Part 42 (1/2)

They buried Saul Chadron next day in a corner of the garden by the river. And there was the benediction of tender autumn suns.h.i.+ne over the place where they laid him down, away from the turmoil of his life, and the tangle of injustices that he left behind.

But there was none to come forward and speak for the body of Mark Thorn. The cowboys hid him in the sage at the foot of a b.u.t.te, as men go silently and shadow-like to bury away a shame.

There seemed to be a heart-soreness over the ranchhouse by the river as night fell upon it again. Saul Chadron had been a great and n.o.ble man to some who wept in its silent rooms as the gloaming deepened into darkness over the garden, where the last leaves of autumn were tugging at their anchorage to sail away. Even Frances Landcraft in her vigil beside Macdonald's cot felt pity for Chadron's fall. She regretted, at least, that he had not gone out of life more worthily.

Colonel Landcraft had gone up the river to carry a new message to the homesteaders whose houses lay in ashes. He had ridden to tell them that they could build in security and live in peace. The surgeon had returned to the post, but was coming again tomorrow. Behind him he had left the happy a.s.surance that Macdonald would live.

Macdonald himself had added his own brave word to bear out the doctor's prediction, as far as Frances would permit him to speak. That was not above ten words, whispered into her ear, inclined low to hear.

When he attempted to go beyond that, soft warm fingers made a latch upon his lips.

Mrs. Chadron came down a little after dark, and whispered at the door.

Macdonald was sleeping, and Frances went softly to tell her.

”Nola's askin' for you,” Mrs. Chadron told her, ”she's all heartbroke and moanin' in her bed. If you'll go to her, and comfort her a little, honey, I'll take as good care of him as if he was my own.”

Frances was touched by the appeal for sympathy. She could picture Nola, little fas.h.i.+oned by nature or her life's experiences to bear grief, shuddering and sobbing alone in the dark, and her heart went out to her in all its generosity and large forgivingness.

Nola's room was dark for all except the night sky at her window.

Frances stood a moment in her door, listening, believing from the silence that she must have gone to sleep.

”Nola,” she whispered, softly.

A little s.h.i.+vering sob was the answer. Frances went in, and closed the door. Nola was lying face downward on her pillow, like a child, and Frances found on putting out her comforting hand that the fickle little lady's bolster was wet with tears. She sat on the bedside and tried gently to turn Nola's face toward her. That brought on a storm of tears and moanings, and agonized burrowing of her face into the pillow.

”Oh, I feel so mean and wicked!” she cried. ”If I hadn't been so deceitful and treacherous and--and--and everything, maybe all this sorrow wouldn't have come to us!”

Frances said nothing. She had found one hot hand, tear-wet from lying under Nola's cheek, and this she held tenderly, feeling it best to let the tears of penitence purge the sufferer's soul in their world-old way. After a time Nola became quieter. She s.h.i.+fted in the bed, and moved over to give Frances more room, and put up her arms to draw her friend down for the kiss of forgiveness which she knew would not be denied.

Afterwards she sat up in bed, and brushed her hair back from her throbbing forehead with her palms.

”Oh, it aches and aches--_so!_” she said.

”I'll bind a cold towel around it, dear; that always used to ease it, you remember?”

”Not my head, Frances--my heart, my heart!”

It was better so, Frances understood. Penitence that brings only a headache is like plating over bra.s.s; it cannot long conceal the baseness of the thing that lies beneath.

”Time is the only remedy for that, Nola,” she said, her own words slow and sad.

”Do you think I've sinned past forgiveness because I--because--I love him?” Nola's voice trembled with earnestness.

”He is free, to love and be loved as it may fall, Nola. I told you he was mine, but I thought then that I was claiming him from death. He will live. He never has asked me to marry him; maybe he never will.

When he recovers, he may turn to you--who can tell?”

”No, it's only you that he thinks of, Frances. When I was watching by him he opened his eyes, and you should have seen the look in them when he saw me instead of you. He struggled to sit up and look for you, and he called your name, sharp and frightened, as if he thought somebody had taken you away from him forever.”

Frances did not need that a.s.surance to quiet any fear of his loyalty.

She had spoken the truth, only because it was the truth, but not to give Nola hope. For hope she knew there was not any, nor any love, to come to Nola out of that man's heart.