I.
The girl was in the front room on the second floor, peering through theblinds. It was the "best room." There was a very new rag carpet on thefloor. The edges of it had been dyed with alternate stripes of red andgreen. Upon the wooden mantel there were two little puffy figures inclay--a shepherd and a shepherdess probably. A triangle of pink andwhite wool hung carefully over the edge of this shelf. Upon the bureauthere was nothing at all save a spread newspaper, with edges folded tomake it into a mat. The quilts and sheets had been removed from the bedand were stacked upon a chair. The pillows and the great feathermattress were muffled and tumbled until they resembled great dumplings.The picture of a man terribly leaden in complexion hung in an oval frameon one white wall and steadily confronted the bureau.
From between the slats of the blinds she had a view of the road as itwended across the meadow to the woods, and again where it reappearedcrossing the hill, half a mile away. It lay yellow and warm in thesummer sunshine. From the long grasses of the meadow came the rhythmicclick of the insects. Occasional frogs in the hidden brook made apeculiar chug-chug sound, as if somebody throttled them. The leaves ofthe wood swung in gentle winds. Through the dark-green branches of thepines that grew in the front yard could be seen the mountains, far tothe southeast, and inexpressibly blue.
Mary's eyes were fastened upon the little streak of road that appearedon the distant hill. Her face was flushed with excitement, and the handwhich stretched in a strained pose on the sill trembled because of thenervous shaking of the wrist. The pines whisked their green needles witha soft, hissing sound against the house.
At last the girl turned from the window and went to the head of thestairs. "Well, I just know they're coming, anyhow," she criedargumentatively to the depths.
A voice from below called to her angrily: "They ain't. We've never seenone yet. They never come into this neighbourhood. You just come downhere and 'tend to your work insteader watching for soldiers."
"Well, ma, I just know they're coming."
A voice retorted with the shrillness and mechanical violence ofoccasional housewives. The girl swished her skirts defiantly andreturned to the window.
Upon the yellow streak of road that lay across the hillside there nowwas a handful of black dots--horsemen. A cloud of dust floated away. Thegirl flew to the head of the stairs and whirled down into the kitchen.
"They're coming! They're coming!"
It was as if she had cried "Fire!" Her mother had been peeling potatoeswhile seated comfortably at the table. She sprang to her feet. "No--itcan't be--how you know it's them--where?" The stubby knife fell from herhand, and two or three curls of potato skin dropped from her apron tothe floor.
The girl turned and dashed upstairs. Her mother followed, gasping forbreath, and yet contriving to fill the air with questions, reproach, andremonstrance. The girl was already at the window, eagerly pointing."There! There! See 'em! See 'em!"
Rushing to the window, the mother scanned for an instant the road on thehill. She crouched back with a groan. "It's them, sure as the world!It's them!" She waved her hands in despairing gestures.
The black dots vanished into the wood. The girl at the window wasquivering and her eyes were shining like water when the sun flashes."Hush! They're in the woods! They'll be here directly." She bent downand intently watched the green archway whence the road emerged. "Hush! Ihear 'em coming," she swiftly whispered to her mother, for the elderwoman had dropped dolefully upon the mattress and was sobbing. Andindeed the girl could hear the quick, dull trample of horses. Shestepped aside with sudden apprehension, but she bent her head forward inorder to still scan the road.
"Here they are!"
There was something very theatrical in the sudden appearance of thesemen to the eyes of the girl. It was as if a scene had been shifted. Theforest suddenly disclosed them--a dozen brown-faced troopers inblue--galloping.
"Oh, look!" breathed the girl. Her mouth was puckered into an expressionof strange fascination as if she had expected to see the troopers changeinto demons and gloat at her. She was at last looking upon those curiousbeings who rode down from the North--those men of legend and colossaltale--they who were possessed of such marvellous hallucinations.
The little troop rode in silence. At its head was a youthful fellow withsome dim yellow stripes upon his arm. In his right hand he held hiscarbine, slanting upward, with the stock resting upon his knee. He wasabsorbed in a scrutiny of the country before him.
At the heels of the sergeant the rest of the squad rode in thin column,with creak of leather and tinkle of steel and tin. The girl scanned thefaces of the horsemen, seeming astonished vaguely to find them of thetype she knew.
The lad at the head of the troop comprehended the house and itsenvironments in two glances. He did not check the long, swinging strideof his horse. The troopers glanced for a moment like casual tourists,and then returned to their study of the region in front. The heavythudding of the hoofs became a small noise. The dust, hanging in sheets,slowly sank.
