Part 9 (2/2)

She rose ponderously. She seemed to sway and hesitate; then she set one foot cautiously forward in the pung. There was a rending, crash. The Widder Poll had stepped into the ba.s.s-viol. She gave a little scream; and plunged forward.

”My foot's ketched!” she cried. ”Can't you help me out?”

Heman dropped the reins; he put his hands on her arms, and pulled her forward. He never knew whether she reached the ground on her feet or her knees. Then he pushed past her, where she floundered, and lifted out his darling. He carried it into the kitchen, and lighted the candle, with trembling hands. He drew back the cover. The ba.s.s-viol had its mortal wound; he could have laid both fists into the hole. He groaned.

”My G.o.d Almighty!” he said aloud.

The Widder Poll had stumbled into the room. She threw back her green veil, and her face shone ivory white under its shadow; her small eyes were starting. She looked like a culprit whom direst vengeance had overtaken at last. At the sound of her step, Heman lifted his hurt treasure, carried it tenderly into his bedroom, and shut the door upon it. He turned about, and walked past her out of the house. The Widder Poll followed him, wringing her mittened hands.

”O Heman!” she cried, ”don't you look like that! Oh, you'll do yourself some mischief, I know you will!”

But Heman had climbed into the pung, and given Old Gameleg a vicious cut. Swinging out of the yard they went; and the Widder Poll ran after until, just outside the gate, she reflected that she never could overtake him and that her ankles were weak; then she returned to the house, groaning.

Heman was conscious of one thought only: if any man had come home with Roxy, he should kill him with his own hands. He drove on, almost to the vestry, and found no trace of her. He turned about, and, retracing his way, stopped at her mother's gate, left Old Gameleg, and strode into the yard. There was no light in the kitchen, and only a glimmer in the chamber above. Heman went up to the kitchen door and knocked. The chamber window opened.

”Who is it?” asked Mrs. Cole. ”Why, that you, Heman? Anybody sick?”

”Where's Roxy?” returned Heman, as if he demanded her at the point of the bayonet.

”Why, she's been abed as much as ten minutes. The Tuckers brought her home.”

”You tell her to come here! I want to see her.”

”What! down there? Law, Heman! you come in the mornin'. She'll ketch her death o' cold gittin' up an' dressin', now she's got all warmed through.”

”What's he want, mother?” came Roxy's clear voice from within the room.

”That's Heman Blaisdell's voice.”

”Roxy, you come down here!” called Heman, masterfully.

There was a pause, during which Mrs. Cole was apparently pulled away from the window. Then Roxy, her head enveloped in a shawl, appeared in her mother's place.

”Well!” she said, impatiently. ”What is it?”

Heman's voice found a pleading level.

”Roxy, will you marry me?”

”Why, Heman, you 're perfectly ridiculous! At this time o' night, too!”

”You answer me!” cried Heman, desperately. ”I want you! Won't you have me, Roxy? Say?”

”Roxy!” came her mother's m.u.f.fled voice from the bed. ”You'll git your death o' cold. What's he want? Can't you give him an answer an' let him go?”

”Won't you, Roxy?” called Heman. ”Oh, won't you?”

Roxy began to laugh hysterically. ”Yes,” she said, and shut the window.

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