A Thread of Scarlet

LSIE BAYNOR was coming up the long hill from the post-office. Now and then she stopped for a moment to look back to the little village hidden among the trees, or lift her face to the big clouds that drifted overhead. It had rained for nearly a week, and the air in the afternoon sun was like wine. The girl drew a deep breath and lifted her head with a gesture that laughed.

Grandma Pettibone, peering out from between her lace-edged curtains, watched the figure stride swiftly up the hill. “Seems to me she gets straighter 'n' straighter every day,” she muttered.

“Who is it, mother?” A younger woman came across the room to look out.

“She gets more 'n' more like her Grandma Poppleton every day,” said the old lady. “Seems's if I could see her now, a-riding' up the hill in that old yellow chariot, lookin' for all the world like a queen; and Elsie's gettin' to be the livin' image of her.”

“She'd better be like her than like her mother,” said the woman in a significant tone.

“You hadn't ought to speak like that, Nettie. You don't know for certain,” said the old woman. Her eyes were fixed on the girl's figure climbing up the hill.

The young woman's lips set themselves a little. “Maybe I don't—for certain. But there's plenty that do. She'd ought to be druv out of town, and you know it as well as I do.”

“No, I don't know it,” said the older voice.

“Well, you ought to. I do,” said the other curtly. She went back to her work at the sewing-machine, and the old woman leaned forward to watch the swift, easy walk.

The girl's back, strong and supple, swayed a little to the motion of her gait, and the braid of thick black hair, tied at the waist with a scarlet ribbon, swayed with it. A bunch of scarlet poppies glowed on the side of her hat, and a gleam of scarlet marked her throat.

“Jest like her,” muttered the old woman. “Same kind o' high-and-mighty walk. Same kind of hair.”

The figure had mounted the hill and disappeared over the brow. It was not till she had reached the top that she looked back again. The village lay huddled at the foot of the steep hill, a stone's throw, it seemed. Wet roofs gleamed among the trees and bits of smoke hung in the lifting air.

The girl looked at it, a smile of delight in her eyes. The red lips curved softly, as she looked down, and shaped a little smile for themselves. The post-office was the third building to the left of the pond. It was there that he had asked her. She looked up again to the great clouds drifting and rolling in the sky. Her face held a kind of wonder. The world was changed. A bird from a wet bush near by broke into song and the thick clover glinted in the fresh light. It was a beautiful world. She drew a deep breath and looked down at her feet. They were heavy with the mud of the road, but the very mud seemed glorified. She pushed her toe into it and laughed softly as it yielded to the touch and rays of light spread out of it. She had not guessed that he cared. And when she turned about from the office window and saw him standing there, she had moved to one side to let him pass, and he had moved with her and barred the way, lifting his hat. He had such beautiful hair, thick and wavy. She looked up again at the swelling clouds. Then she smiled to herself and walked on.

She turned in at the gate of a tumble-down house. Bricks were gone from the chimney and blinds hung loose here and there, but the path was swept clean and flowers bloomed on either side. A woman sitting at one of the windows leaned forward as she came up the straight walk between the rows of sweet-Williams and larkspur. Elsie looked up and smiled vaguely.

“Didn't you get my book?”

The girl stopped short in the path. “I—I forgot it.”

The woman nodded good-naturedly. “I thought like enough you had when I saw you coming without it. Who'd you see?”

The girl had come into the room and was taking off her hat by the low table across the room. A rich crimson dyed her face. The hands raised to smooth the dark hair on either side of her forehead tried in vain to hide it.

Her mother looked up carelessly. “You must 'a' come up the hill terrible fast. You'd better look out. You'll have heart trouble yet—same as me.”

She got up and waddled comfortably to a pile of books on the table. “I'll have to read something over again,” she said, turning over the books. She picked up a paper-covered one and ran her eye along a page or two. “This'll do all right,” she said.

Elsie watched the figure, uncritically, as it rolled back to its chair by the window and descended into it. The chair creaked beneath the weight.

“I'm real sorry I forgot the book,” said the girl. “I was going to go to the library after I'd got the mail, and I—and—I forgot it.”

“It don't make no difference,” said the woman, “I can read this one just as well.” Her eye was skimming the page. “There wa'n't any mail, was there?”

