CHAPTER X.

UNMIXED MISERY.

“Norine,” said Clinton, one day when he had returned to the farm after a more than usually prolonged absence, “what is this I hear about the doctor?”

“What is it, Clinton? Nothing serious, I hope?” said Norine. “He is not ill?”

“No, he is not ill that I know of,” replied Clinton, “so you need not exhibit so much anxiety.”

There was something in her husband’s tone so like a sneer that it grated on Norine’s feelings. She looked up at him inquiringly.

“Am I not right to feel anxious about so good a friend?” she asked.

“Friend!” repeated Clinton sneeringly. “He has been a very good friend to _you_!”

“Has he not been a good friend to you, Clinton?”

“Friend to me? No; we have never been friends in the past, and we are still less likely to be friendly in the future.”

“Oh, Clinton!” cried Norine pleadingly. “You forget, dear husband. You would not say that if you were not angry. What is this you have heard, dear? Something wrong, I am sure.”

And she stood before him with her hands crossed over her breast in an attitude that was unconsciously supplicating.

“I have heard that he was your lover!”

The blow was struck brutally, and Norine turned white, and her eyes opened staringly as she received it.

“You do not believe that, my husband?” she said simply.

Clinton did not answer. He only moved uneasily in his chair, looking doggedly at his feet to avoid his wife’s gaze.

“You do not believe that, my husband?” repeated Norine. “I know you don’t.”

“You have not denied it yet,” he said sulkily.

“No, Clinton; I did not think it necessary to deny it. Oh, Clinton!”

“Well, ‘oh, Clinton!’” mimicked her husband--“‘oh, Clinton’ has said nothing more than common report does. Was he not your lover?”

“He has been the best friend I have ever had,” said Norine quietly, “and I respect him above all others. But he never spoke a word of love to me in all his life.”

“Well, I wish he would not come here so often,” replied Clinton doggedly. “It is not pleasant to be away from home and know that another man comes almost daily to see your wife.”

“Why do you go away from home so much, dear?” pleaded Norine. “There is no need of it, believe me; and it has changed you so greatly. We used to be so happy.”

And her voice broke down into a quivering little sigh.

He made no answer to this, and it was a long time before the subject was mentioned again by either. But it rankled deeply in the hearts of both. Clinton had never doubted his wife; but this was the first time that he had expressed a wish that was not promptly and quietly heeded, and it irritated him.

Then, too, the farm life galled him more than ever, from comparison with what had become his usual mode of existence. He had never suggested the idea of leaving the farm to Norine. He was not even sure that he wanted her to leave it. But to come from his easy, almost luxurious, life in the city to this little cottage, where everything looked so pinched and bare by contrast, was a trial to him that not even his love for his wife and child could render easy.

And Norine! If he had struck her a blow in the face she would not have been more hurt or surprised.

She had felt in her heart that her husband was losing his love for her, and she had tried with all her loving heart to save him from himself. But now there seemed no hope for the future but in her child, and on him she showered all the love of her aching heart.

And as the winter passed on, and the little fellow grew in every infantile grace, she drew him closer and closer to her heart, and devoted herself to him as her only consolation.

She had never mentioned this quarrel to Jim. But Clinton never failed to ask how many times the doctor had been there during his absence. And from his tone and manner when speaking of Conway, Jim arrived at a pretty fair knowledge of the matter.

“The hound!” muttered the irate young man to himself, when alone in the big red barn. “To speak that way of the man who saved his worthless life!”

Jim was very angry over it, and when at last Clinton spoke to him of the frequency of the doctor’s visits, Jim told him in plain language that “Conway was _his_ friend, and as long as _he_ had a house, Lester Conway would be welcome there.”

And then honest Jim regretted having spoken so sharply, and thought remorsefully that it would all be visited on poor Norine, whom he could see was daily becoming paler and more sorrowful.

How Conway ever became acquainted with the true state of affairs, will never be known, but he solved that trouble by discontinuing his visits altogether.

Yet, if there was not one trouble there was always another, and the little family were far from being happy.

And the winter passed away and spring came again without bringing any promise of a better condition of affairs.

Clinton grew more and more changeable as the time went on, sometimes coming home as affectionate as he had ever been in those old days that seemed so long ago. Then Norine would be flushed and happy, and the baby would be brought out crowing and kicking.

Jim would smoke away, in placid contentment, and the little cottage would assume the old look of comfort and happiness. At other times, and they were far more frequent, he would come in a state described by Mrs. Higgins as “crosser nor a b’ar with his ha’r off,” and then the little cottage became a very miserable place indeed.

He was in this disagreeable state one blustering day in March, and Jim, greatly chafed in temper, had retired to the kitchen, where he was smoking dismally, and keeping very much in Mrs. Higgins’ way.

That good woman, for a wonder, was not out of temper, and she walked around him without even a snort of protest.

This unusual conduct became so marked at last that even Jim noticed it, and gazed at her in wonder. She was busy preparing their evening meal, but evidently thinking of something far more serious, for she moved about the little kitchen in such a nervous, apprehensive way, her withered face working with emotion, that Jim stared at her curiously.

“What is it?” he said at last; “is there anything wrong?”

She started nervously at the sound of his voice.

“Yes, there is,” she said; “somethin’ mighty wrong.”

“What is it?”

“Jim Bright,” she said, coming up to him and laying her shriveled, work-hardened hand upon his arm, “do you remember such a storm as this before?”

Jim bent to listen to the howling of the wind outside, and slightly shook his head.

“Just two years ergo, Jim Bright,” she said nervously; “just two years ergo.”

Jim looked at her wonderingly, and not understanding her, shook his head again.

