He did not finish the sentence, and she could think of nothing more to say.
“Ho, there, Dan, step out,” he muttered, jerking the bridle. “We ain’t home yet.—You cold?” he asked abruptly.
She shook her head, but he drew the cover higher up, and stooped to tuck it in about the ankles. She continued to look straight ahead. Tears of weariness and weakness were dimming her eyes and beginning to run over, but she dared not wipe them away lest he should observe the gesture.
They drove in silence, following the long loops of the descent upon Hamblin, and Mr. Royall did not speak again till they reached the outskirts of the village. Then he let the reins droop on the dashboard and drew out his watch.
“Charity,” he said, “you look fair done up, and North Dormer’s a goodish way off. I’ve figured out that we’d do better to stop here long enough for you to get a mouthful of breakfast and then drive down to Creston and take the train.”
She roused herself from her apathetic musing. “The train—what train?”
Mr. Royall, without answering, let the horse jog on till they reached the door of the first house in the village. “This is old Mrs. Hobart’s place,” he said. “She’ll give us something hot to drink.”
Charity, half unconsciously, found herself getting out of the buggy and following him in at the open door. They entered a decent kitchen with a fire crackling in the stove. An old woman with a kindly face was setting out cups and saucers on the table. She looked up and nodded as they came in, and Mr. Royall advanced to the stove, clapping his numb hands together.
“Well, Mrs. Hobart, you got any breakfast for this young lady? You can see she’s cold and hungry.”
Mrs. Hobart smiled on Charity and took a tin coffee-pot from the fire. “My, you do look pretty mean,” she said compassionately.
Charity reddened, and sat down at the table. A feeling of complete passiveness had once more come over her, and she was conscious only of the pleasant animal sensations of warmth and rest.
Mrs. Hobart put bread and milk on the table, and then went out of the house: Charity saw her leading the horse away to the barn across the yard. She did not come back, and Mr. Royall and Charity sat alone at the table with the smoking coffee between them. He poured out a cup for her, and put a piece of bread in the saucer, and she began to eat.
As the warmth of the coffee flowed through her veins her thoughts cleared and she began to feel like a living being again; but the return to life was so painful that the food choked in her throat and she sat staring down at the table in silent anguish.
After a while Mr. Royall pushed back his chair. “Now, then,” he said, “if you’re a mind to go along–-” She did not move, and he continued: “We can pick up the noon train for Nettleton if you say so.”
The words sent the blood rushing to her face, and she raised her startled eyes to his. He was standing on the other side of the table looking at her kindly and gravely; and suddenly she understood what he was going to say. She continued to sit motionless, a leaden weight upon her lips.
“You and me have spoke some hard things to each other in our time, Charity; and there’s no good that I can see in any more talking now. But I’ll never feel any way but one about you; and if you say so we’ll drive down in time to catch that train, and go straight to the minister’s house; and when you come back home you’ll come as Mrs. Royall.”
His voice had the grave persuasive accent that had moved his hearers at the Home Week festival; she had a sense of depths of mournful tolerance under that easy tone. Her whole body began to tremble with the dread of her own weakness.
“Oh, I can’t–-” she burst out desperately.
“Can’t what?”
She herself did not know: she was not sure if she was rejecting what he offered, or already struggling against the temptation of taking what she no longer had a right to. She stood up, shaking and bewildered, and began to speak:
“I know I ain’t been fair 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 leaned against the wall. He was paler than usual, but his face was composed and kindly and her agitation did not appear to perturb him.
“What’s all this about wanting?” he said as she paused. “Do you know what you really want? I’ll tell you. You want to be took home and took care of. And I guess 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 marry me. If there was anything else, I’d tell you so; but there ain’t. Come to my age, a man knows the things that matter and the things that don’t; that’s about the only good turn life does us.”
His tone was so strong and resolute that it was like a supporting arm about her. She felt her resistance melting, her strength slipping away from her as he spoke.
“Don’t cry, Charity,” he exclaimed in a shaken voice. She looked up, startled at his emotion, and their eyes met.
“See here,” he said gently, “old Dan’s come a long distance, and we’ve got to let him take it easy the rest of the way….”
He picked up the cloak that had slipped to her chair and laid it about her shoulders. She followed him out of the house, and then walked across the yard to the shed, where the horse was tied. Mr. Royall unblanketed him and led him out into the road. Charity got into the buggy and he drew the cover about her and shook out the reins with a cluck. When they reached the end of the village he turned the horse’s head toward Creston.
XVIII
