He staggered out, a terrible pallor on his face, as he said: "Not this way--not to go this way. Oh, G.o.d, your blow--I care not for death, but, oh, not this death?"

"Clay," he said after a while--"Take her--take her to your mother and sister to-night. I must bid you both good-night, ay, and good-bye.

See, you walk only across the field there--that is Westmoreland."

He turned, but he felt some one clinging to his hand, in the dark. He looked down at her, at the white, drawn face, beautiful with a terrible pain: "Take me--take me," she begged--"with you--to the end of the world--oh, I love you and I care not who knows."

"Child--child"--he whispered sadly--"You know not what you say. I am dying. I shall be mad--unless--unless what you have done--"

"Take me," she pleaded--"my lion. I am yours."

He stooped and kissed her and then walked quickly away.

CHAPTER XX

THE ANGEL WITH THE FLAMING SWORD

It was nearly time for the mill to close when Mammy Maria, her big honest face beaming with satisfaction at the surprise she had in store for Helen, began to wind her red silk bandana around her head.

She had several bandanas, but when Lily saw her put on the red silk one, the little girl knew she was going out--"dressin' fur prom'nade"--as the old lady termed it.

"You are going after Helen," said the little girl, clapping her hands.

She sat on her father's lap: "And we want you to hurry up, Mammy Maria," he said, "I want all my family here. I am going to work to-morrow. I'll redeem Millwood before my two years expire or I am not a Conway again."

Mammy Maria was agitated enough. She had been so busy that she had failed to notice how late it was. In her efforts to surprise Helen she had forgotten time, and now she feared the mill might close and Helen, not knowing they had moved, would go back to Millwood. This meant a two mile tramp and delay. She had plenty of time, she knew, before the mill closed; but the more she thought of the morning's scene at the mill and of Jud Carpenter, the greater her misgivings.

For Mammy Maria was instinctive--a trait her people have. It is always Nature's subst.i.tute when much intellect is wanting.

All afternoon she had chuckled to herself. All afternoon, the three of them,--for even Major Conway joined in, and helped work and arrange things--talked it over as they planned. His face was clear now, and calm, as in the old days. Even the old servant could see he had determined to win in the fight.

"Ma.r.s.e Ned's hisse'f ag'in," she would say to him encouragingly--"Ma.r.s.e Ned's hisse'f--an' Zion's by his side, yea, Lord, the Ark of the Tabbernackle!"

For the last time she surveyed the little rooms of the cottage. How clean and fresh it all was, and how the old mahogany of Millwood set them off! And now all was ready.

It was nearly dark when she reached the mill. It had not yet closed down, and lights began to blaze first from one window, then another.

She could hear the steam and the coughing of the exhaust pipe.

This was all the old woman had hoped--to be in time for Helen when the mill closed.

But one thing was in her way, or she had taken her as she did Lily: She did not know where Helen's room was in the mill. There was no fear in the old nurse's heart. She had taken Lily, she would take Helen. She would show the whole tribe of them that she would! But in which room was the elder sister?

So she walked again into the main office, fearless, and with her head up. For was she not Zion, the Lord's chosen, the sanctified one, and the powers of h.e.l.l were naught?

No one was in the office but Jud Carpenter, and to her surprise he treated her with the utmost courtesy. Indeed, his courtesy was so intense that any one but Zion, who, being black, knew little of irony and less of sarcasm, might have seen that Jud's courtesy was strongly savored of the two.

"Be seated, Madam," he said with a profound bow. "Be seated, Upholder of Heaven, Chief-cook-an'-bottle-washer in the Kingdom to come! An'

what may have sent the angel of the Lord to honor us with another visit?"

The old woman's fighting feathers arose instantly:--

"The same that sent 'em to Sodom an' Gomarrer, suh," she replied.

"Ah," said Jud apologetically, "an' I hope we won't smell any brimstone to-night."

"If you don't smell it to-night, you'll smell it befo' long. And now look aheah, Mister White Man, no use for you an' me to set here a-jawin' an' 'spu'tin'. I've come after my other gyrl an' you know I'm gwine have her!"

"Oh, she'll be out 'torectly, Mrs. Zion! Jes' keep yo' robes on an'

hol' yo' throne down a little while. She'll be out 'torectly."

There was a motive in this lie, as there was in all others Jud Carpenter told.

It was soon apparent. For scarcely had the old woman seated herself with a significant toss of her head when the mill began to cease to hum and roar.

She sat watching the door keenly as they came out. What creatures they were, lint-and-dust-covered to their very eyes. The yellow, hard, emotionless faces of the men, the haggard, weary ones of the girls and women and little children! Never had she seen such white people before, such hollow eyes, with dark, bloodless rings beneath them, sunken cheeks, tanned to the color of oiled hickory, much used.

Dazed, listless, they stumbled out past her with relaxed under-jaws and faces gloomy, expressionless--so long bent over looms, they had taken on the very looks of them--the shapes of them, moving, walking, working, mechanically. Women, smileless, and so tired and numbed that they had forgotten the strongest instinct of humanity--the romance of s.e.x; for many of them wore the dirty, chopped-off jackets of men, their slouched black hats, their coa.r.s.e shoes, and talked even in the vulgar, hard irony of the male in despair.

They all pa.s.sed out--one by one--for in them was not even the instinct of the companionship of misery.

Every moment the old nurse expected Helen to walk out, to walk out in her queenly way, with her beautiful face and manners, so different from those around her.

Jud Carpenter sat at his desk quietly cutting plug tobacco to fill his pipe-bowl, and watching the old woman slyly.

"Oh, she'll be 'long 'torectly--you see the drawer-in bein' in the far room comes out last."

The last one pa.s.sed out. The mill became silent, and yet Helen did not appear.

The old nurse arose impatiently: "I reck'n I'll go find her," she said to Carpenter.

"I'd better sho' you the way, old 'oman," he said, lazily shuffling off the stool he was sitting on pretending to be reading a paper--"you'll never fin' the room by yo'self."

He led her along through the main room, hot, lint-filled and evil-smelling. It was quite dark. Then to the rear, where the mill jutted on the side of a hill, he stopped in front of a door and said: "This is her room; she's in there, I reckin--she's gen'ly late."

With quickening heart the old woman entered and, almost immediately, she heard the door behind her shut and the key turn in the bolt. The room was empty and she sprang back to the door, only to find it securely locked, and to hear Jud Carpenter's jeers from without. She ran to the two small windows. They were high and looked out over a ravine.

She did not utter a word. Reared as she had been among the Conways, she was too well bred to act the coward, and beg and plead in undignified tones for relief. At first she thought it was only a cruel joke of the Whipper-in, but when he spoke, she saw it was not.

"Got you where I want you, Mother of Zion," he said through the key hole. "I guess you are safe there till mornin' unless the Angel of the Lord opens the do' as they say he has a way of doin' for Saints--ha--ha--ha!"

No word from within.

"Wanter kno' what I shet you up for, Mother of all Holiness? Well, listen: It's to keep you there till to-morrow--that's good reason, ain't it? You'll find a lot of cotton in the fur corner--a mighty good thing for a bed. Can't you talk? How do you like it? I guess you ain't so independent now."

There was a pause. The old woman sat numbly in Helen's chair. She saw a bunch of violets in her frame, and the odor brought back memories of her old home. A great fear began to creep over her--not for herself, but for Helen, and she fell on her knees by the frame and prayed silently.

Jud's voice came again: "Want to kno' now why you'll stay there till mornin'? Well, I'll tell you--it'll make you pa.s.s a com'f'table night--you'll never see Miss Helen ag'in--"