Belford's Magazine, Vol 2, December 1888

Gret obeyed the excited proprietor, and as she supported the moaning woman along the street they met Hunch leading Blind Benner.

"She's dead!" Mrs. McAnay exclaimed. "My Lizzī's dead! my Lizzī's dead! Oh! oh!"

Blind Benner heard her and stopped. "Take me away, Hunch," he pleaded, "take me away."

Hunch turned towards the Block. Tears streamed from the blind man's eyes, and sobs choked him. After going a few steps he halted and faced the fire. Hunch, obedient to his every wish, let go the hand he shook as if to free it. They were near the fire, and its heat burned Blind Benner's face. Hunch stood with his back to it, watching its light on the snow-covered mountain.

A quick movement on the part of Bind Benner attracted his attention. He turned around and saw the blind man running straight to the fire. Shouting to him to stop, Hunch started after him, but he was running swiftly without stumbling, and there seemed small hope of catching him.

Gret looked over her shoulder on hearing Hunch's cries, and saw that Blind Benner meant to commit suicide. Clear as a bell her voice rang out in the only lie she ever told.

"Benner, you have passed the fire; turn back."

The doubt she raised checked him for only a moment, but long enough to bring Hunch upon him. In a twinkling his feet were knocked from under him and Hunch sat upon his prostrate form.

The messenger who had been sent for the doctor brought back word that he had not returned from a late call up Boomer Creek.

"My God, she will die!" Gill groaned, "and for me!"

His words scored sympathizing hearts and indented faithful memories.

The store building was dry as tinder and burned very rapidly. The roof had fallen in before Gill recovered consciousness, and soon after the walls toppled into the cellar.

The news of the doctor's absence sent a pang to the hearts of all, and hope for Lizzī was abandoned, she being beyond the restorative power of the water which had been dashed in her face.

A hastily constructed stretcher, made of two benches from the tavern fastened together, was brought, and Lizzī's limp form was laid upon it. Coats were her mattress, and coats her covering. Four strong men lifted the stretcher and headed the procession, which filed silently around the rapidly lessening blare. Gill and Cassi came next, walking arm in arm, the former wearing a coat that a brawny man had thrown over his shivering shoulders.

When the column came to where the front entrance of the store had been, Hunch and Blind Benner were struggling in the water made by the snow melting in the heat of the fire. "What's this?" sternly demanded Colonel Hornberger, who broke into a laugh before he received an answer. The fire excitement was still working in him.

"He tried ter burn hisself an' I wouldn't let him," Hunch replied.

"What did he want to do that for?" asked the Colonel.

"Cause Lizzī's dead."

Thus was told in simple words to the people of Three Sisters what Lizzī herself had not known, that Blind Benner loved her.

Simultaneously with this disclosure came the sound of a horse galloping over the Boomer Creek bridge. The horse came rapidly nearer, and soon his hoofs resounded from the long bridge that spanned the river.

It was a wild gallop, yet the horse ran as if some one sat him urging him on.

"The doctor," surmised every one, and the procession halted. Hunch voiced the general guess to Blind Benner, whom he yet held on the ground.

"The doctor's comin'. He'll bring Lizzī back ter life, see if he don't, Benner."

The blind man ceased struggling, and Hunch let him get on his feet, but watched him warily.

A shout of glad welcome greeted the familiar roan that "saddle-bags," as the Three-Sisters folk would call their physician, always rode when visiting distant patients or in response to urgent calls. The men who bore the stretcher set it down, in readiness for Dr. Barnes, as he reined his horse in the midst of the crowd of men and women who pressed dangerously near the excited animal. Strong hands seized the bridle and muscular arms almost pulled the physician from the saddle, while Colonel Hornberger graphically narrated the story of Gill's rescue and told of Lizzī's swoon which was like death.

"She's choked with the smoke, Lizzī is, and don't come to," said Cassi, piteously.

Garrulous women pushed forward to furnish the doctor with details of the rescue and praise Lizzī, but he would not listen to them. He pressed his ear to Lizzī's bosom and silence fell on the spectators. He raised his head, and they, eager, expectant, saw no encouragement in his face. From his pocket he produced a small mirror and wiped it dry with a silk handkerchief. He held it a moment over Lizzī's mouth and smiled.

