Greenfield Evening Republican, Greenfield, Hancock County, 26 June 1895 — Page 4
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I A N S
ONE GIVES RELIEF.
HALLOCK. rooTE. [Copyright, 1805, by Mary Hal lock Foote. it was becoming more unci more difficult to talk to her brother of his affairs and to ask for his confidence. He seemed unusually preoccupied. He often
He would pull her down• on. the broad arm of his chair.
came home late at night. having dined down town and breakfasted alone in the long parlor at 10 or 11 o'clock the next morning. Cecil, taking her walk on the windy porch, would run in for a moment to pour liis coffee, perching opposite him with her hafc on and the wings of her cloak thrown back from her pretty arms. She would carry his cup round the table to him, bestowing the kiss of custom 011 his pale, unshaven cheek. He received it generally with fraternal indifference, but sometimes he would pull her down on the broad arm of his chair, pinch her small chin and tell her, with careless hyperbole, that she was the prettiest girl west of the Mississippi, and she would scold him for drinking such very black coffee in such a large cup. "Look at your hand. How it shakes, you stupid boy! A man never knows how to take care of his health, and you won't let me take care of yours for you." "Take care of your own, Cecy," he would say. "You were always the best of the whole lot of us."
Once she reminded him of an old promise to ride with her every day in the valley and read aloud to lier in the evenings. "If we don't begin soon," she complained, "the valley will be covered with snow. I haven't had my habit 011 for six weeks, and I've read everything in the house, through and through, alone here by myself all day long." "Poor little Cecy! It is a dull cage for such a pretty bird," Conrath would reply. "Never mind, when Shoshone stock is up to 30, we'll have some good horses, and we'll go east every winter and have our friends out here in summer and a dinner party twice a week. You could go back at any time, you know, if you're getting tired of it. "You know I don't want to go back, or to have dinner parties, or anything like that. I only wish you would treat me more—more as if I could be trusted to know about things.'' "About what things, for instance?" "About your troubles with the Led Horse. Have they blasted through?" "No, they haven't yet. You've never forgotten that barricade, Cecy. Now you see how impossible it would be to tell you things as you say. The simplest thing would seem to you quite frightful. Girls ought not to know what is going on in a place like this. That's one reason why I am not so much troubled about your loneliness. It's better for you not to hear all the gossip of the camp. It would make you unhappy.''
This was the most intimate conversation they had had for weeks. A few days afterward Molly informed her mistress that the Led Horse had blasted through on a level with the Shoshone barricade. Cecil gave a gasp at this news. Molly, however, assured her that everything was peaceable. The Led Horse had no guard and no barricade except the loose rock that had fallen with the last blast, but its lawyers had gone down to the session of the district court at with important testimony, and by this time the injunction was virtually granted. That was probably the reason why Conrath had turned so silent, and was busier than ever, Cecil thought She still persisted in the belief that Gashwiler was responsible, and that her brother had been deceived up to the point of a distressing awakening from his costly delusion.
It was nearly the middle of September. The season was over, when daily the dry winds whirled across the porch, shook the loose sash and flinging a cloud of yellow dust against the pane carried their rude message from house to house of the little settlement, and on along the white road to the camp. The season of rains was over, when daily the cold showers hurtled on the roof, and blotted out the valley, when wild flowers blossomed on the pass and lined the canyons with a phantasmal beauty. The. late, passionless summer had come to the weary, tempestuous year, just as Bummer elsewhere was taking her leave. Was this a place for men, .Cecil murmured to herself in her lonely walks, when even the grass, that commonest vegetable joy, gave up the ghost and withered In the autumn, as sparse and feeble as in the earliest spring?
The day after the news of the injunction Cecil resolved once more to ap-
proach her brother on the subject of his troubles. She lay in the hammock, which was stretched across the long room, her slippered feet to the fire, the light from the low window shining on the top of her cushioned head, listening for the clink of a horse's hoof on the frozen ground. She listened and waited, until sunset faded into twilight and lamps were lit. Dinner was indefinitely postponed, and Cecil took a slight meal and a lonely cup of tea by the fire. With a book in one hand she read and sipped her tea and listened alternately. She heard the outer door of the kitchen shut. Silence followed—absolute silence all over the house.