“No.” The cheeks did not flush this time, but there was a deep, still light in the eyes. She took a book and slate from the table and came across to the other window. She sat down opposite her mother, facing her, and opened the book.

Her mother looked up. “You going to do your algebry?”

“Yes.”

“It'll be time to get supper pretty soon.”

“Yes, I know it.”

Silence fell between them. The woman was lost in the romance before her and the girl's eyes were rested on the problem—“A, B, and C hire a pasture for $300. A puts in 10 sheep for 16 weeks. B puts in 3 horses for 9 weeks. And C puts in 2 cows for 13 weeks” Why had he asked her—out of all the girls? No one had ever asked her before. Her thought halted. It did not touch the heavy figure at the other window. She had never accused her mother. Though she had always known—since that day, years ago, when the boys had taunted her and she had turned on them and nearly killed one of them. She had known then—though she had not shaped it—even in her deepest thought. It was then that she had let down her plaid dress and combed her hair smooth and braided it, and swept and scrubbed the house till it shone, and weeded the beds on either side the front path, and left off a girl's careless romping for the straight, swift walk of a woman. She was only twelve then. Now she was sixteen, and the color under the clear skin was swift and warm.

Why had he asked her? All the girls liked him—and he had never asked them—not one of them—not even to go home from meeting with them. And now—for a whole day—the long drive and the climb up the mountain—and there would be others. They would see that she was the one. Her dark head lifted itself proudly and the clear skin glowed.

Her mother, looking up from her book as she turned the page, stared at her. “You do grow to look like your Grandma Poppleton,” she said lazily.

The girl started and her cheeks flushed. “Do I?”

The woman nodded, half-jealously. “You surely do. You're a good deal more like her'n I ever was. She always said I wa'n't no more kin to her than if I'd been somebody else's child. She was dreadful proud—and I was always a humbly child—fat and kind o' light complected. Maybe that's why we never got on.”

The girl looked at her with fond eyes. “You're pretty now,” she said wistfully.

Her mother smoothed her plump wrists and smiled a little. “You think so. But I wa'n't the kind o' child she wanted. She'd 'a' worshipped you.” Her eyes took in the straight figure with a little envy. “You're the kind she wanted.”

“Didn't she ever see me?” asked Elsie.

The woman shook her head. “She died the winter you was born. She took things hard—always did. One of the tragic kind—not easy-going, like me.” The chair creaked comfortably as it rocked. “And you're the same kind—making mountains out of molehills, and kind o' tempting things to happen. You won't ever be very happy, I don't believe, any more'n she was.'

The girl was leaning forward, her lips parted, and a listening look in her dark face. The knell of her soul sounded, faint and far, and stern lines shaped themselves under the soft contour of her face. A shadow crossed the window, and she started, looking up with a swift breath. “It's father,” she said. “He's come with the cows.”

“Yes, it's time to get supper.”

She put her book and slate on the table and hurried into the kitchen. Presently the sound of her voice came back—singing softly to itself—and the crackling of fresh fire in the stove. When the woman put down her book and came out a man stood by the outer door looking out. He had the face of a prophet, stern and uncouth, with a touch of shame in its depths. He looked at her sombrely, without speaking, and they sat down at the table.

“You going to use Nellie to-morrow, Abner?” asked the woman comfortably.

“No.”

“I kind o' thought Elsie 'n' I'd like to have her, after school, to go over to Clayton.”

“I don't want her used to-morrow at all.”

She looked at him for a moment. “What's the matter with her?”

“Nothing.” He chewed in silence. “I want her to rest. She's got to go forty miles next day.”

The woman leaned forward. “Where to?”

“Over to Halleck's Mountain and back. I've let her for the day—to Hutton.”

The woman's lips paled. “To Sam Hutton?”

“No, to Harlow—the young fellow.”

The girl woke from a dream and looked swiftly from one to the other. A rich color filled her face.

They were not looking at her.

“They must be going to have a picnic,” said the woman slowly. “You might 'a' kept Nellie for Elsie and me to go.” The voice had no complaint.

“Did they ask ye?”

