lightly, brilliantly illumined by the golden -sun—gold on the white of the snow and the brown and the green of grass -and of trees. Mystically beautiful—blue sky in the distance there; and, -between, the sun-dappled hills. The scene was made more gorgeous by the -somber light which still lay about the farm.</p> - -<p>Then the clouds lifted farther and the sun came nearer. A little before -sunset blue skies showed overhead, the sun streamed across the farm, the -snow that had stuck against everything it touched began to sag and drop -away; and the dripping of melting snow sounded cheerfully in the -stillness of the late afternoon.</p> - -<p>Ruth saw John and Darrin in the farmyard talking together, watching the -skies.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187">{187}</a></span> They came toward the house and John bade her come out to see. -The three of them walked round to the front, where the eye might reach -for miles into infinite vistas of beauty. They stood there for a little -time.</p> - -<p>The dropping sun bathed all the land in splendor; the winds had passed, -the air was still as honey. Earth was become a thing of glory beyond -compare.</p> - -<p>They were still standing here when they heard the hoarse and furious -bellow of the great red bull.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188">{188}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="XVIII" id="XVIII"></a>XVIII</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">E</span>VERED had not slept the night before. There was no sleep in the man. -And this was not because he was torn and agonized; it was because he had -never been so fully alive, so alert of mind and body.</p> - -<p>Darrin’s accusation had come to him as no shock; Darrin’s proof that his -wife was loyal had come as no surprise. He had expected neither; yet -when they came it seemed to the man that he must have known they would -come. It seemed to him that all the world must know what he had done; -and it seemed to him that he must always have known his wife was—his -wife forever.</p> - -<p>His principal reaction was a great relief of spirit. He was unhappy, -sorrowful; yet there was a pleasant ease and solace in his very -unhappiness. For he was rid now, at last, of doubts and of -uncertainties; his mind was no more beclouded; there were no more -shadows of mystery and questioning. All was clear before him; all that -there was to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189">{189}</a></span> know he knew. And—his secret need no longer be borne -alone. Darrin knew; it was as though the whole world knew. He was -indescribably relieved by this certainty.</p> - -<p>He did not at first look into the future at all. He let himself breathe -the present. He came back to the farm and ate his supper and went to his -room; and there was something that sang softly within him. It was almost -as though his wife waited for him, comfortingly, there. Physically a -little restless, he moved about for a time; but his mind was steady, his -thoughts were calm.</p> - -<p>His thoughts were memories, harking backward through the years.</p> - -<p>Evered was at this time almost fifty years old. He was born in North -Fraternity, in the house of his mother’s father, to which she had gone -when her time came near. Evered’s own father had died weeks before, in -the quiet fashion of the countryside. That had been on this hillside -farm above the swamp, which Evered’s father had owned. His mother stayed -upon the farm for a little, and when the time came she went to her home, -and when Evered was a month old she had brought him back to the farm -again.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190">{190}</a></span></p> - -<p>She died, Evered remembered, when he was still a boy, nine or ten years -old. She had not married a second time, but her brother had come to live -with her, and he survived her and kept the farm alive and producing. He -taught Evered the work that lay before him. He had been a butcher, and -it was from him Evered learned the trade. A kind man, Evered remembered, -but not over wise; and he had lacked understanding of the boy.</p> - -<p>Evered had been a brilliant boy, active and wholly alive, his mind alert -and keen, his muscles quick, his temper sharp. Yet his anger was -accustomed to pass quickly, so that he had in him the stuff that makes -friends; and he had friends in those days. Still in his teens he won the -friendship of the older men, even as he dominated the boys of his own -age. He and Lee Motley had grown up together. There had always been -close sympathy between these two.</p> - -<p>When he was nineteen he married, in the adventurous spirit of youth, a -girl of the hills; a simple lovely child, not so old as he. Married her -gaily, brought her home gaily. There had been affection between them, he -knew now, but nothing more. He had thought him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191">{191}</a></span>self heartbroken when, -their boy child still a baby, she had died. But a year later he met Mary -MacLure, and there had never been any other woman in the world for him -thereafter.