It was veiy strange of Molly to have gone out without permission at that hour, leaving her mistress alone in the house. When the girl came in, fully two hours afterward, Cecil took no notice of her, not venturing to speak while she felt hurt a:id vexed.' Molly, howeArer, was too much excited to remark her mistress' mood. Her hair was disordered, and her cheeks were flushed and shining with wind dried tears. She came straight to the fire, kneeling on the rug and asking in aloud whisper: "Is Mr. Conrath home yet?" "You know that he is not," Cecil replied, without looking up from her book. "There's something I must tell you, Miss Cecil, if I was to leave the house tonight.'' "You seem to have done that already, Molly, without regard to me.''
Then, as Molly turned her face away and put her apron to her eyes, Cecil abandoned her attempt at dignity and leaned toward the girl impulsively. "Why, Molly, what is it?" she said, putting her hands on her shoulders and pulling her toward her. "What are you crying about?"
Molly put down her apron. "You've a right to know it, miss," she sobbed, "if it is your own brother, and Tom isn't one to meddle except to save trouble. Mr. Conrath maybe would kill me for speakin. Gashwiler would anyway!" "Don't run 011 so, Molly! Wait a minute and tell me quietly, and don't tell me anything but the truth. "It's Mrs. Gashwiler, miss, that it comes from, and I'd believe every word, for she's an honest woman, though as hard as a nail, and what would it be to her interest? She's got the same grudge as her man has against Mr. West and Mr. Hilgard. It's little she'd care if it wasn't for Tom."
Cecil sat helpless under the confusion of Molly's words, feeling in her suspense that they were fraught only with misery. "Tom was always good to her young ones wThen he boarded with 'em. He was packin the little lame one about whenever he got rhe chance, and she's never forgot it of him. Sho heard somethin one night between her man and Mr. Conrath. She was wakin with the toothache, and the walls is nothin but lath. She wouldn't tell Tom what it was, but she got at him to leave the Led Horse, for fear he'd get into trouble along with it. And she made him promise he'd never tell on her. And he's kep' it till he says it hangs on him that heavy that he's bound to speak. But it's to you he bid me come with it He'll not go to one o' his own side but, says he, 'Mrs. Gash can't complain of me for speakin to Mr. Conrath's own sister, for she's a Shoshone, and who's got abetter right to know what diviltry he's up to?' "Mr. Conrath, Molly—my brother?" "Mr. Conrath's in it, not a doubt o' that, and it means trouble to the Led Horse, or Gash's wife would never be after Tom to try to get him out of it. And he won't stir for me, miss! He'll stick by his own side." Here Molly's sobs broke forth. "For God's sake, Miss Cecil, you'll not go to Mr. Conrath with it?" "Molly, whom am I to go to?'' Cecil's lips were white, and her voice had sunk almost to a whisper. "Go to Mr. Hilgard, miss! Tell him to look out for himself aid for them that's under him and to put more than a lieapo' rocks bet.weon him and Gashwiler's barricade. What good'll his lawyers do him when they've jumped him? That's what Tom says, miss," Molly went on in her loud, vehement whisper. "He says they're gone if the'law takes holt. They'll have to pay. back every dollar's worth of ore they robbed Mr. Hilgard Of, and it'll ruin them," cried the girl, reckless that she was speaking to a Shoshone. "And they're waitin for a chance to jump the mine. 'They'll clean her out,' says Tom, 'before ever the law'11 give it back.' "Molly, do you ask me to go to a stranger to warn him against my brother? You must be crazy. I cannot go to any one but my brother. I shall tell him nothing that you have told me. I am not going to betray your brother. I will ask him. Oh, I will make him give it all up and let us leave this place!" "He'll never do it, miss, no more than Tom'll leave the Led,Horse for me askin him." "Molly, please go away and let me think about it by myself. You are a good girl to come to me. You can trust me. If I cannot do any good, I will not do any harm. I must see my brother tonight. If it is no use, then we will think of some other way."
The two girls clung to each other with tears running down their cheeks. "You'd be speakin for them all, miss, if you went to Mr. Hilgard. Sure, whatever hinders a fight is for one the same as another." "How could it hinder anything if I went to Mr. Hilgard?" "If he'd stop his lawin and put five good men in the drift, wid a barricade in front of 'em, Gash'd never touch him! That's what Tom says." "Do you suppose, you poor child, that Tom knows better than Mr. Hilgard?" "He does, miss, when Mr. Hilgard don't know what I'm after tellin you!"
It was late that night when Conrath returned, Cecil sprang up quickly, her heart beating hard and fast, when she Jieard his house's hoofs on the wooden hridge leading to the stable. From the sounds Conrath was having some difficulty in forcing his horse over the nar-
row passage. There were signs of obstinacy and nervousness on the part of the horse and of temper on that of the rider. As the plunging and backing continued, Cecil became alarmed. She ran to Molly's door and woke her, asking for Peter, the stableman. "Why doesn't he go to Mr. Conrath?" slie demanded. "He can't get Andy over the bridge."
