Mr. Royall turned to her. “Ask him when he’s going to marry you, then—-” There was another silence, and he laughed in his turn–a broken laugh, with a scraping sound in it. “You darsn’t!” he shouted out with sudden passion. He went close up to Charity, his right arm lifted, not in menace but in tragic exhortation.
“You darsn’t, and you know it–and you know why!” He swung back again upon the young man. “And you know why you ain’t asked her to marry you, and why you don’t mean to. It’s because you hadn’t need to; nor any other man either. I’m the only one that was fool enough not to know that; and I guess nobody’ll repeat my mistake–not in Eagle County, anyhow. They all know what she is, and what she came from. They all know her mother was a woman of the town from Nettleton, that followed one of those Mountain fellows up to his place and lived there with him like a heathen. I saw her there sixteen years ago, when I went to bring this child down. I went to save her from the kind of life her mother was leading–but I’d better have left her in the kennel she came from….” He paused and stared darkly at the two young people, and out beyond them, at the menacing Mountain with its rim of fire; then he sat down beside the table on which they had so often spread their rustic supper, and covered his face with his hands. Harney leaned in the window, a frown on his face: he was twirling between his fingers a small package that dangled from a loop of string….Charity heard Mr. Royall draw a hard breath or two, and his shoulders shook a little. Presently he stood up and walked across the room. He did not look again at the young people: they saw him feel his way to the door and fumble for the latch; and then he went out into the darkness.
After he had gone there was a long silence. Charity waited for Harney to speak; but he seemed at first not to find anything to say. At length he broke out irrelevantly: “I wonder how he found out?”
She made no answer and he tossed down the package he had been holding, and went up to her.
“I’m so sorry, dear…that this should have happened….”
She threw her head back proudly. “I ain’t ever been sorry–not a minute!”
“No.”
She waited to be caught into his arms, but he turned away from her irresolutely. The last glow was gone from behind the Mountain. Everything in the room had turned grey and indistinct, and an autumnal dampness crept up from the hollow below the orchard, laying its cold touch on their flushed faces. Harney walked the length of the room, and then turned back and sat down at the table.
“Come,” he said imperiously.
She sat down beside him, and he untied the string about the package and spread out a pile of sandwiches.
“I stole them from the love-feast at Hamblin,” he said with a laugh, pushing them over to her. She laughed too, and took one, and began to eat
“Didn’t you make the tea?”
“No,” she said. “I forgot—-”
“Oh, well–it’s too late to boil the water now.” He said nothing more, and sitting opposite to each other they went on silently eating the sandwiches. Darkness had descended in the little room, and Harney’s face was a dim blur to Charity. Suddenly he leaned across the table and laid his hand on hers.
“I shall have to go off for a while–a month or two, perhaps–to arrange some things; and then I’ll come back…and we’ll get married.”
His voice seemed like a stranger’s: nothing was left in it of the vibrations she knew. Her hand lay inertly under his, and she left it there, and raised her head, trying to answer him. But the words died in her throat. They sat motionless, in their attitude of confident endearment, as if some strange death had surprised them. At length Harney sprang to his feet with a slight shiver. “God! it’s damp–we couldn’t have come here much longer.” He went to the shelf, took down a tin candle-stick and lit the candle; then he propped an unhinged shutter against the empty window- frame and put the candle on the table. It threw a queer shadow on his frowning forehead, and made the smile on his lips a grimace.