The stern note was lost on her. “Seems 's if Elsie ought to have a chance to go. She never goes anywhere.”

They glanced at the girl. Her face was alight and her throat swelled a little, like a bird's before breaking into song. “I am going,” she said.

“Who asked ye?” It was her father's voice.

“Harlow Hutton.” The words trilled themselves.

The man and woman looked at each other. It was the first time their eyes had met. “Good God!” said the man. The words broke from him.

She frowned at him. “When'd he ask you?” she said. She was looking at the girl with a new interest.

“To-day. When I went down for the mail.”

The man pushed back his chair from the table and rose heavily. “I'm going down to the store,” he said.

She looked at him critically. “You've got to put on your other clothes.”

He went into the bedroom and the woman returned to her seat by the front window. When he passed it she leaned out.

“Abner.”

“What?”

“Don't you go to spoilin' her good time.”

His face was set straight ahead. “I shall tell him,” he said.

“Don't you s'pose he knows?” She was fingering the paper-covered book in her lap and looking down at it.

He turned on her fiercely. “Do you s'pose he'd asked her if he'd known?” The tone shrivelled her.

He strode from the yard and down the long hill, his heavy boots splashing through the half-dried mud and his stern face set before him.

The group of loungers looked up as he entered the store.

“How do, Abner?”

He pushed by them to the other side of the store, and a young man came forward smiling. “Good-evening, Mr. Baynor. Is there something I can do for you?”

Abner looked at him for a moment, dazed, his lips half-parted. “I want some gingham,” he said at last—“shirting; kind o' blue and white, I guess.”

They passed into the other part of the store and the voices of the loungers came faintly to them.

The young man threw down a piece of cloth on the counter, unrolling it swiftly. “How'll that do?” he said. “Fifteen cents a yard. Here's some for eighteen, a little better, but not so pretty.” The heavy roll thumped on the counter as he twirled it and spread it out. His eyes were fixed on the man's face.

Abner looked up slowly. “I've changed my mind about letting you hev' Nellie,” he said.

The young man's face fell. “What's the matter?” he asked.

“I didn't know ye'd asked Elsie when I let her to you.”

“I hadn't, but I meant to.” The blue eyes broke into a quick smile. “I'd planned to have the nicest girl and the nicest horse in town, Mr. Baynor.”

The man's face softened a little. He looked up and met the blue eyes. They were honest and straightforward. He glanced away, fingering the gingham awkwardly. “I thought I ought to tell ye about her” His voice faltered.

“About Nellie? Oh, I know—she's high-spirited. But I'll have Elsie to help me manage her. She can do it, they say.” He spoke half-laughingly to hide a note of anxiety.

“Yes, she can manage her.” The man regarded him sombrely. “How long you going to be here?” he asked suddenly.

“Here? In town?”

“Yes.”

The young man's face grew grave. “I am going away next week.”

The other nodded. “I'd heard suthin' of the kind. You going to stay?”

“Yes.”

“Where is it?”

“My uncle's store in New York. He offered me the place when I left college. But I thought I'd better help father. He seemed to want me to. But lately he's been talking the other way, and last night he said I'd better go.”

Abner was studying the ingenuous face, his own in the shadow. “D'he know you was going to take Elsie to the Mountain?”

“Yes.”

Abner's face worked strangely.

The young man waited a minute. A hush had fallen on the group in the other room. He leaned forward and spoke in a low voice, “I don't know why you don't want me to take her, Mr. Baynor, nor why my father didn't. But I know that I'm honest. She's only a child, and I'd meant to wait. But before God, she's the woman I shall marry some day.”

The man before him staggered a little. He clutched at the counter and his lips parted. “Marry her! Good God, man, you can't marry her! She's your half-sister!” he said hoarsely.

The young man's face grew white. “You lie!” he said.

“Your father and hers is the same man,” retorted Abner.

The other stared at him. Through the silence low voices droned from the room beyond. “Then who are you?” said the young man at last. His throat was dry and his face worked.

“I am the man she calls father,” said Abner briefly. “I'll take two yards of that gingham.” He laid a gaunt finger on the cheaper piece.

The young man cut it off and did it up for him. He took the money and made change, a stunned look in his clear eyes—as if someone had struck him.