Molly did not know where Peter was, and Cecil, hearing Andy suddenly clatter across the disputed ground and stop at the stable, went back herself, shivering, to the parlor.
Conrath was a long time getting into the house. He climbed up the end of the piazza, apparently with a good deal of trouble, bumping his knees and elbows on the piazza floor, in his progress. "Why doesn't he come around to the steps?" Cecil wondered. "It must be very dark."
She opened the door it was not at all dark. The moon had risen, and Conrath's shadow was thrown up against the side of the house, as he came along the piazza, walking with a heavy, careful step. He passed her at the door, neither noticing nor speaking to her, and, crossing the room, sank into a seat by the fire, without removing his hat.
He slouched in his hair, in a helpless, disorganized attitude, moving his eyes vacantly from her face to his own hands, which hung feebly in his lap.
She kuelt- before him, without touching him. She looked long in her brother's face, studying, with intense, heartbroken scrutiny, the familiar features, over which some mysterious, sickening influence had passed. The change was very slight. Mrs. Denny would have understood it instantly. Many of Conrath's friends would have been amused by it. Gradually the meaning of it came to Conrath's sister, but it did not amuse her. She recoiled from him slowly, rising to her feet, a cold, incredulous disgust whitening her cheeks and her lips. It was too cruel a mockery of her reliance 011 him. She went away to her room and hid herself from the sight of him, leaving him to sleep off the effects of his "predilection" by the fire.
Cecil did not sleep she lay in the darkness hour after hour, shuddering, with dry, convulsive sobs. The trouble she had looked in the face that night she knew was a wretchedly common one, but she had never believed that it could touch her own life. She reproached herself for deserting the shabby figure in the chair before the fire, but tonight she could not feel that it was her brother. If that were her brother, where then could she look for help?
She made no effort to see Conrath the next day in fact, she kept out of the way of seeing him until he had left the house. At noon she went to Molly with a note and asked her to see that Mr. Hilgard received it promptly. "You must give it to him yourself, Molly, or to Mr. West. "Thank you, Miss Cecil," said Molly, taking the note. "It may not do any good," the girl said, wearily, "and I am not doing it for you any more than for myself." "Did you sleep any the night, miss?" "Why should I sleep? Did you sleep yourself, Molly?" "I did, miss but the heart of me was w.'ikin and dreamin. I dreamed Mr. Conrath was a-draggin you over the bridge, and him on Andy, and you was pullin back, but he had you by the hand and wouldn't let go. "It is easy to see how you came to dream that, Molly,'' said Cecil, a slow, painful blush burning itself upon her cheek. Do you remember my knocking at your door?" "Did you, miss? Last night, was it?" "Yes, it was last night, and it was Andy, not I, who wouldn't go over the bridge. My brother would not have to drag me if ho wanted me to follow him anywhere." -i
Cecil kept by herself all day. She could not bear even Molly's eyes upon her while she was learning to bear the first pressuro of the new and ignominious grief which she had put on liko a garment of penitence under the soft robes cf her girlhood.
CHAPTER IX..
Tfee sun was just below the Shoshone hill. The black, denuded pines on the hilltop leaned toward each other, or stood erect against the yellow light that streamed upward and broadened outward, through a thin, gray cloud that overspread the western sky.
Cecil was hurrying down the unused trail to meet Hilgard at the blazed trees. She felt they would be safe there from interruption. Her heart was too heavy to flutter with girlish doubts and tremors. She sped along, beating back with her rapid footsteps the folds of her somber cloth dress.
Hilgard was waiting for her, walking about impatiently, one hand in the side pocket of his closely buttoned pea jacket, the other holding the cigarette he was mechanically smoking. She had kept him waiting three-quarters of an hour he was feeling half angry and cheated, and altogether disappointed, when he saw her coming among the gray stemmed aspens, that were dropping all their pale gold leaves in the grasp of the autumn winds. He started toward her at once, forgetting his grievance at the first sight of her face. She explained hurriedly that some ladies from the camp had called and detained her. "You know it is only trouble that brings me here."
He restrained some passionate exclamation, and said, as humbly and quietly as he could: "I knew, of course, it was not for your own pleasure or mine." "And you must have known it was the old trouble—between the mines," she went on, without heeding his words. "I have thonght of away that might make things less—less unhappy." She hesitated, and he waited for her to ex-
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
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