I went up to Rufus and took hold of his arm.
‘Rufus Bennett,’ said I, ‘you let go my father!’
But Rufus’s eyes glared like a madman’s, and he would not let go. Then I went to the desk-drawer where father had kept a pistol since some houses in the village were broken into; I got out the pistol, laid hold of Rufus again, and held the muzzle against his forehead.
‘You let go of my father,’ said I, ‘or I’ll fire!’
Then Rufus let go, and father dropped like a log. He was purple in the face. Rufus’s wife and I worked a long time over him to bring him to.
‘Rufus Bennett,’ said I, ‘go to the well and get a pitcher of water.’ He went, but when father had revived and got up, Rufus gave him a look that showed he was not over his rage.
‘I’ll get even with you yet, Martin Fairbanks, old man as you are!’ he shouted out, and went into the outer room.
We got father to bed soon. He slept in the bedroom downstairs, out of the sitting-room. Rufus and his wife had the north chamber, and I had the south one. I left my door open that night, and did not sleep. I listened; no one stirred in the night. Rufus and his wife were up very early in the morning, and before nine o’clock left for Vermont. They had a day’s journey, and would reach home about nine in the evening. Rufus’s wife bade father goodbye, crying, while Rufus was getting their trunk downstairs, but Rufus did not go near father nor me. He ate no breakfast; his very back looked ugly when he went out of the yard.
That very day about seven in the evening, after tea, I had just washed the dishes and put them away, and went out on the north doorstep, where father was sitting, and sat down on the lowest step. There was a cool breeze there; it had been a very hot day.
‘I want to know if that Ellis fellow has been to see you any lately?’ said father all at once.
‘Not a great deal,’ I answered.
‘Did he come to see you the last night you were there?’ said father.
‘Yes, sir,’ said I, ‘he did come.’
‘If you ever have another word to say to that fellow while I live, I’ll kick you out of the house like a dog, daughter of mine though you be,’ said he. Then he swore a great oath and called God to witness. ‘Speak to that fellow again, if you dare, while I live!’ said he.
I did not say a word; I just looked up at him as I sat there. Father turned pale and shrank back, and put his hand to his throat, where Rufus had clutched him. There were some purple fingermarks there.
‘I suppose you would have been glad if he had killed me,’ father cried out.
‘I saved your life,’ said I.
‘What did you do with that pistol?’ he asked.
‘I put it back in the desk-drawer.’
I got up and went around and sat on the west doorstep, which is the front one. As I sat there, the bell rang for the Tuesday evening meeting, and Phoebe Dole and Maria Woods, two old maiden ladies, dressmakers, our next-door neighbours, went past on their way to meeting. Phoebe stopped and asked if Rufus and his wife were gone. Maria went around the house. Very soon they went on, and several other people passed. When they had all gone, it was as still as death.
I sat alone a long time, until I could see by the shadows that the full moon had risen. Then I went to my room and went to bed.
I lay awake a long time, crying. It seemed to me that all hope of marriage between Henry and me was over. I could not expect him to wait for me. I thought of that other girl; I could see her pretty face wherever I looked. But at last I cried myself to sleep.
At about five o’clock I awoke and got up. Father always wanted his breakfast at six o’clock, and I had to prepare it now.
When father and I were alone, he always built the fire in the kitchen stove, but that morning I did not hear him stirring as usual, and I fancied that he must be so out of temper with me, that he would not build the fire.
I went to my closet for a dark blue calico dress which I wore to do housework in. It had hung there during all the school term.
As I took it off the hook, my attention was caught by something strange about the dress I had worn the night before. This dress was made of thin summer silk; it was green in colour, sprinkled over with white rings. It had been my best dress for two summers, but now I was wearing it on hot afternoons at home, for it was the coolest dress I had. The night before, too, I had thought of the possibility of Henry’s driving over from Digby and passing the house. He had done this sometimes during the last summer vacation, and I wished to look my best if he did.
As I took down the calico dress I saw what seemed to be a stain on the green silk. I threw on the calico hastily, and then took the green silk and carried it over to the window. It was covered with spots – horrible great splashes and streaks down the front. The right sleeve, too, was stained, and all the stains were wet.
‘What have I got on my dress?’ said I.
It looked like blood. Then
