terraced steeple; past the postoffice,--Cousin Ephraim's postoffice,--where Lem gave her a questioning look--but she shook her head, and he did not wait for the distribution of the last mail that day; past the great mansion of Isaac D. Worthington, where the iron mastiffs on the lawn were up to their muzzles in snow. After that they took the turn to the right, which was the road to Coniston.
Well-remembered road, and in winter or summer, Cynthia knew every tree and farmhouse beside it. Now it consisted of two deep grooves in the deep snow; that was all, save for a curving turnout here and there for team to pass team. Well-remembered scene! How often had Cynthia looked upon it in happier days! Such a crust was on the snow as would bear a heavy man; and the pasture hillocks were like glazed cakes in the window of a baker's shop. Never had the western sky looked so yellow through the black columns of the pine trunks. A lonely, beautiful road it was that evening.
For a long time the silence of the great hills was broken only by the sweet jingle of the bells on the shaft. Many a day, winter and summer, Lem had gone that road alone, whistling, and never before heeding that silence. Now it seemed to symbolize a great sorrow: to be in subtle harmony with that of the girl at his side. What that sorrow was he could not guess. The good man yearned to comfort her, and yet he felt his comfort too humble to be noticed by such sorrow. He longed to speak, but for the first time in his life feared the sound of his own voice. Cynthia had not spoken since she left the station, had not looked at him, had not asked for the friends and neighbors whom she had loved so well--had not asked for Jethro! Was there any sorrow on earth to be felt like that? And was there one to feel it?
At length, when they reached the great forest, Lem Hallowell knew that he must speak or cry aloud. But what would be the sound of his voice--after such an age of disuse? Could he speak at all? Broken and hoarse and hideous though the sound might be, he must speak. And hoarse and broken it was. It was not his own, but still it was a voice.
"Folks--folks'll be surprised to see you, Cynthy."
No, he had not spoken at all. Yes, he had, for she answered him.
"I suppose they will, Lem."
"Mighty glad to have you back, Cynthy. We think a sight of you. We missed you."
"Thank you, Lem."
"Jethro hain't lookin' for you by any chance, be he?
"No," she said. But the question startled her. Suppose he had not been at home! She had never once thought of that. Could she have borne to wait for him?
After that Lem gave it up. He had satisfied himself as to his vocal powers, but he had not the courage even to whistle. The journey to Coniston was faster in the winter, and at the next turn of the road the little village came into view. There it was, among the snows. The pain in Cynthia's heart, so long benumbed, quickened when she saw it. How write of the sharpness of that pain to those who have never known it? The sight of every gable brought its agony,--the store with the checker-paned windows, the harness shop, the meeting-house, the white parsonage on its little hill. Rias Richardson ran out of the store in his carpet slippers, bareheaded in the cold, and gave one shout. Lem heeded him not; did not stop there as usual, but drove straight to the tannery house and pulled up under the butternut tree. Milly Skinner ran out on the porch, and gave one long look, and cried:--
"Good Lord, it's Cynthy!"
"Where's Jethro?" demanded Lem.
Milly did not answer at once. She was staring at Cynthia.
"He's in the tannery shed," she said, "choppin' wood." But still she kept her eyes on Cynthia's face. "I'll fetch him."
"No," said Cynthia, "I'll go to him there."
She took the path, leaving Millicent with her mouth open, too amazed to speak again, and yet not knowing why.
In the tannery shed! Would Jethro remember what happened there almost six and thirty years before? Would he remember how that other Cynthia had come to him there, and what her appeal had been?
Cynthia came to the doors. One of these was open now--both had been closed that other evening against the storm of sleet--and she caught a glimpse of him standing on the floor of chips and bark--tan-bark no more. Cynthia caught a glimpse of him, and love suddenly welled up into her heart as waters into a spring after a drought. He had not seen her, not heard the sound of the sleigh-bells. He was standing with his foot upon the sawbuck and the saw across his knee, he was staring at the woodpile, and there was stamped upon his face a look which no man or woman had ever seen there, a look of utter loneliness and desolation, a look as of a soul condemned to wander forever through the infinite, cold spaces between the worlds--alone.
Cynthia stopped at sight of it. What had been her misery and affliction compared to this? Her limbs refused her, though she knew not whether she would have fled or rushed into his arms. How long she stood thus, and he stood, may not be said, but at length he put down his foot and took the saw from his knee, his eyes fell upon her, and his lips spoke her name.
"Cynthy!"
Speechless, she ran to him and flung her arms about his neck, and he dropped the saw and held her tightly--even as he had held that other Cynthia in that place in the year gone by. And yet not so. Now he clung to her with a desperation that was terrible, as though to let go of her would be to fall into nameless voids beyond human companionship and love. But at last he did release her, and stood looking down into her face, as if seeking to read a sentence there.
And how was she to pronounce that sentence! Though her faith might be taken away, her love remained, and grew all the greater because he needed it. Yet she knew that no subterfuge or pretence would avail her to hide why she had come. She could not hide it. It must be spoken out now, though death was preferable.
And he was waiting. Did he guess? She could not tell. He had spoken no word but her name. He had expressed no surprise at her appearance, asked no reasons for it. Superlatives of suffering or joy or courage are hard to convey--words fall so far short of the feeling. And Cynthia's pain was so far beyond tears.
"Uncle Jethro," she said, "yesterday something--something happened. I could not stay in Boston any longer."
He nodded.
"I had to come to you. I could not wait."
He nodded again.
"I--I read something." To take a white-hot iron and sear herself would have been easier than this.
"Yes," he said.
She felt that the look was coming again--the look which she had surprised in his face. His hands dropped lifelessly from her shoulders, and he turned and went to the door, where he stood with his back to her, silhouetted against the eastern sky all pink from the reflection of sunset. He would not help her. Perhaps he could not. The things were true. There had been a grain of hope within her, ready to sprout.
"I read two articles from the Newcastle Guardian about you--about your life."
"Yes," he said. But he did not turn.
"How you had--how you had earned your living. How you had gained your power," she went on, her pain lending to her voice an exquisite note of many modulations.
"Yes--Cynthy," he said, and still stared at the eastern sky.
She took two steps toward him, her arms outstretched, her fingers opening and closing. And then she stopped.
"I would believe no one," she said, "I will believe no one--until--unless you tell me. Uncle Jethro," she cried in agony, "Uncle Jethro, tell me that those things are not true!"