"Yes, yes! When I see how gentle women are with us clods of men, I
really, I--you know--" William had never since his courting days got
into such a bog of sentiment, and he stammered his way out of it by
saying that Sam was a perfect nuisance.
When they reached the gateway of the senior warden's place, Mrs.
Richie said that she would wait. "I'll stand here in the road; and if
you will make some excuse, and find out--"
"Very well," he said. "I'll come back as quickly as I can, and tell
you he's all right. There isn't a particle of reason for anxiety, but
it's a better sedative for you than bromide. That's the why I'm doing
it," said William candidly. He gave her the lantern, and said he did
not like to leave her. "You won't be frightened? You can see the house
from here, and can call if you want me. I'll have to stay about ten
minutes, or they wouldn't understand my coming in."
She nodded, impatient at his delay, and he slipped into the shadow of
the maples and disappeared. For a minute she could hear the crunch of
his footsteps on the gravel of the driveway. She sat down on the grass
by the roadside, and leaned her head against the big white gate-post.
The lantern burned steadily beside her, casting on the ground a shower
of yellow spots that blurred into a widening circle of light. Except
for the crickets all was still. The cooler air of night brought out
the heavy scents of damp earth and leaves, and over in the deep grass
a late May-apple spilled from its ivory cup the heavy odor of death. A
bob-white fluted in the darkness on the other side of the road.
Her acute apprehension had ceased. William King was so certain, that,
had the reality been less dreadful she would have been ashamed of the
fuss she had made. She wanted only this final assurance that the boy
was at home, safe and sound; then she would think of her own affairs.
She watched the moths fly about the lantern, and when one poor downy
pair of wings touched the hot, domed top and fell fluttering into the
road, she bent forward and looked at it, wondering what she could do
for it. To kill it would be the kindest thing,--to put it out of its
pain. But some obscure connection of ideas made her shudder back from
death, even a moth's death; she lifted the little creature gently, and
laid it in the dewy grass.