She waited a space, but he did not stir. There was no sound, save the song of Coniston Water under the shattered ice.
"Won't you speak to me?" she whispered. "Won't you tell me that they are not true?"
His shoulders shook convulsively. O for the right to turn to her and tell her that they were lies! He would have bartered his soul for it. What was all the power in the world compared to this priceless treasure he had lost? Once before he had cast it away, though without meaning to. Then he did not know the eternal value of love--of such love as those two women had given him. Now he knew that it was beyond value, the one precious gift of life, and the knowledge had come too late. Could he have saved his life if he had listened to that other Cynthia?
"Won't you tell me that they are not true?"
Even then he did not turn to her, but he answered. Curious to relate, though his heart was breaking, his voice was steady--steady as it always had been.
"I--I've seen it comin', Cynthy," he said. "I never knowed anything I was afraid of before--but I was afraid of this. I knowed what your notions of right and wrong was--your--your mother had them. They're the principles of good people. I--I knowed the day would come when you'd ask, but I wanted to be happy as long as I could. I hain't been happy, Cynthy. But you was right when you said I'd tell you the truth. S-so I will. I guess them things which you speak about are true--the way I got where I am, and the way I made my livin'. They--they hain't put just as they'd ought to be, perhaps, but that's the way I done it in the main."
It was thus that Jethro Bass met the supreme crisis of his life. And who shall say he did not meet it squarely and honestly? Few men of finer fibre and more delicate morals would have acquitted themselves as well. That was a Judgment Day for Jethro; and though he knew it not, he spoke through Cynthia to his Maker, confessing his faults freely and humbly, and dwelling on the justness of his punishment; putting not forward any good he may have done; nor thinking of it; nor seeking excuse because of the light that was in him. Had he been at death's door in the face of nameless tortures, no man could have dragged such a confession from him. But a great love had been given him, and to that love he must speak the truth, even at the cost of losing it.
But he was not to lose it. Even as he was speaking a thrill of admiration ran through Cynthia, piercing her sorrow. The superb strength of the man was there in that simple confession, and it is in the nature of woman to admire strength. He had fought his fight, and gained, and paid the price without a murmur, seeking no palliation. Cynthia had not come to that trial--so bitter for her--as a judge. If the reader has seen youth and innocence sitting in the seat of justice, with age and experience at the bar, he has mistaken Cynthia. She came to Coniston inexorable, it is true, because hers was a nature impelled to do right though it perish. She did not presume to say what Jethro's lights and opportunities might have been. Her own she knew, and by them she must act accordingly.
When he had finished speaking, she stole silently to his side and slipped her hand in his. He trembled violently at her touch.
"Uncle Jethro," she said in a low tone, "I love you."
At the words he trembled more violently still.
"No, no, Cynthy," he answered thickly, "don't say that--I--I don't expect it, Cynthy, I know you can't--'twouldn't be right, Cynthy. I hain't fit for it."
"Uncle Jethro," she said, "I love you better than I have ever loved you in my life."
Oh, how welcome were the tears! and how human! He turned, pitifully incredulous, wondering that she should seek by deceit to soften the blow; he saw them running down her cheeks, and he believed. Yes, he believed, though it seemed a thing beyond belief. Unworthy, unfit though he were, she loved him. And his own love as he gazed at her, sevenfold increased as it had been by the knowledge of losing her, changed in texture from homage to worship--nay, to adoration. His punishment would still be heavy; but whence had come such a wondrous gift to mitigate it?
"Oh, don't you believe me?" she cried, "can't you see that it is true?"
And yet he could only hold her there at arm's length with that new and strange reverence in his face. He was not worthy to touch her, but still she loved him.
The flush had faded from the eastern sky, and the faintest border of yellow light betrayed the ragged outlines of the mountain as they walked together to the tannery house.
Millicent, in the kitchen, was making great preparations--for Millicent. Miss Skinner was a person who had hitherto laid it down as a principle of life to pay deference or do honor to no human made of mere dust, like herself. Millicent's exception; if Cynthia had thought about it, was a tribute of no mean order. Cynthia, alas, did not think about it: she did not know that, in her absence, the fire had not been lighted in the evening, Jethro supping on crackers and milk and Milly partaking of the evening meal at home. Moreover, Miss Skinner had an engagement with a young man. Cynthia saw the fire, and threw off her sealskin coat which Mr. and Mrs. Merrill had given her for Christmas, and took down the saucepan from the familiar nail on which it hung. It was a miraculous fact, for which she did not attempt to account, that she was almost happy: happy, indeed, in comparison to that which had been her state since the afternoon before. Millicent snatched the saucepan angrily from her hand.
"What be you doin', Cynthy?" she demanded.
Such was Miss Skinner's little way of showing deference. Though deference is not usually vehement, Miss Skinner's was very real, nevertheless.
"Why, Milly, what's the matter?" exclaimed Cynthia, in astonishment.
"You hain't a-goin' to do any cookin', that's all," said Milly, very red in the face.
"But I've always helped," said Cynthia. "Why not?"
Why not? A tribute was one thing, but to have to put the reasons for that tribute, into words was quite another.
"Why not?" cried Milly, "because you hain't a-goin' to, that's all."
Strange deference! But Cynthia turned and looked at the girl with a little, sad smile of comprehension and affection. She took her by the shoulders and kissed her.
Whereupon a most amazing thing happened--Millicent burst into tears--wild, ungovernable tears they were.
"Because you hain't a-goin' to," she repeated, her words interspersed with violent sobs. "You go 'way, Cynthy," she cried, "git out!"
"Milly," said Cynthia, shaking her head, "you ought to be ashamed of yourself." But they were not words of reproof. She took a little lamp from the shelf, and went up the narrow stairs to her own room in the gable, where Lemuel had deposited the rawhide trunk.
Though she had had nothing all day, she felt no hunger, but for Milly's sake she tried hard to eat the supper when it came. Before it had fairly begun Moses Hatch had arrived, with Amandy and Eben; and Rias Richardson came in, and other neighbors, to say a word of welcome to hear (if the truth be not too disparaging to their characters) the reasons for her sudden appearance, and such news of her Boston experiences as she might choose to give them. They had learned from Lem Hallowell that Cynthia had returned a lady: a real lady, not a sham one who relied on airs and graces, such as had come to Coniston the summer before to look for a summer place on the painter's recommendation. Lem was not a gossip, in the disagreeable sense of the term, and he had not said a word to his neighbors of his feelings on that terrible drive from Brampton. Knowing that some blow had fallen upon Cynthia, he would have spared her these visits if he could. But Lem was wise and kind, so he merely said that she had returned a lady.
And they had found a lady. As they stood or sat around the kitchen (Eben and Rias stood), Cynthia talked to them--about Coniston: rather, be it said, that they talked about Coniston