Charity felt herself a mere speck in the lonely circle of the sky. The events of the last two days seemed to have divided her forever from her short dream of bliss. Even Harney’s image had been blurred by that crushing experience: she thought of him as so remote from her that he seemed hardly more than a memory. In her fagged and floating mind only one sensation had the weight of reality; it was the bodily burden of her child. But for it she would have felt as rootless as the whiffs of thistledown the wind blew past her. Her child was like a load that held her down, and yet like a hand that pulled her to her feet. She said to herself that she must get up and struggle on. …
Her eyes turned back to the trail across the top of the Mountain, and in the distance she saw a buggy against the sky. She knew its antique outline, and the gaunt build of the old horse pressing forward with lowered head; and after a moment she recognized the heavy bulk of the man who held the reins. The buggy was following the trail and making straight for the pine-wood through which she had climbed; and she knew at once that the driver was in search of her. Her first impulse was to crouch down under the ledge till he had passed; but the instinct of concealment was overruled by the relief of feeling that someone was near her in the awful emptiness. She stood up and walked toward the buggy.
Mr. Royall saw her, and touched the horse with the whip. A minute or two later he was abreast of Charity; their eyes met, and without speaking he leaned over and helped her up into the buggy.
She tried to speak, to stammer out some explanation, but no words came to her; and as he drew the cover over her knees he simply said: “The minister told me he’d left you up here, so I come up for you.”
He turned the horse’s head, and they began to jog back toward Hamblin. Charity sat speechless, staring straight ahead of her, and Mr. Royall occasionally uttered a word of encouragement to the horse: “Get along there, Dan. … I gave him a rest at Hamblin; but I brought him along pretty quick, and it’s a stiff pull up here against the wind.”
As he spoke it occurred to her for the first time that to reach the top of the Mountain so early he must have left North Dormer at the coldest hour of the night, and have travelled steadily but for the halt at Hamblin; and she felt a softness at her heart which no act of his had ever produced since he had brought her the Crimson Rambler because she had given up boarding-school to stay with him.
After an interval he began again: “It was a day just like this, only spitting snow, when I come up here for you the first time.” Then, as if fearing that she might take his remark as a reminder of past benefits, he added quickly: “I dunno’s you think it was such a good job, either.”
“Yes, I do,” she murmured, looking straight ahead of her.
“Well,” he said, “I tried—”
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 coffeepot 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
