Part 36 (2/2)
”I reckon ye're wise not ter tell n.o.body else,” commented Parish. ”Hit would nigh kill old Hump ter larn hit. Jest leave ther matter ter me.”
CHAPTER XXVI
The window panes were frost-rimed one night when Parish Thornton and Dorothy sat before the hearth of the main room. There was a l.u.s.ty roar in the great chimney from a walnut backlog, for during these frosty days the husband and his hired man, Sim Squires, had climbed high into the mighty tree and sawed out the dead wood left there by years of stress and storm.
As it comforted them in summer heat with the grateful cool of its broad shadowing and the moisture gathered in its reservoirs of green, so it broke the lash and whip of stinging winds in winter, and even its stricken limbs sang a chimney song of cheer and warmth upon the hearth that pioneer hands had built in the long ago.
Through the warp and woof of life in this house went the influence of that living tree; not as a blind thing of inanimate existence but as a sentient spirit and a warder whose voices and moods they loved and reverenced--as a link that bound them to the past of the overland argonauts.
It stood as a monument to their dead and as the kindly patron over their lovemaking and their marriage. It had been stricken by the same storm that killed old Caleb and had served as the council hall where enmities had been resolved and peace proclaimed. Under its canopy the man had been hailed as a leader, and there the effort of an a.s.sa.s.sin had failed, because of the warning it had given.
And now these two were thinking of something else as well--of the new life which would come to that house in the spring, with its binding touch of home and unity. They were glad that their child would have its awakening there when the great branches were in bud or tenderly young of leaf--and that its eyes would open upon that broad spreading of filagreed canopy above the bedroom window, as upon the first of earthly sights.
”Ef hit's a man-child, he's goin' ter be named Ken,” said the young woman in a low voice.
”But be hit boy or gal, one thing's sh.o.r.e. Hits middle name's a-goin'
ter be T-R-E-E, tree. Dorothy Tree Thornton,” mused Parish as his laugh rang low and clear and she echoed after him with amendment, ”Kenneth Tree Thornton.”
They sat silent together for a while seeing pictures in flame and coals.
Then Dorothy broke the revery:
”Ye've done wore a face of brown study hyar of late, Cal,” she said as her hand stole out and closed over his, ”an' I knows full well what sober things ye've got ter ponder over--but air hit anything partic'lar or new?”
Parish Thornton shook his head with gravity and answered with candour:
”Hump and old Jim an' me've been spendin' a heap of thought on this matter of ther riders,” he told her. ”Hit's got ter be broke up afore hit gits too strong a holt--an' hit hain't no facile matter ter trace down a secret thing like thet.”
After a little he went on: ”An' we hain't made no master progress yit to'rds diskiverin' who shot at old Jim, nuther. Thet's been frettin' me consid'rable, too.”
”War thet why ye rid over ter Jim's house yestidday?” she inquired, and Parish nodded his head.
”Me an' Sim Squires an' old Jim hisself war a-seekin' ter figger hit out--but we didn't git no light on ther matter.” He paused so long after that and sat with so sober a face that Dorothy pressed him for the inwardness of his thoughts and the man spoke with embarra.s.sment and haltingly.
”I lowed when we was married, honey, that all ther world I keered fer war made up of you an' me an' what hopes we've got. I was right sensibly affronted when men sought ter fo'ce me inter other matters then my own private business, but now----”
”Yes,” she prompted softly. ”An' now what?”
”Hit hain't thet ye're any less dear ter me, Dorothy. Hit's ruther thet ye're dearer ... but I kain't stand aside no more.... I kain't think of myself no more es a man thet jist b'longs ter hisself.” Again he fell silent then laughed self-deprecatingly. ”I sometimes 'lows thet what ye read me outen ther old book kinderly kindled some fret inside me....
Hit's es ef ther blood of ther old-timers was callin' out an' warnin' me thet I kain't suffer myself ter s.h.i.+rk ... or mebby hit's ther way old Hump and old Aaron talked.”
”What is. .h.i.t ye feels?” she urged, still softly, and the man came to his feet on the hearth.
”Hit's like es ef I b'longs ter these people. Not jist ter ther Harpers an' Thorntons but ter them an' ther Doanes alike.... 'Pears like them of both lots thet wants right-livin' hes a call on me ... that when old Caleb giv me his consent ter wed with ye, he give me a duty, too--a duty ter try an' weld things tergither thet's kep' breakin' apart heretofore.”
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