With the roll of gingham in his hand Abner went out. As he toiled up the steep hill he stopped in the darkness and wiped the great drops from his forehead. “I hed to tell him,” he muttered, “I hed to tell him. I couldn't tell her. 'Twould 'a' killed her.” He had known from the first that the child that was coming was not his, and the knowledge had made him very tender of her.

When he came into the lighted room he threw the parcel on the table and passed into the room beyond.

“What did you get, father?” asked Elsie, untying it with swift fingers. Her face glowed with fresh, clear color, and her eyes were stars.

Abner had not looked at her.

“Gingham!” she laughed, unrolling it on the table. “Look, mother! What's it for, father?” She stepped to the door of the dark room beyond and looked in.

“Some shirts for me,” said Abner out of the darkness.

She turned back, her eyes overflowing with laughter in the soft light. “Shirts!” she said to her mother. She tossed it out to its full length. “Shirts! Two yards! There isn't enough for one!” She laughed softly. “I shall keep it for an apron. Can I have it for an apron, father?” she called to him.

There was no response from the dark room.

“Don't bother him,” said her mother, “he's gone to bed, like enough. Pretty gingham, ain't it?”

girl had come out of the post-office. She stood for a moment looking in either direction. Then she turned towards the long hill. She had not expected to see him to-day. She had only stopped at the office on the way home from school. If he had happened to be there—in the office or at the store door—she would have bowed to him. But there was no need. She lifted her head proudly—and saw him. He was coming towards her, along the walk, with his father. Her head was like a flower on its stalk and her heart sang.

When he was opposite her, he lifted his hat. She swayed a little. What was it—in his eyes? Pity—loathing—love? No one should look at her like that! The short man beside him, with gray mustache and goatee, nodded to her curtly as they passed. Her soul shrank a little and shivered in its beating. “You'd better take the seven-thirty, Harl.” The words caught at her ear and followed her up the long hill. Why had he looked at her like that? Why had he not stopped to speak? Why should he take the seven-thirty? Were they not to go to-morrow to Halleck's Mountain? She caught her breath with a quiver of the lip, and turned into the straight, flower-bordered path.

“Can't you hurry a little, Elsie?” It was her mother's plaintive voice at the window. She quickened her pace and looked up inquiringly towards the window.

“He says we can have Nellie to go to Clayton, after all,” said her mother.

The girl looked at her doubtingly. “Doesn't he want her to rest—for to-morrow?”

“He says we can take her,” said her mother evasively. “You're late.”

“Yes, I came by the office. I'm all ready. Is she harnessed?”

“She's tied to the shed.”

The girl untied the horse and drove around to the horse-block. The touch of the taut reins in her fingers stilled her swift heart and brought her back to herself.

“Steady, Nell!” she said. The quivering horse quieted down, and she held out a hand to her mother. “Quick!”

Her mother climbed heavily in, puffing a little. She had on a wide muslin hat, trimmed with pink flowers, and bits of lace at her plump wrists. Elsie smiled at her approvingly. “It looks as good as new,” she said.

Her mother nodded as she settled herself in the seat. Her breath came in soft pants. “I made it over,” she said. “Took off all the stuff and ironed it and shirred it on again.” Her head bridled a little under its light cover.

Elsie laughed softly and tightened her hold on the reins. “It's the third time this year.”

“The least bit of wetting spoils it,” complained her mother. “I can't help its raining.”

Elsie looked up at the clear, floating clouds. 'No danger to-day,” she said; “it couldn't rain if it tried.”

Her mother shook her head doubtingly. “You can't ever tell,” she said. “The strangest things happen. If I was alone, I should know it wouldn't rain. But seems, sometimes, as if you kind o' tempted it to. Your Grandma Poppleton was just the same,” she went on plaintively, “stirring things up as long as she lived. Now I can do things—real risky things—and nothing comes of it.” Her gaze floated over the still, country fields. “Sometimes I wish something would happen,” she said pensively.

