The Path of the King [94]
meant to have a fine skin curtain fastened to it when winter came. The floor was of beaten earth, but there was a rough ceiling of smaller logs, with a trap in it which could be reached by pegs stuck the centre post. In that garret the children slept. Tom's building zeal had come to an end with the bed. Some day he meant to fit in a door and windows, but these luxuries could wait till he got his clearing in better order.
On a stool by the bed stood a wooden bowl containing gruel. The woman had not eaten for days, and the stuff had a thick scum on it. The place was very stuffy, for it was a hot and sickly autumn day and skins which darkened the window holes kept out the little freshness that was in the air. Beside the gruel was a tin pannikin of cold water which the boy ,Abe fetched every hour from the spring. She saw the water, but was too weak to reach it.
The shining doorway was blocked by a man's entrance. Tom Linkhorn was a little over middle height, with long muscular arms, and the corded neck sinews which tell of great strength. He had a shock of coarse black hair, grey eyes and a tired sallow face, as of one habitually overworked and underfed. His jaw was heavy, but loosely put together, so that he presented an air of weakness and irresolution. His lips were thick and pursed in a kind of weary good humour. He wore an old skin shirt and a pair of towlinen pants, which flapped about his bare brown ankles. A fine sawdust coated his hair and shoulders, for he had been working in the shed where he eked out his farming by making spinning wheels for his neighbours.
He came softly to the bedside and looked down at his wife. His face was gentle and puzzled.
"Reckon you're better, dearie," he said in a curious harsh toneless voice.
The sick woman moved her head feebly in the direction of the stool and he lifted the pannikin of water to her lips.
"Cold enough?" he asked, and his wife nodded. "Abe fetches it as reg'lar as a clock."
"Where's Abe?" she asked, and her voice for all its feebleness had a youthful music in it.
"I heerd him sayin' he was goin' down to the crick to cotch a fish. He reckoned you'd fancy a fish when you could eat a piece. He's a mighty thoughtful boy, our Abe. Then he was comin' to read to you. You'd like that, dearie?"
The sick woman made no sign. Her eyes were vacantly regarding the doorway.
"I've got to leave you now. I reckon I'll borrow the Dawneys' sorrel horse and ride into Gentryville. I've got the young hogs to sell, and I'll fetch back the corn-meal from Hickson's. Sally Hickson was just like you last fall, and I want to find out from Jim how she got her strength up."
He put a hand on her brow, and felt it cool.
"Glory! You're mendin' fast, Nancy gal. You'll be well in time to can the berries that the childern's picked. He fished from below the bed a pair of skin brogues and slipped them on his feet. "I'll be back before night."
"I want Abe," she moaned.
"I'll send him to you," he said as he went out
Left alone the woman lay still for a little in a stupor of weariness. Waves of that terrible lassitude, which is a positive anguish and not a mere absence of strength, flowed over her. The square of the doorway, which was directly before her eyes, began to take strange forms. It was filled with yellow sunlight, and a red glow beyond told of the sugar-maples at the edge of the clearing. Now it seemed to her unquiet sight to be a furnace. Outside the world was burning; she could feel the heat of it in the close cabin. For a second acute fear startled her weakness. It passed, her eyes cleared, and she saw the homely doorway as it was, and heard the gobble of a turkey in the forest.
The fright had awakened her mind and senses. For the first time she fully realised her condition. Life no longer moved steadily in her body; it flickered and wavered and would soon gutter out. . . . Her eyes marked every detail of the squalor around her--the unwashed dishes, the foul earthen floor, the rotting apple pile, the heap of rags which had been her only clothes. She
On a stool by the bed stood a wooden bowl containing gruel. The woman had not eaten for days, and the stuff had a thick scum on it. The place was very stuffy, for it was a hot and sickly autumn day and skins which darkened the window holes kept out the little freshness that was in the air. Beside the gruel was a tin pannikin of cold water which the boy ,Abe fetched every hour from the spring. She saw the water, but was too weak to reach it.
The shining doorway was blocked by a man's entrance. Tom Linkhorn was a little over middle height, with long muscular arms, and the corded neck sinews which tell of great strength. He had a shock of coarse black hair, grey eyes and a tired sallow face, as of one habitually overworked and underfed. His jaw was heavy, but loosely put together, so that he presented an air of weakness and irresolution. His lips were thick and pursed in a kind of weary good humour. He wore an old skin shirt and a pair of towlinen pants, which flapped about his bare brown ankles. A fine sawdust coated his hair and shoulders, for he had been working in the shed where he eked out his farming by making spinning wheels for his neighbours.
He came softly to the bedside and looked down at his wife. His face was gentle and puzzled.
"Reckon you're better, dearie," he said in a curious harsh toneless voice.
The sick woman moved her head feebly in the direction of the stool and he lifted the pannikin of water to her lips.
"Cold enough?" he asked, and his wife nodded. "Abe fetches it as reg'lar as a clock."
"Where's Abe?" she asked, and her voice for all its feebleness had a youthful music in it.
"I heerd him sayin' he was goin' down to the crick to cotch a fish. He reckoned you'd fancy a fish when you could eat a piece. He's a mighty thoughtful boy, our Abe. Then he was comin' to read to you. You'd like that, dearie?"
The sick woman made no sign. Her eyes were vacantly regarding the doorway.
"I've got to leave you now. I reckon I'll borrow the Dawneys' sorrel horse and ride into Gentryville. I've got the young hogs to sell, and I'll fetch back the corn-meal from Hickson's. Sally Hickson was just like you last fall, and I want to find out from Jim how she got her strength up."
He put a hand on her brow, and felt it cool.
"Glory! You're mendin' fast, Nancy gal. You'll be well in time to can the berries that the childern's picked. He fished from below the bed a pair of skin brogues and slipped them on his feet. "I'll be back before night."
"I want Abe," she moaned.
"I'll send him to you," he said as he went out
Left alone the woman lay still for a little in a stupor of weariness. Waves of that terrible lassitude, which is a positive anguish and not a mere absence of strength, flowed over her. The square of the doorway, which was directly before her eyes, began to take strange forms. It was filled with yellow sunlight, and a red glow beyond told of the sugar-maples at the edge of the clearing. Now it seemed to her unquiet sight to be a furnace. Outside the world was burning; she could feel the heat of it in the close cabin. For a second acute fear startled her weakness. It passed, her eyes cleared, and she saw the homely doorway as it was, and heard the gobble of a turkey in the forest.
The fright had awakened her mind and senses. For the first time she fully realised her condition. Life no longer moved steadily in her body; it flickered and wavered and would soon gutter out. . . . Her eyes marked every detail of the squalor around her--the unwashed dishes, the foul earthen floor, the rotting apple pile, the heap of rags which had been her only clothes. She