“This is the fourteenth er March, Jim,” said the old woman, impressively, changing her hand from his sleeve to his breast. “An’ on the fourteenth er March two years ergo ther war just sich er storm as this, an’ on the fifteenth er March _he_ war bro’t ’ere,” with a shake of her thumb toward the next room. “You mark my words, Jim Bright, ther devil’s a-callin’ for his own, and there’ll be trouble here afore mornin’.”

Jim could not smile at the old woman--she was too impressive for that--and she looked too much in earnest as she went on with her work with that quiet, watchful look on her old face, that her words affected Jim in spite of himself.

“Pshaw!” he said, shouldering his way through the wind to the barn, “the idea of my worrying so over an old woman’s whims!”

But he could not help thinking of it, and it was almost with the hope that it would come true, for Jim was getting very tired of this state of affairs.

Nothing could be done about it, however, so Jim shook off the nervous feeling as well as he could, and reëntered the house for supper.

Little Clinton was ailing somewhat, and correspondingly peevish. When Jim went in, Norine was walking up and down the room with him in her arms, trying to quiet his cries.

“Here,” said Jim, “let me take that fellow,” and he took the child from her arms, and noted the sigh of relief she gave.

“My, Jim!” she said, “he is getting dreadfully heavy;” and she looked proudly at the child as he lay in her brother’s arms.

“Why did you not ask me to take him?” demanded Clinton, somewhat roughly.

“I was not very tired, dear,” replied Norine sweetly; while Jim muttered something about taking the child without being asked.

“Here, I will take him now,” said Clinton, taking the little one from Jim’s arms.

Jim gave up the child quietly, but with a look that said a great deal.

Clinton walked back and forth across the room, trying in vain to quiet the child.

“Let me take him,” pleaded Norine. “He wants to come to me.”

“No; I will make the little rascal mind me!” said Clinton; and he shook him crossly.

With her eyes flashing fire, and a bound that resembled the swoop of a bird, Norine snatched the child from his arms and retreated to the other end of the kitchen.

“Put the child down!” ordered Clinton.

Norine made no answer, only rocked the child to and fro on her breast.

“Will you put him down?” commanded Clinton.

“No, I will not!” returned Norine. “You are an unnatural parent to shake your child so, and you can not have him again.”

“Norine, put him down,” commanded Clinton. “It is time he was taught to obey, and you _shall_ put him down.”

“You shall not speak to my sister in that way!” said Jim, looking very erect as he stood with his arms folded over his breast.

“Your sister is my wife, and I will not brook interference in my family,” said Clinton, in that same tone of suppressed passion. “That is my child, and I will do with him as I think best. Norine, I command you, put him down!” and he glowered at her, with his face white with passion.

“Oh, Clinton--Jim, please do not get angry! See, the dear baby is asleep now, and I will lay him on the bed,” and Norine made a trembling move toward the door.

“Let me have him,” said Clinton, starting forward; but Jim stood between them, quiet, but very determined. “Out of my way!” cried Clinton, trying to push him one side.

Jim put his hands on the other’s shoulders and pushed him back.

“I am not going to move,” he said. “You shall not abuse either the child or its mother.”

Clinton, white-faced and raging, sprang forward and seized him around the waist. Jim tried to shake him off in vain, until, losing his own head, he struck the white, upturned face, once, twice, thrice.

Clinton staggered back, with his face covered with blood, and laid his hand on the table to support himself. It closed upon a knife lying there. Then there was a spring forward, a savage yell, a cry from Norine, a slamming open of the doors, and Clinton Percival had rushed out into the storm, leaving Jim Bright weltering in his blood upon the floor.

“I knew hit was er comin’,” cried Mrs. Higgins, as, after stanching the flow of blood, and bringing Norine back to consciousness, she was running along the road in search of help. “I knew hit was er comin’. He’s a-took ter ther mountain, an’ he’ll never get across alive, thank ther Lord! Oh, Doctor Conway, is that you? Is that you, doctor?” and her voice rose to a shriek.

“Yes, yes!” cried Conway, bending down from the little rough pony. “Who is it?”

“Norine, doctor--quick!” gasped Mrs. Higgins; and she had hardly uttered the name before the doctor was rushing the little pony through the wind in the wildest way possible.

It was late that night--or rather, early the next morning--when a dark figure went skulking through the woods in the direction of the old shanty. Reaching this, he skulked into the darkest corner, looking far more like a wild animal than a human being.

He had hardly stretched himself down when the sound of approaching voices made him start out of his lair. They were too close; he dare not try the door; so, with one spring, he seized the low rafters overhead and drew himself up on them.

The voices were those of Doctor Conway and the elder Higgins.

“Are you sure?” the doctor was saying.

“Dead sure, doctor,” replied the other voice. “They seed him goin’ directly fer ther ravine; he’s dead, doc--deader nor a door nail.”

“Do you think the body can be recovered?” inquired Conway.

“Hit might be, doc,” replied Higgins, striking a light for his pipe; “but, yer see, ther branch is purty full now, an’ ef he’s found at all, it’ll be way down below. How’s Jim?”

“Oh, he’ll get over it all right,” replied the doctor. “He got a nasty cut, but it is not at all dangerous.”

“Hit’s a good thing ther skunk’s dead,” said the other voice, as they moved off. “No one’ll ever miss him but ther divil!”

The figure dropped lightly to the floor as they moved away.

“I’ll be dead enough for them!” he muttered hoarsely. “If I can find that cursed ravine, I will leave them evidence enough!” and he skulked away through the woods, looking rather more like a wild animal than ever.

And the closest search satisfied all that Clinton Percival was dead. His hat and one glove were found on the edge of the most dangerous ravine for miles around, and hanging to the bushes, halfway down, were found shreds of cloth that had been part of his coat.

There could be no question as to his death. And although his body could not be found, even after the most diligent search, there was no possible doubt as to his fate. He was dead.