A Modern Instance. William Dean Howells

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СКАЧАТЬ and said to Bartley, “Go on.”

      “It was that drunken old scoundrel of a Morrison who began it!” cried Bartley, in angry desperation. Marcia dropped her hand from his shoulder, while her father worked his jaws upon the bit of stick he had picked up from the pile of wood, and put between his teeth. “You know that whenever he gets on a spree he comes to the office and wants Hannah's wages raised.”

      Marcia sprang to her feet. “Oh, I knew it! I knew it! I told you she would get you into trouble! I told you so!” She stood clinching her hands, and her father bent his keen scrutiny first upon her, and then upon the frowning face with which Bartley regarded her.

      “Did he come to have her wages raised to-day?”

      “No.”

      “What did he come for?” He involuntarily assumed the attitude of a lawyer crossquestioning a slippery witness.

      “He came for—He came—He accused me of—He said I had—made love to his confounded girl.”

      Marcia gasped.

      “What made him think you had?”

      “It wasn't necessary for him to have any reason. He was drunk. I had been kind to the girl, and favored her all I could, because she seemed to be anxious to do her work well; and I praised her for trying.”

      “Um-umph,” commented the Squire. “And that made Henry Bird jealous?”

      “It seems that he was fond of her. I never dreamed of such a thing, and when I put old Morrison out of the office, and came back, he called me a liar, and struck me in the face.” He did not lift his eyes to the level of Marcia's, who in her gray dress stood there like a gray shadow, and did not stir or speak.

      “And you never had made up to the girl at all?”

      “No.”

      “Kissed her, I suppose, now and then?” suggested the Squire.

      Bartley did not reply.

      “Flattered her up, and told how much you thought of her, occasionally?”

      “I don't see what that has to do with it,” said Bartley with a sulky defiance.

      “No, I suppose it's what you'd do with most any pretty girl,” returned the Squire. He was silent awhile. “And so you knocked Henry down. What happened then?”

      “I tried to bring him to, and then I went for the doctor. He revived, and we got him home to his mother's. The doctor says he will get well; but he advised me to come and see you.”

      “Any witnesses of the assault?”

      “No; we were alone in my own room.”

      “Told any one else about it?”

      “I told the doctor and Mrs. Bird. Henry couldn't remember it at all.”

      “Couldn't remember about Morrison, or what made him mad at you?”

      “Nothing.”

      “And that's all about it?”

      “Yes.”

      The two men had talked across the stove at each other, practically ignoring the girl, who stood apart from them, gray in the face as her dress, and suppressing a passion which had turned her as rigid as stone.

      “Now, Marcia,” said her father, kindly, “better go into the house. That's all there is of it.”

      “No, that isn't all,” she answered. “Give me my ring, Bartley. Here's yours.” She slipped it off her finger, and put it into his mechanically extended hand.

      “Marcia!” he implored, confronting her.

      “Give me my ring, please.”

      He obeyed, and put it into her hand. She slipped it back on the finger from which she had so fondly suffered him to take it yesterday, and replace it with his own.

      “I'll go into the house now, father. Good by, Bartley.” Her eyes were perfectly clear and dry, and her voice controlled; and as he stood passive before her, she took him round the neck, and pressed against his face, once, and twice, and thrice, her own gray face, in which all love, and unrelenting, and despair, were painted. Once and again she held him, and looked him in the eyes, as if to be sure it was he. Then, with a last pressure of her face to his, she released him, and passed out of the door.

      “She's been talking about you, here, all the morning,” said the Squire, with a sort of quiet absence, as if nothing in particular had happened, and he were commenting on a little fact that might possibly interest Bartley. He ruminated upon the fragment of wood in his mouth awhile before he added: “I guess she won't want to talk about you any more. I drew you out a little on that Hannah Morrison business, because I wanted her to understand just what kind of fellow you were. You see it isn't the trouble you've got into with Henry Bird that's killed her; it's the cause of the trouble. I guess if it had been anything else, she'd have stood by you. But you see that's the one thing she couldn't bear, and I'm glad it's happened now instead of afterwards: I guess you're one of that kind, Mr. Hubbard.”

      “Squire Gaylord!” cried Bartley, “upon my sacred word of honor, there isn't any more of this thing than I've told you. And I think it's pretty hard to be thrown over for—for—”

      “Fooling with a pretty girl, when you get a chance, and the girl seems to like it? Yes, it is rather hard. And I suppose you haven't even seen her since you were engaged to Marcia?”

      “Of course not! That is—”

      “It's a kind of retroactive legislation on Marcia's part,” said the Squire, rubbing his chin, “and that's against one of the first principles of law. But women don't seem to be able to grasp that idea. They're queer about some things. They appear to think they marry a man's whole life,—his past as well as his future,—and that makes 'em particular. And they distinguish between different kinds of men. You'll find 'em pinning their faith to a fellow who's been through pretty much everything, and swearing by him from the word go; and another chap, who's never done anything very bad, they won't trust half a minute out of their sight. Well, I guess Marcia is of rather a jealous disposition,” he concluded, as if Bartley had urged this point.

      “She's very unjust to me,” Bartley began.

      “Oh, yes,—she's unjust,” said her father. “I don't deny that. But it wouldn't be any use talking to her. She'd probably turn round with some excuse about what she had suffered, and that would be the end of it. She would say that she couldn't go through it again. Well, it ought to be a comfort to you to think you don't care a great deal about it.”

      “But I do care!” exclaimed Bartley. “I care all the world for it. I—”

      “Since when?” interrupted the Squire. “Do you mean to say that you didn't know till you asked her yesterday that Marcia was in love with you?”

      Bartley was silent.

      “I guess СКАЧАТЬ