CHARITY on the on a mattress, as her mother's had lain. The room in which she was cold and dark and low-ceilinged, and and than the of Mary Hyatt's pilgrimage. On the other of the Liff Hyatt's mother slept on a blanket, with two children—her grandchildren, she said—rolled up against her like sleeping puppies. They had their thin spread over them, having the only other to their guest.
Through the small square of in the opposite Charity saw a of sky, so black, so remote, so with that her very to be into it. Up there somewhere, she supposed, the God Mr. Miles had was waiting for Mary Hyatt to appear. What a long it was! And what would she have to say when she Him?
Charity's brain with the attempt to picture her mother's past, and to relate it in any way to the designs of a just but God; but it was to any link them. She herself as from the she had into her as if the of the them. She had and in her life; but in a where Mrs. Hawes and the Ally the nearest approach to there was nothing to the of the Mountain farmers.
As she there, half-stunned by her initiation, Charity to think herself into the life about her. But she not make out what relationship these people to each other, or to her mother; they to be together in a of in which their common was the link. She to picture to herself what her life would have been if she had up on the Mountain, wild in rags, sleeping on the up against her mother, like the pale-faced children against old Mrs. Hyatt, and into a like the girl who had her in such words. She was by the she had with this girl, and by the light it on her own beginnings. Then she what Mr. Royall had said in telling her to Lucius Harney: “Yes, there was a mother; but she was to have the child go. She'd have her to anybody....”
Well! after all, was her mother so much to blame? Charity, since that day, had always of her as of all feeling; now she pitiful. What mother would not want to save her child from such a life? Charity of the of her own child, and into her eyes, and ran over her face. If she had been less exhausted, less with his weight, she would have up then and there and away....
The hours of the night themselves slowly by, and at last the sky and a cold into the room. She in her at the dirty floor, the clothes-line with rags, the old woman against the cold stove, and the light across the world, and with it a new day in which she would have to live, to choose, to act, to make herself a place among these people—or to go to the life she had left. A on her. There were moments when she that all she asked was to go on there unnoticed; then her mind at the of one of the from which she sprang, and it as though, to save her child from such a fate, she would to travel any distance, and any life might put on her.
Vague of Nettleton through her mind. She said to herself that she would some place where she her child, and give it to people to keep; and then she would go out like Julia Hawes and earn its and hers. She that girls of that sometimes to have their children for; and every other in the of her baby, and and rosy, and away where she in and it, and it to wear. Anything, anything was than to add another life to the of on the Mountain....
The old woman and the children were still sleeping when Charity rose from her mattress. Her was with cold and fatigue, and she moved slowly her steps should them. She was with hunger, and had nothing left in her satchel; but on the table she saw the of a loaf. No it was to as the of old Mrs. Hyatt and the children; but Charity did not care; she had her own to think of. She off a piece of the and ate it greedily; then her on the thin of the sleeping children, and with she in her for something with which to pay for what she had taken. She one of the that Ally had for her, with a through its edging. It was one of the on which she had her savings, and as she looked at it the blood to her forehead. She the on the table, and across the the and out....
The was cold and a sun was just above the of the Mountain. The houses on the cold and under the sun-flecked clouds, and not a being was in sight. Charity paused on the and to the road by which she had come the night before. Across the Mrs. Hyatt's she saw the tumble-down house in which she the service had taken place. The ran across the ground the two houses and in the pine-wood on the of the Mountain; and a little way to the right, under a wind-beaten thorn, a of fresh earth a dark spot on the fawn-coloured stubble. Charity walked across the to the ground. As she approached it she a bird's note in the still air, and looking up she saw a song-sparrow in an upper branch of the above the grave. She a minute to his small song; then she the and to the hill to the pine-wood.
Thus she had been by the of flight; but each step to her nearer to the of which her had only a image. Now that she walked again in a world, on the way to familiar things, her moved more soberly. On one point she was still decided: she not at North Dormer, and the sooner she got away from it the better. But was darkness.
As she to climb the air keener, and when she passed from the of the to the open of the Mountain the cold wind of the night out on her. She her and on against it for a while; but presently her failed, and she sat under a of by birches. From where she sat she saw the across the in the direction of Hamblin, and the of the Mountain away to distances. On that of the the still in shadow; but in the plain the sun was village and steeples, and the of over far-off towns.
Charity herself a in the circle of the sky. The events of the last two days to have her from her of bliss. Even Harney's image had been by that experience: she of him as so from her that he more than a memory. In her and mind only one had the weight of reality; it was the of her child. But for it she would have as as the of the wind past her. Her child was like a that her down, and yet like a hand that her to her feet. She said to herself that she must up and on....