The girl made no response. Her dark face had resumed its stern lines and a brooding look filled the eyes, a look of vague dread. They drove on in silence, through the flecking shadows of the road, into the stretch of deep pine wood and out again into the sunshine. Her thoughts followed the look in his eyes. What was it? Why should he despise her? What right had he? Suddenly the blood flamed high in her face and she moved a little away from the plump figure beside her. She glanced at it askance, her eyes wide with questioning. Disbelief and insight struggled in them. The terror filled them. This was what they had meant—those boys. No one had taunted her since then—no one had dared. They had only left her alone. Her head drooped forward on her breast. And he had heard? She half turned to the figure beside her. Then she shrank back upon herself. What could she ask her—her mother! A sound crossed the silence—a wood-bird calling softly through the cool, green light.

Then her mother broke in. She did not like the silences. The girl responded in broken snatches. They floated on the undercurrent of her thought. It was not till they were coming home that she roused herself. They had come to the fork of the roads and her mother touched the reins lightly. “Let's go home by the store,” she said coaxingly, “I didn't have near enough lace for my sleeves.”

Without a word, the girl obeyed. Her head lifted itself. She drove swiftly along the level road, between full-branched alders and shimmering birches. She would see him again—see him—see him. The hot blood of sixteen mounted to her throat and beat in her temples. Over it the guard of ages kept watch. It coiled itself to protect her. He should not look at her again—like that.

Swiftly they turned the curve that led to the store. The even beat of the horse's hoofs sounded on the road. A young man standing near the store door looked up quickly. Another sound mingled with the even hoofs, and he turned his head to the long hill. Half-way down its length a red mass thundered—steam and motion and weight—the new automobile from Stockton!

The girl had grown pale to the lips. “Jump, mother!” she said. She held the reins in firm hand and reached out for the whip.

“I can't, Elsie, I'm too heavy.” She sank back panting.

“Jump, I tell you! Nothing can hold her!”

The young man dashed forward and caught at the rearing bit. He swung on it heavily, from side to side. The maddened head reared itself, and hoofs struck at him, like brushwood, and trampled him. The wheels jolted where he lay.

“Mother,”—the girl's voice was steady,—“she's heading for the dam. You must jump!”

Slowly the weight raised itself and sank back. “I can't—jump—dear.”

The girl's hands upon the reins were like iron. The veins stood out on them, and bits of blood and foam came tossing back and flecked her face and blinded her. Her touch was a feather's weight on the rush of fury. With a ring of sharp iron the hoofs struck the low parapet of the dam. A dozen feet were running to help her. The automobile hung poised on the hill, held in its course. There was a breathless rocking, a woman's scream, a whirl of wheels—and blank space.

When they reached the parapet and looked down they saw, at the foot of the dam, the wagon, by some miracle of chance, standing upright, and in it the woman, crouched in the bottom, gazing blankly at the wall of falling water and wiping the drops from her face.

Half-way down the stone coping, where a young maple shot out its strong arm, the figure of the girl had been caught from its seat. It hung, midway, the scarlet ribbon on her hair floating like a blossom in the leaves. They knew she was dead before they reached her. Her head was limp on its stem, and her hands were relaxed.

They bore her up the hill, past the store, where, on the counter, stretched another figure, still and straight—up the hill, past the little house with its lace-edged curtains and the old face peering out between—over the brow of the hill, with the village huddled beneath, roofs and chimneys—up the straight, flower-bordered path at last, to her home.

The two burials were the same day. And behind each coffin walked a man alone. The short, stern man, with the gray mustache and goatee, followed his son to the grave—his only son and child. They buried him by his mother, who had died fifteen years before—of heartbreak, the neighbors said.

Abner walked alone. The woman lay in a darkened room, her breath coming and going in soft, quick pants.

“Die?” said the village doctor, when they pressed him. “No, she'll not die. She's not the kind that dies. She's been a good deal shook up and bruised and scared, but she'll get well.” So in her darkened room the woman asked faintly for a glass of water, and drank it, and wept a little, and crept back to life.

And out in the sunshine, among the graves, the birds sang and the fresh-turned earth was sweet in the wind. Daisies nodded on their stems, and the clovers lifted full, crimson stalks, and bobolinks lighted among them, atilt, and burst into song. And the light on the girl's grave was even and serene. The afternoon light glowed among the graves. They stretched away to left and right and gathered her in among them. For the earth is sweet at last.