</p> - -<p>Evered’s memories were very vivid; it needed no effort to bring back to -him Mary’s face as he first saw her. A dance in the big hall halfway -from North Fraternity to Montville. She came late, two men with her; and -Evered saw her come into the door. He had come alone to the dance; he -was free to devote himself to her, and within the half hour he had swept -all others aside, and he and Mary MacLure danced and danced together, -while their pulses sang in the soft air of the night, and their eyes, -meeting, glowed and glowed.</p> - -<p>Fraternity still talked of that swift, hot courtship. Evered had fought -two men for her, and that fight was well remembered. He had fought for a -clear field, and won it, though Mary MacLure scolded him for the -winning, as long as she had heart to scold this man. From his first -moment with her Evered had been lifted out of himself by the emotions -she awoke in him. He loved her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192">{192}</a></span> hotly and jealously and passionately; -and in due course he won her.</p> - -<p>Not too quickly, for Mary MacLure knew her worth and knew how to make -herself dear to him. She humbled him, and at first he suffered this, -till one night he came to her house when the flowers were abloom and the -air was warm as a caress. And at first, seated on the steps of her porch -with the man at her feet, she teased him lightly and provokingly, till -he rose and stood above her. Something made her rise too; and then she -was in his arms, lips yielding to his, trembling to his ardent whispers. -For long minutes they stood so, conscious only of each other, drunk with -the mutual ecstasy of conquest and of surrender, tempestuously -embracing.</p> - -<p>They were married, and he brought her home to the farm above the swamp, -and because he loved her so well, because he loved her too well, he had -watched over her with jealous eyes, had guarded her. She became a -recluse. An isolation grew up about them. Evered wanted no human being -in his life but her; and when the ardor of his love could find no other -vent, it showed itself in cruel gibes at her, in reckless words.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193">{193}</a></span></p> - -<p>Youth was still hot in the man. He and Mary might have weathered this -hard period of adjustment, might have come to a quiet happiness -together; but it was in these years that Evered killed Dave Riggs, a -thing half accident. He had gone forth that day with bitterness in his -heart; he had quarreled with Mary, and hated himself for it; and hated -by proxy all the world besides. Riggs irritated him profoundly, roused -the quick anger in the man. And when the hot clouds cleared from before -his eyes Riggs was dead.</p> - -<p>A thing that could not be undone, it had molded Evered’s soul into harsh -and rugged lines. It was true, as he had told Darrin, that he had sought -to make some amends; had offered help to the dead man’s wife, first -openly, and then—when she cursed him from her door—in secret, hidden -ways. But she left Fraternity and took her child, and they lost -themselves in the outer world.</p> - -<p>So Evered could not ease his conscience by the reparation he longed to -make; and the thing lay with him always through the years thereafter. A -thing fit to change a man in unpleasant fashion, the killing had shaped<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194">{194}</a></span> -Evered’s whole life—to this black end that lay before him.</p> - -<p>The man during this long night alone in his room thought back through -all the years; and it was as though he sat in judgment on himself. There -was, there had always been a native justice in him; he never deceived -his own heart, never palliated even to himself his own ill deeds. There -was no question in his mind now. He knew the thing he had done in all -its ugly lights. And as he thought of it, sitting beside his bed, he -played with the heavy knife which he had carried all these years. He -fondled the thing in his hand, eyes half closed as he stared at it. He -was not conscious that he held it. Yet it had become almost a part of -him through long habit; and it was as much a part of him now as his own -hand that held it. The heavy haft balanced so familiarly.</p> - -<p>The night, and then the day. A steady calm possessed him. His memories -flowed smoothly past, like the eternal cycle of the days. The man’s face -did not change; he was expressionless. He was sunk so deep in his own -thoughts that the turmoil there did not disturb his outward aspect. His -countenance<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195">{195}</a></span> was grave and still. No tears flowed; this was no time for -tears. It was an hour too deep for tears, a sorrow beyond weeping.</p> - -<p>During the storm that day he went to the window now and then. And once -in the morning he heard the red bull bellow in its pen; and once or -twice thereafter, as the afternoon drove slowly on. Each time he heard -this sound it was as though the man’s attention was caught and held. He -stood still in a listening attitude, as though waiting for the bellow to -be repeated; and it would be minutes on end before his eyes clouded with -his own thoughts again.