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Page 64
She turned, walking slowly where the snow lay pure and untrodden. On,
out of sight of the town, where the fields were still; thinking only as
she went, that nobody would know,--nobody would know.
She would see the old home out in the dark; she could even say good-by
to it quite aloud, and they wouldn't hear her, or come and drive her
away. And then--
She looked around where the great shadows lay upon the fields, felt the
weakening of her limbs, her failing breath, and smiled. Not Meg's smile;
a very quiet smile, with a little quiver in it. She would find a still
place under the trees somewhere; the snow would cover her quite out of
sight before morning,--the pure, white snow. She would be only Maggie
then.
The road, like some familiar dream, wound at last into the village. Down
the street where her childish feet had pattered in their playing, by the
old town pump, where, coming home from school, she used to drink the
cool, clear water on summer noons, she passed,--a silent shadow. She
might have been the ghost of some dead life, so moveless was her face.
She stopped at last, looking about her.
"Where? I most forget."
Turning out from the road, she found a brook half hidden under the
branches of a dripping tree,--frozen now; only a black glare of ice,
where she pushed away the snow with her foot. It might have been a
still, green place in summer, with banks of moss, and birds singing
overhead. Some faint color flushed all her face; she did not hear the
icicles dropping from the lonely tree.
"Yes,"--she began to talk softly to herself,--"this is it. The first
time I ever saw him, he stood over there under the tree. Let me see;
wasn't I crossing the brook? Yes, I was crossing the brook; on the
stones. I had a pink dress. I looked in the glass when I went home,"
brushing her soft hair out of her eyes. "Did I look pretty? I can't
remember. It's a great while ago."
She came back into the street after that, languidly, for the snow lay
deeper. The wind, too, had chilled her more than she knew. The sleet was
frozen upon her mute, white face. She tried to draw her cloak more
closely about her, but her hands refused to hold it. She looked at them
curiously.
"Numb? How much farther, I wonder?"
It was not long before she came to it. The house stood up silently in
the night. A single light glimmered far out upon the garden. Her eye
caught it eagerly. She followed it down, across the orchard, and the
little plats where the flowers used to be so bright all summer long. She
had not forgotten them. She used to go out in the morning and pick them
for her mother,--a whole apronful, purple, and pink, and white, with
dewdrops on them. She was fit to touch them then. Her mother used to
smile when she brought them in. Her mother! Nobody ever smiled so since.
Did she know it? Did she ever wonder what had become of her,--the little
girl who used to kiss her? Did she ever want to see her? Sometimes,
when she prayed up in the old bedroom, did she remember her daughter
who had sinned, or guess that she was tired of it all, and how no one in
all the wide world would help her?
She was sleeping there now. And the father. She was afraid to see him;
he would send her away, if he knew she had come out in the snow to look
at the old home. She wondered if her mother would.
She opened the gate, and went in. The house was very still. So was the
yard, and the gleam of light that lay golden on the snow. The numbness
of her body began to steal over her brain. She thought at moments, as
she crawled up the path upon her hands and knees,--for she could no
longer walk,--that she was dreaming some pleasant dream; that the door
would open, and her mother come out to meet her. Attracted like a child
by the broad belt of light, she followed it over and through a piling
drift. It led her to the window where the curtain was pushed aside. She
managed to reach the blind, and so stand up a moment, clinging to it,
looking in, the glow from the fire sharp on her face. Then she sank down
upon the snow by the door.
Lying so, her face turned up against it, her stiffened lips kissing the
very dumb, unanswering wood, a thought came to her. She remembered the
day. For seven long years she had not thought of it.
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