The air quivered with shouts, the boisterous hurrahs of the men, the shrill huzzas of the women.

CHAPTER IX.

A LETTER FROM GILL'S MOTHER

Lizzī recovered soon after she was placed in her bed. Gret Reed had aided the physician, and was the first person Lizzī saw when her eyes dreamily opened. They closed again at once, for from downstairs Gill's voice reached her ears, and she knew he was safe. She was ill (she would laugh at the word) but a day.

When the excitement over her had subsided, wondering inquiries as to the origin of the fire began to be voiced. Gill was called to account for going to bed with his clothes on.

"I was working late at the books," he said, "it being the end of the month, and I got so sleepy and tired that I just pulled off my coat and threw myself on the bed and fell asleep."

Colonel Hornberger believed him, and no one had reason to suspect him.

The origin of the fire remained a mystery, but the loss occasioned by the destruction of the store was severe upon the Three Sisters people. Colonel Hornberger set out at once for the city to buy a new stock, first making arrangements with the proprietors of the nearest store to supply his employés with necessities. The Colonel took Gill with him.

Before departing, the latter called upon Lizzī and, in the presence of her family, feelingly expressed his gratitude for the heroic rescue of his unworthy life. He depreciated himself modestly, and the McAnays thought him very unassuming. Lizzī put up her hand in glad protest as she heard his graceful sentences, conveying to her a deeper meaning than thankfulness.

"When I come back," was their promise, "then," they said to her, "I shall acknowledge you as my wife, Lizzī."

The Colonel was expeditious, and soon returned with a large stock of goods, some of which were stored in the warehouse at the station; the balance was placed upon the shelves of the temporary building that had been erected in his absence. For a few days Gill was very busy, and his visits to Lizzī were only short calls.

One evening he came early, evidently with the intention of making a visit. Soon he and Lizzī were left alone together.

"I have had a letter from mother, Lizzī," Gill said eagerly, but his tone was not loud. "Such a letter about you and the fire, and I am sure all I have to do is to go and see her, and she will be only too glad to receive you as her daughter."

Lizzī stood still. Her heart beat so hard she thought it would burst, and the color deepened on her cheek. She had few tricks. Her honest nature expressed itself simply. She was glad, and her face and posture were the manifestations of her joy. She was one of the few persons with whom words at times have too deep meaning to be uttered, and whose actions are the sole exponents of their feeling.

Gill said quietly:

"Sit down, dear, and I will read you the letter."

But she could not do so without giving vent to her feelings, which she did in the very undramatic act of poking the fire. She did it vigorously, and the click of the metal stove doors as she closed them was a "There now" to her mood. Then she sat down ready to listen. He began at once.

"'My dear son, doubly precious to me because of your nearness to a horrible death, give my love to the brave girl who saved you to me. Some day she may know from the anguish of her own heart over a child's peril how much I mean when I say I am grateful to her. Words cannot be stronger than that. If she is ever a mother, she will learn that it is the parent's love alone that endures in all its sensitiveness.

"'But I am jealous, weakly, selfishly jealous of the grand girl of whom you write so admiringly. It seems to me I detect in your sentences the evidence that she has dethroned me in your heart, where until now I flatter myself I have been first.

"'You say she is beautiful, womanly; that her great physical strength does not detract from her femininity; that she is always a modest, gentle woman. I am glad to know it, and if you love her I cannot be so cruel as to execute the threat I wrote so fiercely some time ago, when I guessed you were losing your heart. I guess again, John: Lizzī is the woman you wrote of then. But come home; come and tell me about her who has saved your life, and against whom I have not the heart to hurl my former threat.

Your fond Mother.'"

Lizzī took the letter and looked at it. The beautiful, clear writing was the same as that of the other letter, which had led to her secret marriage. Now the obstacles to the acknowledgment of that ceremony were, or soon would be, removed. She clasped her hands, enfolding in them the letter, and sat still, listening to her heart beating a reveillé for the sunrise of certainty. She had been living in the night of doubt. She had been afraid of this formidable mother, who wrote so beautifully and coldly, but now this fear was banished, and love, reciprocally grateful, took its place. Her heart went out to the fond, yet jealous, mother who had written so yieldingly of her. This mother had clung so determinedly to her son, but now she loosed her grasp on him that he might tend whither he would, because his way led to her, Lizzī.