The sobs of the woman on the bed took form in words which, while strongin their note of calamity, yet expressed a querulous mental reaching forsome near thing to blame. "And it'll be lucky fer us if we ain't bothbutchered in our sleep--plundering and running off horses--old Santo'sgone--you see if he ain't--plundering----"
"But, ma," said the girl, perplexed and terrified in the same moment,"they've gone."
"Oh, but they'll come back!" cried the mother, without pausing her wail."They'll come back--trust them for that--running off horses. O John,John! why did you, why did you?" She suddenly lifted herself and satrigid, staring at her daughter. "Mary," she said in tragic whisper, "thekitchen door isn't locked!" Already she was bended forward to listen,her mouth agape, her eyes fixed upon her daughter.
"Mother," faltered the girl.
Her mother again whispered, "The kitchen door isn't locked."
Motionless and mute they stared into each other's eyes.
At last the girl quavered, "We better--we better go and lock it." Themother nodded. Hanging arm in arm they stole across the floor toward thehead of the stairs. A board of the floor creaked. They halted andexchanged a look of dumb agony.
At last they reached the head of the stairs. From the kitchen came thebass humming of the kettle and frequent sputterings and cracklings fromthe fire. These sounds were sinister. The mother and the girl stoodincapable of movement. "There's somebody down there!" whispered theelder woman.
Finally, the girl made a gesture of resolution. She twisted her arm fromher mother's hands and went two steps downward. She addressed thekitchen: "Who's there?" Her tone was intended to be dauntless. It rangso dramatically in the silence that a sudden new panic seized them as ifthe suspected presence in the kitchen had cried out to them. But thegirl ventured again: "Is there anybody there?" No reply was made save bythe kettle and the fire.
With a stealthy tread the girl continued her journey. As she neared thelast step the fire crackled explosively and the girl screamed. But themystic presence had not swept around the corner to grab her, so shedropped to a seat on the step and laughed. "It was--was only the--thefire," she said, stammering hysterically.
Then she arose with sudden fortitude and cried: "Why, there isn'tanybody there! I know there isn't." She marched down into the kitchen.In her face was dread, as if she half expected to confront something,but the room was empty. She cried joyously: "There's nobody here! Comeon down, ma." She ran to the kitchen door and locked it.
The mother came down to the kitchen. "Oh, dear, what a fright I've had!It's given me the sick headache. I know it has."
"Oh, ma," said the girl.
"I know it has--I know it. Oh, if your father was only here! He'd settlethose Yankees mighty quick--he'd settle 'em! Two poor helplesswomen----"
"Why, ma, what makes you act so? The Yankees haven't----"
"Oh, they'll be back--they'll be back. Two poor helpless women! Yourfather and your uncle Asa and Bill off galavanting around and f
ightingwhen they ought to be protecting their home! That's the kind of men theyare. Didn't I say to your father just before he left----"
"Ma," said the girl, coming suddenly from the window, "the barn door isopen. I wonder if they took old Santo?"
"Oh, of course they have--of course----Mary, I don't see what we aregoing to do--I don't see what we are going to do."
The girl said, "Ma, I'm going to see if they took old Santo."
"Mary," cried the mother, "don't you dare!"
"But think of poor old Sant, ma."
"Never you mind old Santo. We're lucky to be safe ourselves, I tell you.Never mind old Santo. Don't you dare to go out there, Mary--Mary!"
The girl had unlocked the door and stepped out upon the porch. Themother cried in despair, "Mary!"
"Why, there isn't anybody out here," the girl called in response. Shestood for a moment with a curious smile upon her face as of gleefulsatisfaction at her daring.
The breeze was waving the boughs of the apple trees. A rooster with anair importantly courteous was conducting three hens upon a foragingtour. On the hillside at the rear of the gray old barn the red leaves ofa creeper flamed amid the summer foliage. High in the sky clouds rolledtoward the north. The girl swung impulsively from the little stoop andran toward the barn.
The great door was open, and the carved peg which usually performed theoffice of a catch lay on the ground. The girl could not see into thebarn because of the heavy shadows. She paused in a listening attitudeand heard a horse munching placidly. She gave a cry of delight andsprang across the threshold. Then she suddenly shrank back and gasped.She had confronted three men in gray seated upon the floor with theirlegs stretched out and their backs against Santo's manger. Theirdust-covered countenances were expanded in grins.