"By chance--by chance," she repeated, "but if there be great fixed laws, how can there be any--chance?"

The thought was hopeless. She turned in her despair and hid her face.

And then out of the darkness came the strong fine face of Clay Westmore--and his words: "We must all work--it is life's badge of n.o.bility."

How clearly and calmly they came to her. And then her heart fluttered. Suppose Clay loved her--suppose this was her solution? He had never pressed his love on her. Did he think a woman could be loved that way--scientifically--as coal and iron are discovered?

She finally slept, her arms around her little sister. But the last recollection she had was Clay's fine face smiling at her through the darkness and saying: "We must all work--it is life's badge of n.o.bility."

It was Monday morning, and she would take Lily with her to the mill; for the child's work at the spinning frames was to begin that day.

There was no alternative. Again the great unknown law rushed her along. Her father had signed them both, and in a few days their home would be sold.

They were late at the mill, but the little one, as she trudged along by the side of her sister, was happier than she had been since her old nurse had left. It was great fun for her, this going to the mill with her big sister.

The mill had been throbbing and humming long before they reached it.

Helen turned Lily over to the floor manager, after kissing her good-bye, and bade her do as she was told. Twice again she kissed her, and then with a sob hurried away to her own room.

Travis was awaiting her in the hall. She turned pale and then crimson when she saw him. And yet, when she ventured to look at him as she was pa.s.sing, she was stopped with the change which lay on his face.

It was a sad smile he gave her, sad but determined. And in the courtly bow was such a look of tenderness that with fluttering heart and a strange new feeling of upliftedness--a confidence in him for the first time, she stopped and gave him her hand with a grateful smile. It was a simple act and so pretty that the sadness went from Travis' face as he said:

"I was not going to stop you--this is kind of you. Sat.u.r.day, I thought you feared me."

"Yes," she smiled, "but not now--not when you look like that."

"Have I changed so much since then?" and he looked at her curiously.

"There is something in your face I never saw before. It made me stop."

"I am glad it was there, then," he said simply, "for I wished you to stop, though I did not want to say so."

"Sat.u.r.day you would have said so," she replied with simple frankness.

He came closer to her with equal frankness, and yet with a tenderness which thrilled her he said:

"Perhaps I was not so sure Sat.u.r.day of many things that I am positive of to-day."

"Of what?" she asked flushing.

He smiled again, but it was not the old smile which had set her to trembling with a flurry of doubt and shame. It was the smile of respect. Then it left him, and in its stead flashed instantly the old conquering light when he said:

"To-night, you know, you will be mine!"

The change of it all, the shock of it, numbed her. She tried to smile, but it was the lifeless curl of her lips instead--and the look she gave him--of resignation, of acquiescence, of despair--he had seen it once before, in the beautiful eyes of the first young doe that fell to his rifle. She was not dead when he bounded to the spot where she lay--and she gave him that look.

Edward Conway watched his two daughters go out of the gate on their way to the mill, sitting with his feet propped up, and drunker than he had been for weeks. But indistinct as things were, the poignancy of it went through him, and he groaned. In a dazed sort of way he knew it was the last of all his dreams of respectability, that from now on there was nothing for him and his but degradation and a lower place in life. To do him justice, he did not care so much for himself; already he felt that he himself was doomed, that he could never expect to shake off the terrible habit which had grown to be part of his life,--unless, he thought, unless, as the Bishop had said--by the blow of G.o.d. He paled to think what that might mean. G.o.d had so many ways of striking blows unknown to man. But for his daughters--he loved them, drunkard though he was. He was proud of their breeding, their beauty, their name. If he could only go and give them a chance--if the blow would only fall and take him!

The sun was warm. He grew sleepy. He remembered afterwards that he fell out of his chair and that he could not arise.... It was a nice place to sleep anyway.... A staggering hound, with scurviness and sores, came up the steps, then on the porch, and licked his face....