She was flattered by the manner in which Gill had written to his mother of her. "For," she reasoned, "a man will be honest with his mother."

"Go, John," she said simply. "Your mother should know before the world does."

"I think it best, Lizzī. I shall come back in two weeks unless something happens to me."

"Don't say that, John, or you can't go. If anything should happen to you, death would happen to me."

She kissed him. Her kiss was fire to his blood. He caught her in a passionate embrace. His lack of reverence wounded her. She shrank from his touch, which for the first time seemed coarse. Instinctively he understood and released her.

The next day he departed for his mother's residence.

CHAPTER X.

BLIND BENNER'S TRIBUTE

The two weeks of Gill's absence ran into six and he had not come back. Lizzī wrote to the address he gave, and the letter was returned to her. Gossip said he had deserted her, but she said to her broken heart, "John is dead."

She recalled his fond good-by and his promise to return, with or without his mother's approval of his marriage, at the end of two weeks. She remembered his cavalier appearance as he rode by the Block and waved her a farewell. She heard still the sound of his horse's hoofs in the long bridge. She knew he had considerable money on his person, and supposed some one had murdered him for it. She was left a widow, indeed.

Yet she held her peace and bore herself proudly as ever. Her eyes did not quail before the cold stare of the matrons. Her honest heart sustained her. It did not cry out, "Shame! shame!" So she did not seclude herself, nor was she forward. When necessity called her into the streets, she courageously faced her old acquaintances and bore with patience their scorn. Two women were kind to her and sad for her, but were not oppressive in their attentions. These were Mrs. Hornberger and Gret Reed. Yet she did not seek the comfort of their sympathy, nor once become weak enough to ask them to believe in her. Appearances were against her, but she never intimated that she could produce legal proof of her innocence. Her heart cried out in woe, "I am bereft," and there was no solace for her, grieving for her dead husband. She could not weep, because the tears would be misconstrued.

Her father's kind words had been a great support to her.

"Ye may have gone wrong, Lizzī, but I'll ne'er believe it till ye tell it me."

The deep tenderness of his tones had touched her where the tears lay, and they rose, overflowing the obstruction her will had built against their flood. She fell at his feet. It was Saturday night, and he sat in his split-bottomed chair, resting. She laid her head on his knee, and sobbed and wept convulsively. His shaking hand stroked caressingly her soft black hair, and he murmured low lullaby words as if soothing a child. His conviction had been unhesitatingly expressed, but his sympathy could not find suitable language except in a song that was used to hush a crying infant.

He was seventy years old. His hair and beard were pure white. His broad chest and square shoulders told the story of his vigorous age. It was not to frown that he contracted his eyebrows, but to narrow his vision, while he fixed a gentle look on his daughter, for whom his heart ached, but in whom he believed. No, he did not frown on her. He never did shadow her babyhood, her childhood, her dawning womanhood, nor now would he her approaching motherhood, by scowl of his. He sat bowing above his daughter, not casting a stone at her, but quivering over her head a blessing of trust.

His wife tottered down the stairs, and Lizzī made a movement as if to arise, but he kept her at his knee.

Mrs. McAnay was not a hard woman, but she had to the full measure her sex's vindictiveness against the woman who is weak and it was difficult for her not to relieve her mind of what she considered its just sentiments towards her daughter. Yet she pitied Lizzī. She stopped at the foot of the stairs and gazed wonderingly at the father and daughter. Peter did not speak and Lizzī remained on her knees. Mrs. McAnay slowly approached her child and bent over her.

"I am glad yer confessin', girl," she said in a weak, quavering voice.

Lizzī shivered. Her mother's hand resting on her head was not cold, but the knowledge that she yet withheld from her parents what they should know sent a chill to her heart.

"Tain't that yet, mother," said Peter, "for I'm thinkin' she ain't got anything to confess that's wrong. I was sayin' something to her that made her cry, that's all."

The door opened, and Levi and Matthi entered. Lizzī had not yet risen, and her mother stood over her.

The boys stopped at the door, and would have gone out again had not their father bade them stay. They knew no law higher than obedience to their venerable father. So they remained, awkwardly seating themselves, while Lizzī rose to her feet and buried her tear-stained face in her hands. An embarrassing silence fell on the group. It was broken by the entrance of Cassi and Blind Benner. Cassi saw at a glance that a family scene was in progress, and he started to escort Blind Benner to the door, but Peter said he was welcome. Cassi seated Benner, and then leaned against the wall.

