The Native Born | Page 3

promised to keep them off just so long. Stafford, see to your wife!"
He spoke brutally, in a voice choked with dust and pain. The room was
now in pitch darkness. Harry Stafford felt his way across, his arms
outstretched.
"Christine!" he called.
She came to him at once, with a step as firm and steady as a man's.
"Harry!" she cried, her voice ringing with an almost incredulous joy.
"Oh, my darling!"
He caught her to him and felt how calm her pulse had become.

"Are you afraid, my wife?"
"Not now. I am so happy!"
He knew, strange though it seemed, that this was true and natural,
because her love was stronger than life or the fear of death.
"Do you trust me absolutely, Christine?"
"Absolutely!"
"Give me both your hands--in my one hand--so. Kiss me, sweetheart."
In the same instant that his lips touched hers he lifted his right
disengaged hand, and something icy-cold brushed past her temple. She
clung to him.
"Not yet, Harry! Not yet! Oh, don't think I don't understand. I do, and I
am glad. If things had gone differently the time must have come when
one of us would have been left lonely. Now, we are going together.
What does it matter if it is a little sooner than we hoped? Only, not
yet--just one minute! We have time. Do not let us waste it. Let us kneel
down and say 'Our Father,' and then--for little John--" Her voice broke.
"Afterward--when you think fit, husband, I shall be ready."
He put his arm about her, and they knelt down side by side at the little
couch. Christine prayed aloud, and he followed her, his deeper voice
hushed to a whisper.
The two other occupants of the room did not heed them. They, too, had
found each other. At her husband's entrance Margaret Caruthers had
crept back to the wall and had remained there motionless, not
answering to his sharp, imperative call. He groped around the room,
and when at length his hands touched her face, both drew back as one
total stranger from another.
"Why did you not answer?" he asked hoarsely. "Are you not aware that
any moment may be our last?"

"Yes," she said.
"I have something I wish to say to you, Margaret, before the time
comes."
"I am listening."
"I wish to say if at any period in our unfortunate married life I have
done you wrong, I am sorry."
She made no answer.
"I ask your forgiveness."
"I forgive you."
The sound of firing outside had grown fainter, the shrieks louder, more
exultant, mingling like an unearthly savage chorus with the hushed
voices By the couch.
--"Thy will be done--" prayed Christine valiantly.
Margaret Caruthers lifted her head and laughed.
"Don't laugh!" her husband burst out. "Pray now, if you have ever
prayed in your life. You have need of prayers." He lifted his arm as he
spoke; but, as though she guessed his intention, she sprang out of his
reach.
"No!" she said, in a voice concentrated with passion. "I am not going to
die like that. Stafford can shoot his wife down like a piece of blind
cattle if he thinks fit--but not you. I won't die by your hand, Steven. I
hate you too much."
"Hush!" he exclaimed. "The account between us is settled."
"Do you think I can begin to love you just because we are both about to
die?"

"You are my wife," he answered, grasping her by the wrists. "There are
things worse than death, and from them I shall shield you, whether you
will or not."
"Is it not enough that you have taken my life once?" she retorted.
"What do you mean? How dare you say that!"
"I say it because it is true. I have never lived--never. You killed me
years ago--all that was best in me. Save your soul from a second
murder."
"If you live, do you know what may lie before you?"
"You talk of things 'worse than death.' What shame, what misery could
be worse than the years spent at your side?"
"You are mad, Margaret. I shall pay no attention to you. I must save
you against your will."
All through the hurried dialogue neither had spoken above a whisper.
Even in that moment they obeyed the habit of a lifetime, hiding hatred
and bitterness beneath a mask of apparent calm. Without a sound, but
with a frantic strength, Margaret wrenched herself free.
"Leave me to my own fate!" she demanded, in the same passionate
undertone. "You have ceased to be responsible for me."
He made one last effort to hold her. In the same instant the firing
ceased altogether. There followed the roar and crash of bursting timber,
the pattering of naked feet, the fanatic