</p> - -<p>It would be easy to say that Evered during this solitary night and day -went mad with grief and self-condemning, but it would not be true. The -man was never more sane. His thoughts were profound, but they were quiet -and slow and unperturbed. They were almost impersonal. There is in most -men—though in few women—this power to withdraw out of oneself or into -an inner deeper self; this power to stand as spectator of one’s own -actions. It is a manifestation of a deeper, more remote consciousness. -It is as though there were a man within a man. And this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196">{196}</a></span> inner soul has -no emotions. It is unmoved by love or passion, by anger or hatred, by -sorrow or grief, by hunger or by thirst. It watches warm caresses, it -hears ardent words, it sees fierce blows, and listens to curses and -lamentations with the same inscrutable and immutable calm. It can -approve, it can condemn; but it neither rejoices nor bemoans. It is -always conscious that the moment is nothing, eternity everything; that -the whole alone has portent and importance. This inner self has a depth -beyond plumbing; it has a strength unshakable; it has understanding -beyond belief. It is not conscience, for it sets itself up as no arbiter -of acts or deeds. It is simply a consciousness that that which is done -is good or evil, kind or harsh, wise or foolish. This calm inner soul of -souls might be called God in man.</p> - -<p>Evered this day lived in this inner consciousness. As though he sat -remote above the stream he watched the years of his memories flow by. He -was, after the first moments, torn by no racking grief and wrenched by -no remorseful torments and burned by no agonizing fires. He was without -emotion, but not without judgment and not without deci<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197">{197}</a></span>sion. He moved -through his thoughts as though to a definitely appointed and -pre-determined end. A strange numbness possessed him, in which only his -mind was alive.</p> - -<p>He did not pity himself; neither did he damn himself. He did not pray -that he might cancel all the past, for this inner consciousness knew the -past could never be canceled. He simply thought upon it, with grave and -sober consideration.</p> - -<p>When his thoughts evidenced themselves in actions it was done slowly, -and as though he did know not what he did. He got up from where he had -been sitting and went to the window and looked out. The snow had ceased; -the sun was breaking through. The world was never more beautiful, never -more gloriously white and clean.</p> - -<p>The man had held in his hands for most of the day that heavy knife of -his. He put it now back in its sheath. Then he took off his shirt and -washed himself. There was no fire of purpose in his eye; he was utterly -calm and unhurried.</p> - -<p>He put on a clean shirt. It was checked blue and white. Mary Evered had -made it for him, as she was accustomed to make most<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198">{198}</a></span> of his clothes. -When it was buttoned he drew his belt about him and buckled it snug. -Then he sat down and took off his slippers—old, faded, rundown things -that had eased his tired feet night by night for years. He took off -these slippers and put on hobnailed shoes, lacing them securely.</p> - -<p>When this was done the man stood for a little in the room, and he looked -steadily before him. His eyes did not move to this side and that; there -was no suggestion that he was taking farewell of the familiar things -about him. It was more as though he looked upon something which other -eyes could never see. And his face lighted a little; it was near -smiling. There was peace in it.</p> - -<p>I do not believe that there was any deadly purpose in Evered’s heart -when he left his room. Fraternity thinks so; Fraternity has never -thought anything else about the matter. He took his knife, in its -sheath. That is proof enough for Fraternity. “He went to do the bull, -and the bull done him.” That is what they say, have always said.</p> - -<p>It does not occur to them that the man took the knife because he was a -man; because it was not in him to lay down his life supinely;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199">{199}</a></span> because -battle had always been in his blood and was his instinct. It does not -occur to them that there was in Evered’s mind this day the purpose of -atonement, and nothing more. For Fraternity had never plumbed the man, -had never understood him.</p> - -<p>No matter. No need to dig for hidden things. Enough to know what Evered -did.</p> - -<p>He went from his room into the kitchen. No one was there. Ruth and John -and Darrin were outside in front of the house. Thus they did not see him -come out into the barnyard and go steadily and surely across and past -the corner of the barn, till he came to the high-boarded walls of the -red bull’s pen.</p> - -<p>He put his hand against these board walls for a moment, with a gesture -not unlike that of a blind man. One watching would have supposed that he -walked unseeingly or that his eyes were closed. He went along the wall -of the pen until he came to the narrow gate, set between two of the -cedar posts, through which it was possible to enter.