"Boys!"

Peter had risen, and at the sound of his voice addressing them Levi and Matthi stood up, and Cassi took a step from the wall. "Boys, I've been tellin' yer sister that I don't believe she has gone wrong, and I want to know if you think as I do."

"Yes."

A volley of affirmation, a single unflagging response, which Lizzī echoed by a sob, and their mother heard with pride, but still she doubted. She went from one son to the other, kissing each in turn, yet she doubted her daughter.

Blind Benner had groped his way to Lizzī, and caught her right hand just as it was going to produce her marriage certificate.

"Listen!" he said as he held her hand in both of his. "Listen an' I'll tell yer all 'bout Lizzī."

An expectant hush fell upon the group, and even Lizzī's thumping heart beat more softly as she awaited her blind friend's story.

"My eyes are only a joke." He spoke like a wise cynic. "They don't see. Hunch says they look like good eyes an' move an' wink like other people's. 'Tain't no use their winkin', 'cause the light don't hurt them."

Very bitterly he spoke the last sentence as he winked his eyes sarcastically.

"But my ears, they're good; they know." His tone became more cheerful, but no less earnest. "They hear well, better than you folks see. They know when the birds laugh and when they cry, when they're glad and when they're sad. They know when the fiddle's in tune. They know a right sound. No, I've no eyes to see the white snow, er the blue sky, er the green grass; but my ears hears the wind in the trees, and it never lies ter me. I know when it's mad, when it's sad, when it's glad. So is Lizzī's voice ter me, like the wind among the trees that never lies ter me. I hev never seen Lizzī's face, but I hev heard her voice. I know when she's glad, when she's mad, when she's sad. I hev heard her sing her baby songs when she thought nobody was listenin', an' she sings 'em like my mother did, an' my mother wasn't false; no more is Lizzī."

The men clamored their approval of Blind Benner's tribute to Lizzī, but Mrs. McAnay remained silent, still doubting, and Lizzī, though her heart hungered for her mother's trust, would not ask for it.

CHAPTER XI.

LIZZĪ STOPS A FIGHT

Saturday evening was a money-making time for the landlord of the "Three-Girls" Tavern, as the inn was familiarly called. On that evening old scores were wiped off the slate and new ones opened, to be lengthened during the coming week until on the next Saturday they followed their predecessors into Nowhere. Into Nowhere? Perhaps. But Memory hides in Nowhere, and Memory is terrifying when she catches one in a lonely way and brings him up with hair on end, as he gazes at the dog Conscience, whose leash she seems ready to let slip that he may rend the poor wayfarer. Yet, the score is erased from the landlord's slate and, it may be, from memory's tablet – for the nonce.

The usual Saturday night crowd had gathered in the bar-room, and tongues had been loosened by drink. Words flew thick and fast. Language was not choice. At short intervals there was a demand for an apology, or a fight. The McAnay brothers were there and all drinking, though not very deeply. Cassi, who was standing treat, was the centre of a group of muscular men, some of whom were intoxicated. The glasses had been filled with pure rye whiskey. They were held high in the air, then they were clinked, while the landlord bowed and smirked as he waited for the toast.

Henry Myers gave it.

"Here's ter yer and the rest uv yer family, and ter the rightin' uv yer sister's fair name."

Cassi's face flushed. Levi and Matthi scowled, but the others drank off the toast with a smack. Levi, Matthi, and Cassi did not drink, but the latter pretended to do so, holding the glass to his lips. When the others were done and the glasses rattled on the bar, he removed the glass from his lips. The whiskey was untouched. Before a question arose as to why he had not drank, he spit into the liquid and threw it into Henry's face.

"Thet's the way I drink such a toast, Hen Myers."

Henry, pale with rage and goaded by the challenge and the loud laugh that greeted Cassi's act, leaped at the latter, but was met with a blow that staggered, but did not fell him.

"Yer hed no bizness ter drag my sister's name inter this bar-room," yelled Cassi, following up his advantage and striking Henry fairly between the eyes, knocking him against the bar.

"She's dragged her own name in the mud," shouted Tom Myers, Henry's brother.

"Yer a liar!" Matthi replied.

