Bylow Hill by George Washington Cable

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He was down there in the early starlight when Ruth drove softly into the
garden, bringing Isabel. Warily the mother came out into the pillared
porch, and silently received the house's mistress into her arms.

"He doesn't know," she said. "I couldn't tell him till you should come,
for fear of disappointing him."

The argument seemed strained, but no one said so, and with a whispered
good-night Ruth drove away, and the two went in. As they stole upstairs
they debated how Isabel had best reveal herself. "I'm terribly afraid
that won't work, blessing," said Mrs. Morris; "you'd better let me break
it to him, first."

"No, dearie, I don't think so. I haven't the shadow of a fear"--

"Oh, my darling child, you never have!"

"But I know him so well, mother. We have only to come unexpectedly face
to face and--Oh, I've seen the effect so often!" They entered her room
whispering: "I'll change this dress for the one he last saw me in, and
stand over here by the crib where I stood then, and--Oh, sweet Heaven!
is this my little flower sleeping just as I left her?" With clasped
hands and tearful eyes she bent over the child.

XXI

EVENING RED

Then she began to unrobe, but stopped to throw her arms about her
mother's neck.

"Now, dearly beloved, you hurry away down the path and persuade him up
and send him in. I'm only afraid you'll find him chilled half to death,
it's growing cold so fast. And you can follow in after him, dearie, if
you wish,--only not too close."

The mother went, and had got no farther than the cross-path when she
came all at once upon the master of the house.

"Oh! ho, ho! here you are! I was just--Arthur, dear, where is your
overcoat? Do go right up to your room, my son, till I can get Sarah
to have a fire started in the library." She multiplied words in pure
affright, so drawn was his face with anguish, and so wild his eyes
with aimless consternation.

Without reply he passed in and went upstairs. Mrs. Morris remained
below.

Isabel's heart beat fast. She had made her change of dress, and in a far
corner of her room, with her face toward the open door that let into
his, was again leaning with a mother's ecstasy over the sleeping babe,
when she heard his step.

It came to his outer door, which from her place could not be seen.

Did he stop, and stand there? No, he had not stopped; he was only moving
softly, for the child's sake.

She stood motionless, listening and looking with her whole soul, and
wishing the light were less dim in this shadowy corner, but knowing
there was enough to show her to him when he should reach the nearer
door. The endless moment wore away, and there on the threshold he
stood--if that--Oh merciful God!--if that was Arthur Winslow.

His eyes fell instantly upon her, yet he made neither motion nor sound,
only stayed and stared, while an unearthly terror came into his face.

Care of the child kept her silent, but in solemn tenderness she lifted
her arms toward him.

He uttered a freezing shriek and fled. In an instant his tread was
resounding in the hall, then on two or three steps of the stair as she
hurried after, and then there came a long, tumbling fall, her mother's
wail in the hail below, and a hoarse cry of dismay from Giles as he
rushed out of the library.

"He's only stunned, mum," Giles was saying as Isabel reached the spot.
"He's no more nor just stunned, mum."

He had lifted the fallen man's head and shoulders, and Mrs. Stebbens
came, dropping to her knees and sprinkling water into the still, white
face.

Isabel threw herself between.

[Illustration: "Arthur! Arthur! can't you speak?"]

"Arthur! Arthur! can't you speak? Oh, let us move him into the library!"

"Yes, um!" exclaimed Giles. "'E'll come to in there; you can see 'e's
only stunned."

He tried to raise him, and Isabel and Sarah moved to help; but the wife
turned on hearing Ruth's voice at her side, and Leonard Byington lifted
the limp man in his arms unaided, and bore him to the library lounge.

"Arthur," he pleaded, with arms still under him, "can't you speak to us,
dear boy? Say at least good-by, can't you, Arthur?" He parted the
clothing from neck and breast, and laid an ear to his heart.

"Do you hear it, Leonard?" cried the wife. "Oh, you do hear it, don't
you, Leonard?"

There was no answer. For a moment Leonard's own form relaxed, and he
turned his face and buried it in the unresponsive breast. Then he lifted
it again, and taking the other face between his hands he sank his brow
to the brow upturned and cried: "God rest your soul, Arthur! Oh, Arthur,
Arthur, God rest your soul!"

XXII

MORNING GRAY

Mrs. Morris gave the physician her account of the accident, the
physician gave the reporters his, and no other ever got into the old
street or the town it looks down upon with such sweet superiority.

Said the rustic vestryman to another pall-bearer, as they turned toward
their homes, "Many's the time All Angels's been craowded, but I never
see it craowded as 'twas this time."

The new mound was white under January snows when Godfrey and Isabel
first stood beside it together; and when summer had come and gone again,
and at last the time drew near when, by the regular alternations of the
service, the ocean wanderer's three years afloat were to be followed by
three ashore, it was beside that mound that Ruth let him ask the
long-withheld question.

And once more the new year followed the old.

On one of its earliest days, "I cal'late," a certain somebody began to
say to General Byington, "th' never was a happier weddin' so quiet, nor
a qui--" But he caught the sheen of his daughter's spectacles and
forebore.

And still moved on the heavenly procession of the seasons; and as each
new one passed with smile and song, and strewed its flowers or fruits
on Bylow Hill, the memory of one who after life's fitful fever slept
soundly at last was ever a sweet forgetting of all that had once been
bitter, and a sweeter and sweeter remembrance of whatsoever things had
been pure, lovely, and of good report.

One day the travelling salesman of fruit trees came again. This time he
met Minnie, some of whose information puzzled him.

"But I thought you said the young Mrs. Winslow lived in the large house
on this side."

"Yes, but that's the other one; that's Mrs. Isabel Winslow, the widow.
Captain Winslow, he's so much o' the time to the navy yard that him and
his wife they just keep their home along with her father and Mr.
Leonard."

"And who is it that, I understand, a Mr. Giles over here is about to
marry?"

For reply Minnie covered her mouth and nose with her hand, sputtered,
and shut the door in his face.

Another year went by, yet another followed, and still Ruth--daughter,
sister, wife, and mother--remained the happy mistress of the house in
which she was born, and Leonard remained one of her household. Mrs.
Morris turned the cottage over to Mr. and Mrs. Giles--hem!--and dwelt in
the Winslow house with Isabel; who, even the young said, grew more
beautiful and lovable all the time.

But there came a day, after all,--year uncertain,--when Leonard, with
Mrs. Morris's little namesake on his knee, asked Isabel if she did not
think it would be well for him to go away for a while; and Isabel
murmured no.

So by and by the Winslow pair went to live in the Winslow house, and the
Byington pair in the Byington house; and if you listen well, you may
hear an aged voice, a voice with a brogue, saying:--

"Ay! there's a Linnard Winslow, now, and there's a Godfrey Boyington.
And there's still an Isable Winslow and a Ruth Boyington. But the mother
of Ruth Boyington is she that wor Isable Winslow, moy graciouz! and the
mother of Isable Winslow is she that wor Ruth Boyington. And so there
be's an Isable in the wan house and an Isable in th' other; and there
be's a Ruth in the wan house and a Ruth in th' other, moy graciouz! and
there's an Airthur in each, whatsomiver!"

By GEORGE W. CABLE

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