</p> - -<p>Evered opened this gate, stepped inside the pen and shut the gate behind -him. He took half a dozen paces forward, into the center of the -inclosure, and stood still.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200">{200}</a></span></p> - -<p>The red bull had heard the gate open; and the creature turned in its -stall and came to the door between stall and pen. It saw Evered standing -there; and after a moment the beast came slowly out, moving one foot at -a time, carefully, like a watchful antagonist—came out till it was -clear of the stall; till it and the man faced each other, not twenty -feet apart.</p> - -<p>After a moment the bull lowered its great head and emitted a harsh and -angry bellow that was like a roar.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201">{201}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="XIX" id="XIX"></a>XIX</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HE beauty of the whole world in this hour should be remembered. Houses, -trees, walls, shrubs, knolls—all were overlaid with the snow blanket -inches deep. It had been faintly blue, this carpet of snow, in the first -moments after the storm passed, and before the sun had broken through. -When the sun illumined the hill about the farm the snow was dazzling -white, blinding the eye with a thousand gleams, as though it were -diamond dust spread all about them. Afterward, when John and Darrin and -Ruth had passed to the front of the house to look across the valley and -away, the sun descending lost its white glare; its rays took on a -crimson hue. Where they struck the snow fairly it was rose pink; where -shadows lay the blue was coming back again. The air was so clear that it -seemed not to exist, yet did exist as a living, pulsing color which was -all about—faint, hardly to be seen.</p> - -<p>The three stood silent, watching all this.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202">{202}</a></span> Ruth could not have spoken -if she had wished to do so; she could scarce breathe. Darrin watched -unseeingly, automatically, his thoughts busy elsewhere. John stood -still, and his eyes were narrowed and his face was faintly flushed, -either by the sun’s light or by the intoxication of beauty which was -spread before him. And they were standing thus when there came to them -through the still, liquid air the bellow of the bull.</p> - -<p>John and Ruth reacted automatically to that sound. They were accustomed -to the beast; they could to some extent distinguish between its -outcries, guess at its moods from them. Its roaring was always frightful -to an unaccustomed ear; but they were used to it, were disturbed only by -some foreign note in the sound. They both knew now that the bull was -murderously angry. They did not know, had no way of knowing what had -roused it. It might be a dog, a cat; it might be that one of the cows -had broken loose and was near its stall; it might be a pig; it might be -a hen; it might be merely a rat running in awkward loping bounds across -its pen. They did not stop to wonder; but John turned and ran toward the -pen, and Ruth followed him,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203">{203}</a></span> stumbling through the soft snow. Darrin, to -whom the bull’s bellow had always been a frightful sound, was startled -by it, would have asked a question. When he saw them run round the house -he followed them.</p> - -<p>John was in the lead, but Ruth was swift footed and was at his shoulder -when he reached the gate of the pen. The walls of the inclosure and the -gate itself were so high that they could not look over the top. But just -beside the main gate there was a smaller one, like a door; too narrow -and too low for the bull to pass, but large enough for a man. John -fumbled with the latch of this gate; and his moment’s delay gave the -others time to come up with him. When he opened the way and stepped into -the pen Ruth and Darrin were at his shoulder. Thus that which was in the -pen broke upon them all three at once—a picture never to be forgotten, -indelibly imprinted on their minds.</p> - -<p>The snow that had fallen in the inclosure was trampled here and there by -the tracks of the bull and by the tracks of the man, and in one spot it -was torn and tossed and crushed into mud, as though the two had come -together there in some strange matching of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204">{204}</a></span> strength. At this spot too -there was a dark patch upon the snow; a patch that looked almost black. -Yet Ruth knew what had made this patch, and clutched at her throat to -stifle her scream; and John knew, and Darrin knew. And the two men were -sick and shaken.</p> - -<p>At the other side of the pen, perhaps a dozen long paces from where they -stood, Evered and the bull faced each other. Neither had heard their -coming, neither had seen them. They were, for the fraction of a second, -motionless. The great bull’s head was lowered; its red neck was streaked -with darker red where a long gash lay. From this gash dripped and -dripped and spurted a little stream, a dark and ugly stream.