They began to fight. Levi stood by, a smile of admiration playing around his mouth, while he urged his brothers to do their best. The crowd cleared a space. The landlord implored the fighters to cease, but their blood was hot. The spectators knew they would behold a rare struggle, with the odds against Cassi and Matthi, for the Myers brothers were notorious fighters and older men. Man to man was the rule of the Three-Sisters code of honor, and Levi stood by, ready to continue the fight in the place of the first vanquished brother.

Henry Myers rushed on Cassi again and, seizing him in his powerful arms, threw him with great force on the floor. There he lay senseless; his head had struck against the bar.

Immediately Levi, the queer, leering smile hovering around his mouth, leaped into the fray and dealt Henry a blow that shut one eye. His dexterity was applauded by the spectators, who thought it a great pity that Levi had not opened the fight instead of Cassi, who was too light for Henry, whom Levi fairly mated. Matthi was not faring well with Tom Myers, and the way the struggle was going it looked as if Levi and Tom would be left as sole contestants, when into the midst of the fighters rushed Lizzī, brandishing the poker, a long iron rod, which she had snatched from the stove as she entered.

Hunch had seen her on the opposite side of the street, and, running to her, had said, "Hooray! Lizzī, the boys is gettin' in great licks fer yer."

Pausing, she listened to his proud story of how the fight began; and, without waiting for him to conclude, crossed the street quickly and entered the tavern, the dwarf following closely.

In the low-ceilinged bar-room, where the smoke from strong pipes almost stifled her, she stood, an Amazon before whom the fighters fell back sullenly. There was majesty in her demeanor, and upon her face no sign of shame. Honest motherhood and sincere sisterly gratitude, pride, and affection flashed from her eyes, deepened the modest blush on her cheek, and trembled in her tones.

"I am thankful to you, Levi and Matthi, and to you, dear Cassi." Kneeling, she kissed the forehead of the unconscious man.

When she rose, the poker fell from her fingers and struck the floor with a dull thud. Standing firmly, with one foot advanced, she continued: "Yes, dear boys, I'm thankful to you, but my name needs no defence."

A hush followed her words, then a cheer broke involuntarily from her hearers. The Myers brothers looked at each other furtively, and a smile appeared on Levi's face, who was uninjured. Matthi, whose mouth was bleeding, betrayed by the expression of his eyes his pride in the sister for whom he had fought. Some of the spectators stepped forward to raise Cassi, but Lizzī intercepted them. Then pointing to her brother, she regally commanded the Meyers boys.

"You killed him; now take him to his old mother."

Murder! a shiver ran through the crowd.

The Myers brothers looked at the men around them. A living wall encompassed them, which at a woman's bidding would topple and crush them. They could not pierce it. Lizzī stamped her foot and startled them into action.

They lifted Cassi gently. Lizzī pointed to the door. The crowd fell back. Levi and Matthi led the way. Next them came Thomas and Henry with Cassi's limp form. Lizzī followed, and the crowd escorted them. At the edge of the assemblage were boys whose shrill voices broke the silence. Vengeance was held in abeyance by a woman's whim; and Thomas and Henry Myers walked unsteadily, fearful that, Herodias-like, she would have their heads.

Before they were half-way to the Block the constable appeared, and to the stern assemblage added the subtle, intangible when not provoked, but when angered terrible, presence of the law.

Nearer to the Block the crowd approached. Doors and windows were thrown open hastily, and broad beams of light fell across the street, while curious persons thrust out their heads to learn the cause of the unusual procession marching so grimly over the bands of light and darkness.

Nearer still to the Block the column came. Soon the heavy footsteps on the porch would strike terror to the aged mother's heart, already half broken by doubt. Soon to the feet of that doubting mother would be borne the senseless form of her youngest son, stricken down in defence of his sister's fair name. Halt, pressing crowd eager to witness a heart-break.

But the Queen had commanded, and there was no alternative.

There was a momentary halt at the door as if for orders, every man acting as if under a spell which she alone could break. But she could not speak. Her voice seemed dead in her throat.

The door was open and she saw her mother, who did not look up as Levi and Matthi entered. The Myers brothers with their burden crossed the door-sill, and Lizzī, a queen no more, but a remorseful, dejected woman, stood in the open door, with her profile to the crowd, keeping it at bay.