The Man Thou Gavest. Harriet T. Comstock

to her feet, her eyes ablaze.

      “Marg! What you—hounding me for?”

      “Nella-Rose, where you been?”

      “What’s that to you?”

      “You’ve been up to Devil-may-come Hollow!”

      “Have I? Let me pass, Marg. Have your mully-grubs, if you please; I’m going home.”

      As Nella-Rose tried to pass, Marg caught her by the arm.

      “Burke’s back!” she whispered, “he’s hiding up to Devil-may-come! He’s been seen and you know it!”

      “What if I do?” Nella-Rose never ignored a possible escape for the future.

      “You’ve been up there—to meet him. You ought to be licked. If you don’t let him alone—let him and me alone—I’ll turn Jed on him, I will; I swear it!”

      “What is he—to you!” Nella-Rose confronted her sister squarely. Blue eyes—bold, cold blue they were—looked into dark ones even now so soft and winning that it was difficult to resist them.

      “If you let him alone, he’ll be everything to me!” Marg blurted out. “What do you want of him, Nella-Rose?—of him or any other man? But if you must have a sweetheart, pick and choose and let me have my day.”

      The rough appeal struck almost brutally on Nella-Rose’s ears. She was as un-moral, perhaps, as Marg, but she was more discriminating.

      “I’m mighty tired of cleaning and cooking for—for father and you!” Marg tossed her head toward Lone Dome. “Father’s mostly always drunk these days and you—what do you care what becomes of me? Leave me to get a man of my own and then I’ll be human. I’ve been—killing the hog to-day!” Marg suddenly and irrelevantly burst out; “I—I shall never do it again. We’ll starve first!”

      “Why didn’t father?” Nella-Rose said, softly.

      “Father? Huh! he couldn’t have held the knife. He went for the jug—and got it full! No, I had to do it, but it’s the last time. Nella-Rose, tell me where Burke is hidden—tell me! Leave me free to—to win him; let me have my chance!”

      “And then who’ll kill the pig?” Nella-Rose shuddered.

      “Who cares?” Marg flung back.

      “No! Find him if you can. Fair play—no favours; what I find is open to you!” Nella-Rose laughed impishly and, darting past her sister, ran down the path.

      Marg stood and watched her with baffled rage and hate. For a moment she almost decided to take her chances and seek Burke Lawson in the distant Hollow. But night was coming—the black, drear night of the low places. Marg was desperate, but a primitive conservatism held her. Not for all she hoped to gain would she brave Burke Lawson alone in the secret places of Devil-may-come Hollow! So she followed after Nella-Rose and reached home while her sister was preparing the evening meal.

      Peter Greyson, the father, sat huddled in a big chair by the fire. He had arrived at that stage of returning consciousness when he felt that it was incumbent upon him to explain himself. He had been a handsome man, of the dashing cavalry type and he still bore traces of past glory. In his worst moments he never swore before ladies, and in his best he remembered what was due them and upheld their honour and position with fervour.

      “Lil’ Nella-Rose,” he was saying as Marg paused outside the door in the dark, “why don’t you marry Burke Lawson and settle down here with me?”

      “He hasn’t asked me, father.”

      “He isn’t in any position now to pick and choose”—this between hiccoughs and yawns—“I saw him early this morning; I know his back anywhere. I’d just met old Jim White. I reckon Burke was calculating to shoot Jim, but my coming upset his plans. Shooting a sheriff ain’t safe business.” What Greyson really had seen was Truedale’s retreat after parting company with Jim, but not knowing of Truedale’s existence he jumped to the conclusion which to his fuddled wits seemed probable, and had so informed Marg upon his return.

      “I tell yo’, Nella-Rose,” he ran on, “yo’ better marry Burke and tame him. There ain’t nothing as tames a man like layin’ responsibilities on him.”

      “Come, father, let me help you to the table. I don’t want to talk about Burke. I don’t believe he’s back.” She steadied the rolling form to the head of the table.

      “I tell yo’, chile, I saw Burke’s back; don’t yo’ reckon I know Lawson when I see him, back or front? Don’t yo’ want ter marry Lawson, Nella-Rose?”

      “No, I wouldn’t have him if he asked me. It would be like marrying a tree that the freshet was rolling about. I’m not going to seek and hide with any man.”

      “Why don’t yo’ let Marg have ’im then? She’d be a right smart responsibility.”

      “She can have him and welcome, if she can find him!” Then, hearing her sister outside, she called:

      “Come in, Marg. Shut out the cold and the dark. What’s the use of acting like a little old hateful?”

      Marg slouched in; there was no other word to describe her indifferent and contemptuous air.

      “He’s coming around?” she asked, nodding at her father.

      “Yes—he’s come,” Nella-Rose admitted.

      “All right, then, I’m going to tell him something!” She walked over to her father and stood before him, looking him steadily in the eyes.

      “I—I killed the hog to-day;” she spoke sharply, slowly, as to a dense child. Peter Greyson started.

      “You—you—did that?”

      “Yes. While you were off—getting drunk, and while Nella-Rose was traipsing back there in the Hollow I killed the hog; but I’ll never do it again. It sickened the soul of me. I’m as good as Nella-Rose—just as good. If you can’t do your part, father, and she won’t do hers, that’s no reason for me being benastied with such work as I did to-day. You hear me?”

      “Sure I hear you, Marg, and I’m plumb humiliated that—that I let you. It—it sha’n’t happen again. I’ll keep a smart watch next year. A gentleman can’t say more to his daughter than that—can he?”

      “Saying is all very well—it’s the doing.” Marg was adamant. “I’m going to look out for myself from now on. You and Nella-Rose will find out.”

      “What’s come to you, Marg?” Peter looked concerned.

      “Something that hasn’t ever come before,” Marg replied, keeping her eyes on Nella-Rose. “There be times when you have to take your life by the throat and strangle it until it falls into shape. I’m gripping mine now.”

      “It’s the killing of that hog!” groaned Peter. “It’s stirred you, and I can’t blame you. Killing ain’t for a lady; but Lord! what a man you’d ha’ made, Marg!”

      “But I ain’t!” Marg broke in a bit wildly, “and other things are not for—for women to do and bear. I’m through. It’s Nella-Rose and me to share and share alike, or—”

      But there was nothing more to say—the pause was eloquent. The three ate in silence for some moments and then talked of trivial things. Peter Greyson went early to bed and the sisters washed the dishes, sharing equally. They did the out-of-door duties of caring for the scanty live stock, and at last Nella-Rose went to her tiny room under the eaves, while Marg lay down upon the living-room couch.

      When everything was at rest once more Nella-Rose stole to the low window of her chamber and, kneeling, looked forth at the peaceful moonlit scene. How still and white it was and how safe and strong the high hills looked! What had happened? Why, nothing could happen and