</p> - -<p>The man, Evered, stood erect and still, facing the bull. They saw that -he bore the knife in his left hand; and they saw that his right arm was -helpless, hanging in a curiously twisted way, bent backward below the -elbow. The sleeve of his checked shirt was stained there, and his hand -was red. His shoulder seemed somehow distorted. Yet he was erect and -strong, and his face was steady and curiously peaceful, and he made no -move to escape or to flee.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205">{205}</a></span></p> - -<p>An eternity that was much less than a second passed while no man moved, -while the bull stood still. Then its short legs seemed to bend under it; -its great body hurtled forward. The vast bulk moved quick as light. It -was upon the man.</p> - -<p>They saw Evered strike, lightly, with his left hand; and there was no -purpose behind the blow. It had not the strength to drive it home. At -the same time the man leaped to one side, sliding his blade down the -bull’s shoulder; leaped lightly and surely to one side. The bull swept -almost past the man, the great head showed beyond him.</p> - -<p>Then the head swung back and struck Evered in the side, and he fell, -over and over, rolling like a rabbit taken in midleap by the gunner’s -charge of shot. And the red bull turned as a hound might have turned, -with a speed that was unbelievable. Its head, its forequarters rose; -they saw its feet come down with a curious chopping stroke—apparently -not so desperately hard—saw its feet come down once, and twice upon the -prostrate man.</p> - -<p>It must be remembered that all this had passed quickly. It was no more -than a fifth of a second that John Evered stopped within<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206">{206}</a></span> the gate of -the pen. Then he was leaping toward the bull, and Ruth followed him. -Darrin crouched in the gate, and his face was white as death. He cried, -“Come back, Ruth!” And even as she ran after John she had time to look -back toward Darrin and see him cowering there.</p> - -<p>John took off his coat as he ran, took it off with a quick whipping -motion. He swung it back behind him, round his head. And then as the -bull’s body rose for another deadly downward hoofstroke John struck it -in the flank with all his weight. He caught the beast faintly off -balance, so that the bull pivoted on its hind feet, away from the fallen -man; and before the great creature could turn John whipped his coat into -its face, lashing it again and again. The bull shook its great head, -turning away from the blinding blows; and John caught the coat about its -head and held it there, his arms fairly round the bull’s neck. He was -shouting, shouting into its very ear. Ruth even in that moment heard -him. And she marked that his tone was gentle, quieting, kind. There was -no harshness in it.</p> - -<p>She needed no telling what to do. John had swung the bull away from -Evered; he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207">{207}</a></span> had the creature blinded. She bent beside the prostrate man -and tried to drag him to his feet, but Evered bent weakly in the middle. -He was conscious, he looked up at her, his face quite calm and happy; -and he shook his head. He said, “Go.”</p> - -<p>The girl caught him beneath the shoulders and tried to drag him backward -through the soft snow across the pen. It was hard work. John still -blinding the bull, still calling out to the beast, was working it away -from her.</p> - -<p>She could not call on him for help; she turned and cried to Darrin, -“Help me—carry him.”</p> - -<p>Darrin came cautiously into the pen and approached her and took her arm. -“Come away,” he said.</p> - -<p>Her eyes blazed at him; and she cried again, “Carry him out.”</p> - -<p>He said huskily, “Leave him. Leave him here. Come away.”</p> - -<p>She had never released Evered’s shoulders, never ceased to tug at him. -But Darrin took her arm now as though to pull her away; and she swung -toward him so fiercely that he fell back from her. The girl began -abruptly to cry; half with anger at Darrin, half with pity<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208">{208}</a></span> for the -broken man in her arms. And she tugged and tugged, sliding the limp body -inch by inch toward safety.</p> - -<p>Then she saw John beside her. He had guided the bull, half forcing, half -persuading, to the entrance into the stall; he had worked the creature -in, prodding it, urging; and shut and made secure the door. Now he was -at her side. He knelt with her.</p> - -<p>“He’s terribly hurt,” she said through her tears.</p> - -<p>John nodded. “I’ll take him,” he told her.</p> - -<p>So he gathered Evered into his arms, gathered him up so tenderly, and -held the man against his breast, and Ruth supported Evered’s drooping -head as she walked beside John. They came to the gate and it was too -narrow for them to pass through. So Ruth went through alone, to open the -wider gate from the outside.