Her to the across the top of the Mountain, and in the she saw a against the sky. She its outline, and the of the old pressing with head; and after a moment she the of the man who the reins. The was the and making for the pine-wood through which she had climbed; and she at once that the driver was in search of her. Her was to under the till he had passed; but the of was by the of that someone was near her in the emptiness. She up and walked toward the buggy.
Mr. Royall saw her, and touched the with the whip. A minute or two later he was of Charity; their met, and without speaking he over and helped her up into the buggy.
She to speak, to out some explanation, but no came to her; and as he the over her he said: “The minister told me he'd left you up here, so I come up for you.”
He the horse's head, and they to toward Hamblin. Charity sat speechless, ahead of her, and Mr. Royall occasionally a word of to the horse: “Get along there, Dan.... I gave him a at Hamblin; but I him along quick, and it's a up here against the wind.”
As he spoke it to her for the time that to the top of the Mountain so early he must have left North Dormer at the hour of the night, and have but for the at Hamblin; and she a at her which no act of his had produced since he had her the Crimson Rambler she had up boarding-school to with him.
After an he again: “It was a day just like this, only snow, when I come up here for you the time.” Then, as if that she might take his as a of past benefits, he added quickly: “I dunno's you think it was such a good job, either.”
“Yes, I do,” she murmured, looking ahead of her.
“Well,” he said, “I tried——”
He did not the sentence, and she think of nothing more to say.
“Ho, there, Dan, step out,” he muttered, the bridle. “We ain't home yet.—You cold?” he asked abruptly.
She her head, but he the higher up, and to it in about the ankles. She to look ahead. Tears of and were her and to over, but she not them away he should the gesture.
They in silence, the long of the upon Hamblin, and Mr. Royall did not speak again till they the of the village. Then he let the on the and out his watch.
“Charity,” he said, “you look done up, and North Dormer's a way off. I've out that we'd do to stop here long for you to a of and then drive to Creston and take the train.”
She herself from her musing. “The train—what train?”
Mr. Royall, without answering, let the on till they the door of the house in the village. “This is old Mrs. Hobart's place,” he said. “She'll give us something to drink.”
Charity, unconsciously, herself out of the and him in at the open door. They entered a with a fire in the stove. An old woman with a was setting out cups and on the table. She looked up and as they came in, and Mr. Royall to the stove, his hands together.
“Well, Mrs. Hobart, you got any for this lady? You can see she's cold and hungry.”
Mrs. Hobart on Charity and took a coffee-pot from the fire. “My, you do look mean,” she said compassionately.
Charity reddened, and sat at the table. A of complete had once more come over her, and she was only of the animal of and rest.
Mrs. Hobart put and milk on the table, and then out of the house: Charity saw her leading the away to the across the yard. She did not come back, and Mr. Royall and Charity sat alone at the table with the coffee them. He out a cup for her, and put a piece of in the saucer, and she to eat.
As the of the coffee through her her and she to like a being again; but the return to life was so painful that the food in her and she sat at the table in anguish.
After a while Mr. Royall pushed his chair. “Now, then,” he said, “if you're a mind to go along——” She did not move, and he continued: “We can up the train for Nettleton if you say so.”
The sent the blood to her face, and she her to his. He was on the other of the table looking at her and gravely; and she what he was going to say. She to motionless, a weight upon her lips.
“You and me have spoke some hard to each other in our time, Charity; and there's no good that I can see in any more talking now. But I'll any way but one about you; and if you say so we'll drive in time to catch that train, and go to the minister's house; and when you come home you'll come as Mrs. Royall.”
His voice had the that had moved his at the Home Week festival; she had a of of under that easy tone. Her whole to with the of her own weakness.
“Oh, I can't——” she out desperately.
“Can't what?”
She herself did not know: she was not sure if she was what he offered, or already against the of taking what she no longer had a right to. She up, and bewildered, and to speak:
“I know I ain't been to you always; but I want to be now.... I want you to know... I want...” Her voice failed her and she stopped.
Mr. Royall against the wall. He was than usual, but his was and and her did not appear to him.
“What's all this about wanting?” he said as she paused. “Do you know what you want? I'll tell you. You want to be took home and took of. And I that's all there is to say.”
“No... it's not all....”
“Ain't it?” He looked at his watch. “Well, I'll tell you another thing. All I want is to know if you'll me. If there was anything else, I'd tell you so; but there ain't. Come to my age, a man the that and the that don't; that's about the only good turn life us.”
His was so and that it was like a supporting arm about her. She her melting, her away from her as he spoke.
“Don't cry, Charity,” he in a voice. She looked up, at his emotion, and their met.
“See here,” he said gently, “old Dan's come a long distance, and we've got to let him take it easy the of the way....”
He up the that had to her chair and it about her shoulders. She him out of the house, and then walked across the to the shed, where the was tied. Mr. Royall him and him out into the road. Charity got into the and he the about her and out the with a cluck. When they the end of the village he the horse's toward Creston.
