Indeed, in all things he was in her eyes a gentleman in the fine old-fashioned aristocracy of the term; her own heart voiced all he did not say, and pleaded for him to her own confusion.
And yet, in her heart, lay the awful doubt—and the words kept ringing in her ears! “You will marry this man—but heaven help you if you do!”
So it was that on this day when she somehow felt he would speak, his footsteps on the stairs filled her with sudden panic. Without a word she slipped behind the pillars and ran down among the oaks and sauntered out upon the big road. He caught the white flutter of her dress, and smiled indulgently as he watched and waited and lightly puffed his cigarette.
The morning was splendid with that first delicious languor of the spring which breathes over the Southland in February. Mary Taylor filled her lungs, lifted her arms aloft, and turning, stepped into the deep shadow of the swamp.
Abruptly the air, the day, the scene about her subtly changed. She felt a closeness and a tremor, a certain brooding terror in the languid sombre winds. The gold of the sunlight faded to a sickly green, and the earth was black and burned. A moment she paused and looked back; she caught the man’s silhouette against the tall white pillars of the mansion and she fled deeper into the forest with the hush of death about her, and the silence which is one great Voice. Slowly, and mysteriously it loomed before her—that squat and darksome cabin which seemed to fitly set in the centre of the wilderness, beside its crawling slime.
She paused in sudden certainty that there lay the answer to her doubts and mistrust. She felt impelled to go forward and ask—what? She did not know, but something to still this war in her bosom. She had seldom seen Elspeth; she had never been in her cabin. She had felt an inconquerable aversion for the evil hag; she felt it now, and shivered in the warm breeze.
As she came in full view of the door, she paused. On the step of the cabin, framed in the black doorway, stood Zora. Measured by the squat cabin she seemed in height colossal; slim, straight as a pine, motionless, with one long outstretched arm pointing to where the path swept onward toward the town.
It was too far for words but the scene lay strangely clear and sharp-cut in the green mystery of the sunlight. Before that motionless, fateful figure crouched a slighter, smaller woman, dishevelled, clutching her breast; she bent and rose—hesitated—seemed to plead; then turning, clasped in passionate embrace the child whose head was hid in Zora’s gown. Next instant she was staggering along the path whither Zora pointed.
Slowly the sun was darkened, and plaintive murmurings pulsed through the wood. The oppression and fear of the swamp redoubled in Mary Taylor.
Zora gave no sign of having seen her. She stood tall and still, and the little golden-haired girl still sobbed in her gown. Mary Taylor looked up into Zora’s face, then paused in awe. It was a face she did not know; it was neither the beautifully mischievous face of the girl, nor the pain-stricken face of the woman. It was a face cold and mask-like, regular and comely; clothed in a mighty calm, yet subtly, masterfully veiling behind itself depths of unfathomed misery and wild revolt. All this lay in its darkness.
“Good morning, Miss Taylor.”
Mary, who was wont to teach this woman—so lately a child—searched in vain for words to address her now. She stood bare-haired and hesitating in the pale green light of the darkened morning. It seemed fit that a deep groan of pain should gather itself from the mysterious depths of the swamp, and drop like a pall on the black portal of the cabin. But it brought Mary Taylor back to a sense of things, and under a sudden impulse she spoke.
“Is—is anything the matter?” she asked nervously.
“Elspeth is sick,” replied Zora.
“Is she very sick?”
“Yes—she has been called,” solemnly returned the dark young woman.
Mary was puzzled. “Called?” she repeated vaguely.
“We heard the great cry in the night, and Elspeth says it is the End.”
It did not occur to Mary Taylor to question this mysticism; she all at once understood—perhaps read the riddle in the dark, melancholy eyes that so steadily regarded her.
“Then you can leave the place, Zora?” she exclaimed gladly.
“Yes, I could leave.”
“And you will.”
“I don’t know.”
“But the place looks—evil.”
“It is evil.”
“And yet you will stay?”
Zora’s eyes were now fixed far above the woman’s head, and she saw a human face forming itself in the vast rafters of the forest. Its eyes were wet with pain and anger.
“Perhaps,” she answered.
The child furtively uncovered her face and looked at the stranger. She was blue-eyed and golden-haired.
“Whose child is this?” queried Mary, curiously.
Zora looked coldly down upon the child.
“It is Bertie’s. Her mother is bad. She is gone. I sent her. She and the others like her.”
“But where have you sent them?”
“To Hell!”
Mary Taylor started under the shock. Impulsively she moved forward with hands that wanted to stretch themselves in appeal.
“Zora! Zora! You mustn’t go, too!”
But the black girl drew proudly back.
“I am there,” she returned, with unmistakable simplicity of absolute conviction.
The white woman shrank back. Her heart was wrung; she wanted to say more—to explain, to ask to help; there came welling to her lips a flood of things that she would know. But Zora’s face again was masked.
“I must go,” she said, before Mary could speak. “Goodbye.” And the dark groaning depths of the cabin