</p> - -<p>She found Darrin there, standing uncertainly. She looked at him as she -might have looked at a stranger. She was hardly conscious that he was -there at all. When he saw what she meant to do he would have helped her. -She turned to him then, and she seemed to bring her thoughts back from a -great dis<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209">{209}</a></span>tance; she looked at him for a moment and then she said, “Go -away!”</p> - -<p>He cried, “Ruth! Please——”</p> - -<p>She repeated, “I want you to go away. Oh,” she cried, “go away! Don’t -ever come here again!”</p> - -<p>Darrin moved back a step, and she swung the gate open so that John could -come through, and closed it behind him, and walked with him to the -kitchen door, supporting Evered’s head. Darrin hesitated, then followed -them uncertainly.</p> - -<p>When they came to the door Ruth opened it, and John—moving sidewise so -that his burden should not brush against the door frame—went into the -kitchen, and across. Ruth passed round him to open the door into -Evered’s own room; and John went through.</p> - -<p>When he reached the bedside and turned to lay Evered there he missed -Ruth. He looked toward the kitchen; and he saw her standing in the outer -doorway. Darrin was on the steps before her. John heard Darrin say -something pleadingly. Ruth stood still for a moment. Then John saw her -slowly shut the door, shutting out the other man.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210">{210}</a></span> And he saw her turn -the key and shoot the bolt.</p> - -<p>She came toward him, running; and her eyes were full of tears.</p> - -<p>They laid Evered on his own bed, the bed he and Mary Evered had shared. -Ruth put the pillow under his head; and because it was cold in the room -she would have drawn a blanket across him. John shook his head. He was -loosening the other’s garments, making swift examination of his father’s -hurts, pressing and probing firmly here and there.</p> - -<p>Evered had drifted out of consciousness on the way to the house; but his -eyes opened now and there was sweat on his forehead. He looked up at -them steadily and soberly enough.</p> - -<p>“You hurt me, John,” he said.</p> - -<p>Ruth whispered, “I’ll telephone the doctor.”</p> - -<p>Evered turned his head a little on the pillow, and looked toward her. -“No,” he said, “no need.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, there must be!” she cried. “There must be! He can——”</p> - -<p>Evered interrupted her. “Don’t go, Ruthie. I want to talk to you.”</p> - -<p>She was crying; she came slowly back to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211">{211}</a></span> the bedside. The sun was ready -to dip behind the hills. Its last rays coming through the window fell -across her face. She was somehow glorified. She put her hand on Evered’s -head, and he—the native strength still alive within him—reached up and -caught it in his and held it firmly thereafter for a space.</p> - -<p>“You’re crying,” he said.</p> - -<p>“I can’t help it,” she told him.</p> - -<p>“Why are you crying?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“Because I’m so sorry for you.”</p> - -<p>A slow wave of happiness crept into his eyes. “You’re a good girl, -Ruthie. You mustn’t cry for me.”</p> - -<p>She brushed her sleeve across her eyes. “Why did you do it?” she asked -almost fiercely. “Why did you let him get at you?”</p> - -<p>“You’ve been hating me, Ruthie,” he told her gently. “Why do you cry for -me?”</p> - -<p>“Oh,” she told him, “I don’t hate you now. I don’t hate you now.”</p> - -<p>He said weakly, “You’ve reason to hate me.”</p> - -<p>“No, no!” she said. “Don’t be unhappy. You never meant—you loved Mary.”</p> - -<p>“Aye,” he agreed, “I loved Mary. I loved Mary, and John loves you.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212">{212}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>She was sitting on the edge of the bed, John standing beside her; but -she did not look up at him. Her eyes were all for Evered.</p> - -<p>“Please,” she said. “Rest. Let me get the doctor.”</p> - -<p>His head moved slowly in negation. “Something to tell you, Ruth, -first—before the doctor comes.”</p> - -<p>She looked toward John then, for decision or for reassurance. His eyes -answered her; they bade her listen; they told her there was no work for -the doctor here. So she turned back to Evered again. He was speaking -slowly; she caught his words bending above him.</p> - -<p>It was thus that the man told the story at last, without heat or -passion, neither sparing himself nor condemning himself, but as though -he spoke of another man. And he spoke of little things that he had not -been conscious of noticing at the time—how when he took down his -revolver to go after the bull the cats were frightened and ran from him; -how as he passed through the barnyard the horse whinnied from its stall; -how he was near stumbling over a ground sparrow’s nest in the open land -above the woodlot; how a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213">{213}</a></span> red squirrel mocked at him from a hemlock as -he went on his way. It was as though he lived the day over while they -listened. He told how he had come out above the spring; how he saw Mary -and Dane Semler there.