Lucy Maud Montgomery Short Stories, 1902 to 1903 Part 13

Min stood in the doorway and watched the sleigh out of sight down the river road. Then she gave a long, shivering sigh that was almost a moan.

"If I had met that man long ago," she said slowly, as if groping vaguely in some hitherto unsounded depth of consciousness, "I would never have become what I am. I felt that as I looked at him--it all came over me with an awful sickening feeling--just as if we were standing alone somewhere out of the world where there was no need of words to say things. He doesn't despise me--he wouldn't sneer at me, bad as I am, like those creatures up there. He could have helped me if we had met in time, but it's too late now."

She locked her hands over her eyes and groaned, swaying her body to and fro as one in mortal agony. Presently she looked out again with hard, dry eyes.

"What a fool I am!" she said bitterly. "How the Corner saints would stare if they saw me! I suppose some of them do--" with a glance at the windows of a neighbouring house. "Yes, there's Mrs. Rawlings staring out and Rose peeking over her shoulder."

Her face hardened. The old sway of evil pa.s.sion rea.s.serted itself.

"She shall never come back here--never. Oh, she was a sweet-spoken cat of a thing--but she had claws. I've been blamed for all the trouble.

But if ever I had a chance, I'd tell that minister how she used to twit and taunt me in that sugary way of hers--how she schemed and plotted against me as long as she could. More fool I to care what he thinks either! I wish I were dead. If 'twasn't for the child, I'd go and drown myself at that black spring-hole down there--I'd be well out of the way."

It was a dull grey afternoon a week afterwards when Allan Telford again walked up the river road to the Palmer place. The wind was bitter and he walked with bent head to avoid its fury. His face was pale and worn and he looked years older.

He paused at the rough gate and leaned over it while he scanned the house and its surroundings eagerly. As he looked, the kitchen door opened and Min, clad in the old overcoat, came out and walked swiftly across the yard.

Telford's eyes followed her with pitiful absorption. He saw her lead a horse from the stable and harness it into a wood-sleigh loaded with bags of grain. Once she paused to fling her arms about the animal's neck, laying her face against it with a caressing motion.

The pale minister groaned aloud. He longed to s.n.a.t.c.h her forever from that hard, unwomanly toil and fold her safely away from jeers and scorn in the shelter of his love. He knew it was madness--he had told himself so every hour in which Min's dark, rebellious face had haunted him--yet none the less was he under its control.

Min led the horse across the yard and left it standing before the kitchen door; she had not seen the bowed figure at the gate. When she reappeared, he saw her dark eyes and the rose-red l.u.s.tre of her face gleam out from under the old crimson shawl wrapped about her head.

As she caught the horse by the bridle, the kitchen door swung heavily to with a sharp, sudden bang. The horse, a great, powerful, nervous brute, started wildly and then reared in terror.

The ice underfoot was glib and treacherous. Min lost her foothold and fell directly under the horse's hoofs as they came heavily down. The animal, freed from her detaining hand, sprang forward, dragging the laden sleigh over the prostrate woman.

It had all pa.s.sed in a moment. The moveless figure lay where it had fallen, one outstretched hand still grasping the whip. Telford sprang over the gate and rushed up the slope like a madman. He flung himself on his knees beside her.

"Min! Min!" he called wildly.

There was no answer. He lifted her in his arms and staggered into the house with his burden, his heart stilling with a horrible fear as he laid her gently down on the old lounge in one corner of the kitchen.

The room was a large one and everything was neat and clean. The fire burned brightly, and a few green plants were in blossom by the south window. Beside them sat a child of about seven years who turned a startled face at Telford's reckless entrance.

The boy had Min's dark eyes and perfectly chiselled features, refined by suffering into cameo-like delicacy, and the silken hair fell in soft, waving ma.s.ses about the spiritual little face. By his side nestled a tiny dog, with satin ears and paws fringed as with ravelled silk.

Telford paid heed to nothing, not even the frightened child. He was as one distraught.

"Min," he wailed again, striving tremblingly to feel her pulse while cold drops came out on his forehead.

Min's face was as pallid as marble, save for one heavy bruise across the cheek and a cruel cut at the edge of the dark hair, from which the blood trickled down on the pillow.

She opened her eyes wonderingly at his call, looking up with a dazed, appealing expression of pain and dread. A low moan broke from her white lips. Telford sprang to his feet in a tumult of quivering joy.

"Min, dear," he said gently, "you have been hurt--not seriously, I hope. I must leave you for a minute while I run for help--I will not be long."

"Come back," said Min in a low but distinct tone.

He paused impatiently.

"It is of no use to get help," Min went on calmly. "I'm dying--I know it. Oh, my G.o.d!"

She pressed her hand to her side and writhed. Telford turned desperately to the door. Min raised her arm.

"Come here," she said resolutely.

He obeyed mutely. She looked up at him with bright, unquailing eyes.

"Don't you go one step--don't leave me here to die alone. I'm past help--and I've something to say to you. I must say it and I haven't much time."

Telford hardly heeded her in his misery.

"Min, let me go for help--let me do something," he implored. "You must not die--you must not!"

Min had fallen back, gasping, on the blood-stained pillow.

He knelt beside her and put his arm about the poor, crushed body.

"I must hurry," she said faintly. "I can't die with it on my mind.

Rose--it's all hers--all. There was a will--he made it--old Gran'ther Palmer. He always hated me. I found it before he died--and read it. He left everything to her--not a cent to me nor his son's child--we were to starve--beg. I was like a madwoman. When he died--I hid the will. I meant--to burn it--but I never could. It's tortured me--night and day--I've had no peace. You'll find it in a box--in my room. Tell her--tell Rose--how wicked I've been. And my boy--what will become of him? Rose hates him--she'll turn him out--or ill-treat him--"

Telford lifted his white, drawn face.

"I will take your child, Min. He shall be to me as my own son."

An expression of unspeakable relief came into the dying woman's face.

"It is good--of you. I can die--in peace--now. I'm glad to die--to get clear of it all. I'm tired--of living so. Perhaps--I'll have a chance--somewhere else. I've never--had any--here."

The dark eyes drooped--closed. Telford moaned shudderingly.

Once again Min opened her eyes and looked straight into his.

"If I had met you--long ago--you would have--loved me--and I would have been--a good woman. It is well for us--for you--that I am--dying.

Your path will be clear--you will be good and successful--but you will always--remember me."

Telford bent and pressed his lips to Min's pain-blanched mouth.

"Do you think--we will--ever meet again?" she said faintly. "Out there--it's so dark--G.o.d can never--forgive me--I've been so--wicked."

"Min, the all-loving Father is more merciful than man. He will forgive you, if you ask Him, and you will wait for me till I come. I will stay here and do my duty--I will try hard--"

His voice broke. Min's great black eyes beamed out on him with pa.s.sionate tenderness. The strong, deep, erring nature yielded at last. An exceeding bitter cry rose to her lips.

"Oh, G.o.d--forgive me--forgive me!"