Seth | Page 9

Langley's anxiety was greater than
his own. "I saw him last night on my way home," he said. "About this

time, too, for I remember he was sitting in the moonlight at the door of
his shanty. We exchanged a few words, as we always do, and he said he
was there because he was not needed, and thought a quiet night would
do him good. Is it possible no one has seen him since?" in sudden
alarm.
"Come with me," said his companion.
Overwhelmed by a mutual dread, neither spoke until they reached the
shanty itself. There was no sign of human life about it: the door stood
open, and the only sound to be heard was the rustle of the wind
whispering among the pines upon the mountain side. Both men flung
themselves from their horses with loudly-beating hearts.
"God grant he is not here!" uttered Langley. "God grant he is anywhere
else! The place is so drearily desolate."
Desolate indeed! The moonbeams streaming through the door threw
their fair light upon the rough boards and upon the walls, and upon the
quiet figure lying on the pallet in one of the corners, touching with
pitying whiteness the homely face upon the pillow and the hand that
rested motionless upon the floor.
The doctor went down on his knees at the pallet's side, and thrust his
hand into the breast of the coarse garments with a half-checked groan.
"Asleep?" broke from Langley's white lips in a desperate whisper.
"Not--not"--
"Dead!" said the doctor--"dead for hours!" There was actual anguish in
his voice as he uttered the words, but another element predominated in
the exclamation which burst from him scarcely a second later. "Good
God!" he cried--"good God!"
Langley bent down and caught him almost fiercely by the arm: the
exclamation jarred upon him. "What is it?" he demanded, "What do
you mean?"

"It is--a woman!"
Even as they gazed at each other in speechless questioning the silence
was broken in upon. Swift, heavy footsteps neared the door, crossed the
threshold, and Janner's daughter stood before them.
There was no need for questioning. One glance told her all. She made
her way to the moonlit corner, pushed both aside with rough strength,
and knelt down. "I might ha' knowed," she said with helpless
bitterness--"I might ha' knowed;" and she laid her face against the dead
hand in a sudden passion of weeping. "I might ha' knowed, Jinny lass,"
she cried, "but I didna. It was loike aw th' rest as tha' should lay thee
down an' die loike this. Tha' wast alone aw along, an' tha'' wast alone at
th' last. But dunnot blame me, poor lass. Nay, I know tha' wiltna."
The two men stood apart, stirred by an emotion too deep for any
spoken attempt at sympathy. She scarcely seemed to see them: she
seemed to recognize no presence but that of the unresponsive figure
upon its lowly couch. She spoke to it as if it had been a living thing, her
voice broken and tender, stroking the hair now and then with a touch all
womanly and loving. "Yo' were nigher to me than most foak, Jinny,"
she said; "an' tha' trusted me, I know."
They left her to her grief until at last she grew calmer and her sobs died
away into silence. Then she rose and approaching Langley, who stood
at the door, spoke to him, scarcely raising her tear-stained eyes. "I ha'
summat to tell yo' an' sum-mat to ax yo'," she said, "an' I mun tell it to
yo' alone. Will yo' coom out here?"
He followed her, wondering and sad. His heart was heavy with the pain
and mystery the narrow walls inclosed. When they paused a few yards
from the house, the one face was scarcely more full of sorrow than the
other, only that the woman's was wet with tears. She was not given to
many words, Bess Janner, and she wasted few in the story she had to
tell. "Yo' know th' secret as she carried," she said, "or I wouldna tell yo'
even now; an' now I tell it yo' that she may carry the secret to her grave,
an' ha' no gossiping tongue to threep at her. I dunnot want foak starin'
an' wonderin' an' makkin' talk. She's borne enow."

"It shall be as you wish, whether you tell me the story or not," said
Langley. "We will keep it as sacred as you have done."
She hesitated a moment, seemingly pondering with herself before she
answered him. "Ay," she said, "but I ha' another reason behind. I want
summat fro' yo': I want yo're pity. Happen it moight do her good even
now." She did not look at him as she proceeded, but stood with her face
a