</p> - -<p>“I believed she loved him,” he said.</p> - -<p>And Ruth cried, “Oh, she never loved anyone but you.” She was not -condemning, she was reassuring him; and he understood, his hand -tightening on hers.</p> - -<p>“I know,” he said. “And my unbelief was my great wrong to Mary; worse -than the other.”</p> - -<p>He went on steadily enough. “There was time,” he told her. “I could have -turned him, stopped him, shot him. But I hated her; I let the bull come -on.”</p> - -<p>The girl scarce heard him. His words meant little to her; her sympathy -for him was so profound that her only concern was to ease the man and -make him happier.</p> - -<p>She cried, “Don’t, don’t torment yourself! Please, I understand.”</p> - -<p>“I killed her,” he said.</p> - -<p>And as one would soothe a child, while the tears ran down her cheeks she -bade him never mind.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214">{214}</a></span></p> - -<p>“There, there. Never mind,” she pleaded.</p> - -<p>“I killed her, but I loved her,” he went on implacably.</p> - -<p>And he told them something of his sorrow afterward, and told them how he -had stifled his remorse by telling himself that Mary was false; how he -had kept his soul alive with that poor unction. He was weakening fast; -the terrific battering which he had endured was having its effect upon -even his great strength; but his voice went steadily on.</p> - -<p>He came to Darrin, came to that scene with Darrin the night before, by -the spring; and so told how Darrin had proved to him that Mary -was—Mary. And at last, as though they must understand, he added, “So -then I knew.”</p> - -<p>They did not ask what he knew; these two did understand. They knew the -man as no others would ever know him—knew his heart, knew his -unhappiness. There was no need of his telling them how he had passed the -night, and then the day. He did not try.</p> - -<p>Ruth was comforting him; and he watched her with a strange and wistful -light in his eyes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215">{215}</a></span></p> - -<p>“You’ve hated me, Ruthie,” he reminded her. “Do you hate me now?”</p> - -<p>There was no hate in her, nothing but a flooding sympathy and sorrow for -the broken man. She cried, “No, no!”</p> - -<p>“You’re forgiving——”</p> - -<p>“Yes. Please—please know.”</p> - -<p>“Then Mary will,” he murmured half to himself.</p> - -<p>Ruth nodded, and told him, “Yes, yes; she will. Please, never fear.”</p> - -<p>For a little while he was silent, while she spoke to him hungrily and -tenderly, as a mother might have spoken; and her arms round him seemed -to feel the man slipping away. She was weeping terribly; and he put up -one hand and brushed her eyes.</p> - -<p>“Don’t cry,” he bade her. “It’s all right, don’t cry.”</p> - -<p>“I can’t help it. I don’t want to help it. Oh, if there was only -anything I could do.”</p> - -<p>He smiled faintly; and his words were so husky she could scarcely hear.</p> - -<p>“Go to John,” he said.</p> - -<p>She held him closer. “Please——”</p> - -<p>“Please go to John,” he urged again.</p> - -<p>She still held him, but her arms relaxed a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216">{216}</a></span> little. She looked up at -John, and saw the young man standing there beside her. And a picture -came back to her—the picture of John throwing himself against the red -bull’s flank, blinding it, urging it away. His voice had been so gentle, -and sure, and strong. She herself in that moment had burned with hate of -the bull. Yet there had been no hate in John, nothing but gentleness and -strength.</p> - -<p>She had coupled him with Evered in her thoughts for so long that there -was a strange illumination in her memories now; she saw John as though -she had never seen him before; and almost without knowing it she rose -and stood before him.</p> - -<p>John made no move to take her; but she put her arms round his neck and -drew his head down. Only then did his arms go about her and hold her -close. There was infinite comfort in them. He bent and kissed her. And -strangely she thought of Darrin. There had been something hard and cruel -in his embrace, there had been loneliness in his arms. There was only -gentleness in John’s; and she was not lonely here. She looked up, -smiling through her tears.</p> - -<p>“Oh, John, John!” she whispered.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217">{217}</a></span></p> - -<p>As they kissed so closely, the warm light from the west came through the -window and enfolded them. And Evered, upon the bed, wearily turned his -head till he could see them, watch them. While he watched, his eyes -lighted with a slow contentment. And after a little a smile crept across -his face, such a smile as comes only with supreme happiness and peace. A -kindly, loving smile.</p> - -<p>He was still smiling when they turned toward him again; but they -understood at once that Evered himself had gone away.</p> - -<p class="fint">THE END.</p> - -<hr class="full" /> -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EVERED ***</div> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ -concept and trademark. 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