When he awoke some one was bathing his face with cold water from the spring. He was perfectly sober and he knew it was nearly noon. Then he heard the person say: "I guess you are all right now, Ma.r.s.e Ned, an' I'm thinkin' it's the last drink you'll ever take outen that jug."

His astonishment in recognizing that the voice was the voice of Mammy Maria did not keep him from looking up regretfully at sight of the precious broken jug and the strong odor of whiskey pervading the air.

How delightful the odor was!

He sat up amazed, blinking stupidly.

"Aunt Maria--in heaven's name--where?"

"Never mind, Ma.r.s.e Ned--jes' you git into the buggy now an' I'll take you home. You see, I've moved everything this mohnin' whilst you slept. The last load is gone to our new home."

"What?" he exclaimed--"where?" He looked around--the home was empty.

"I thort it time to wake you up," she went on, "an' besides I wanter talk to you about my babies.

"You'll onderstan' all that when you see the home I've bought for us"--she said simply. "We're gwine to it now. Git in the buggy"--and she helped him to arise.

Then Edward Conway guessed, and he was silent, and without a word the old woman drove him out of the dilapidated gate of Millwood toward the town.

"Mammy," he began as if he were a boy again--"Mammy," and then he burst into tears.

"Don't cry, chile," said the old woman--"it's all behind us now. I saved the money years ago, when we all wus flush--an' you gave me so much when you had an' wus so kind to me, Ma.r.s.e Ned. I saved it. We're gwine to reform now an' quit drinkin'. We'se gwine to remove to another spot in the garden of the Lord, but the Lord is gwine with us an' He is the tower of strength--the tower of strength to them that trust Him--Amen. But I must have my babies--that's part of the barg'in. No mill for them--oh, Ma.r.s.e Ned, to think that whilst I was off, fixin' our home so nice to s'prize you all--wuckin' my fingers off to git the home ready--you let them devils get my babies! Git up heah"--and she rapped the horse down the back with the lines. "Hurry up--I'm gwine after 'em es soon es I git home."

Conway could only bow his head and weep.

It was nearly noon when a large coal-black woman, her head tied up with an immaculately white handkerchief, with a white ap.r.o.n to match over her new calico gown, walked into the mill door. She pa.s.sed through Kingsley's office, without giving him the courtesy of a nod, holding her head high and looking straight before her. A black thunder-cloud of indignation sat upon her brow, and her large black eyes were lit up with a sarcastic light.

Before Kingsley could collect his thoughts she had pa.s.sed into the big door of the main room, amid the whirl and hum of the machinery, and walking straight to one of the spinning frames, she stooped and gathered into her arms the beautiful, fair-skinned little girl who was trying in vain to learn the tiresome lesson of piecing the ever-breaking threads of the bewildering, whirling bobbins.

The child was taken so by surprise that she screamed in fright--not being able to hear the footfall or the voice of her who had so suddenly folded her in her arms and showered kisses on her face and hair. Then, seeing the face, she shouted:

"It's Mammy Maria--oh, it's my mammy!" and she threw her arms around the old woman's neck and clung there.

"Mammy's baby--did you think old Mammy dun run off an' lef' her baby?"

But Lily could only sob for joy.

Then the floor manager came hurriedly over--for the entire force of the mill had ceased to work, gazing at the strange scene. In vain he gesticulated his protests--the big fat colored woman walked proudly past him with Lily in her arms.

In Kingsley's office she stopped to get Lily's bonnet, while the little girl still clung to her neck, sobbing.

Kingsley stood taking in the scene in astonishment. He adjusted his eye gla.s.ses several times, lilting them with the most p.r.o.nounced sarcastic lilt of which he was capable.

He stepped around and around the desk in agitated briskness.

He cleared his throat and jerked his pant legs up and down. And all the time the fat old woman stood looking at him, with the thunder-cloud on her brow and unexpressed scorn struggling for speech in her eyes.

"Ah-hem--ah-ha--Aunt Maria" for Kingsley had caught on to the better cla.s.s of Southern ways--"inform me--ah, what does all this mean?"

The old woman drew herself up proudly and replied with freezing politeness: