19. CHAPTER XIX.
FACE TO FACE.
IN the lane, in the dark, under the shadow of the
barn, Ralph met Hannah carrying her bucket of
milk (they have no pails in Indiana). He could see
only the white foam on the milk, and Hannah's white
face. Perhaps it was well that he could not see how
white Hannah's face was at that moment when a sudden trembling
made her set down the heavy bucket. At first neither
spoke. The recollection of all the joy of that walk together in
the night came upon them both. And a great sense of loss made
the night seem supernaturally dark to Ralph. Nor was it any
lighter in the hopeless heart of the bound girl. The presence of
Ralph did not now, as before, make the darkness of her life light.
“Hannah—” said Ralph presently, and stopped. For he
could not finish the sentence. With a rush there came upon him
a consciousness of the suspicions that filled Hannah's mind. And
with it there came a feeling of guilt. He saw himself from her
stand-point, and felt a remorse almost as keen as it could have
been had he been a criminal. And this sudden and morbid sense
of his guilt as it appeared to Hannah paralyzed him. But when
Hannah lifted her bucket with her hand, and the world with
her heavy heart, and essayed to pass him, Ralph rallied and said:
“You don't believe all these lies that are told about me.”
“I don't believe anything, Mr. Hartsook; that is, I don't want
to believe anything against you. And I wouldn't mind anything
they say if it wasn't for two things—” here she stammered and
looked down.
“If it wasn't for what?” said Ralph with a spice of indignant
denial in his voice.
Hannah hesitated, but Ralph pressed the question with eagerness.
“I saw you cross that blue-grass pasture the night—the night
that you walked home with me.” She would have said the night
of the robbery, but her heart smote her, and she adopted the more
kindly form of the sentence.
Ralph would have explained, but how?
“I did cross the pasture,” he began, “but —”
Just here it occurred to Ralph that there was no reason for his
night excursion across the pasture. Hannah again took up her
bucket, but he said: “Tell me what else you have against me.”
“I haven't anything against you. Only I am poor and friendless,
and you oughtn't to make my life any heavier. They say
that you have paid attention to a great many girls. I don't know
why you should want to trifle with me.”
Ralph answered her this time. He spoke low. He spoke as
though he were speaking to God. “If any man says that I ever
trifled with any woman, he lies. I have never loved but one, and
you know who that is. And God knows.”
“I don't know what to say, Mr. Hartsook.” Hannah's voice
was broken. These solemn words of love were like a river in the
desert, and she was like a wanderer dying of thirst. “I don't
know, Mr. Hartsook. If I was alone, it wouldn't matter. But
I've got my blind mother and my poor Shocky to look after.
And I don't want to make mistakes. And the world is so full of
lies I don't know what to believe. Somehow I can't help believing
what you say. You seem to speak so true. But —”
“But what?” said Ralph.
“But you know how I saw you just as kind to Martha Hawkins
on Sunday as—as —”
“Han—ner!” It was the melodious voice of the angry Mrs.
Means, and Hannah lifted her pail and disappeared.
Standing in the shadow of his own despair, Ralph felt how
dark a night could be when it had no promise of morning.
And Dr. Small, who had been stabling his horse just inside the
barn, came out and moved quietly into the house just as though
he had not listened intently to every word of the conversation.
As Ralph walked away he tried to comfort himself by calling
to his aid the bull-dog in his character. But somehow it did not
do him any good. For what is a bull-dog but a stoic philosopher?
Stoicism has its value, but Ralph had come to a place where stoicism
was of no account. The memory of the Helper, of his sorrow,
his brave and victorious endurance, came when stoicism
failed. Happiness might go out of life, but in the light of Christ's
life happiness seemed but a small element any how. The love of
woman might be denied him, but there still remained what was
infinitely more precious and holy, the love of God. There still
remained the possibility of heroic living. Working, suffering,
and enduring still remained. And he who can work for God and
endure for God, surely has yet the best of life left. And, like the
knights who could only find the Holy Grail in losing themselves,
Hartsook, in throwing his happiness out of the count, found the
purest happiness, a sense of the victory of the soul over the
tribulations of life. The man who knows this victory scarcely
needs the encouragement of the hope of future happiness. There
is a real heaven in bravely lifting the load of one's own sorrow
and work.
And it was a good thing for Ralph that the danger hanging over
Shocky made immediate action necessary.
