That's what he did, in spite of hell and the sheriff."
Turning, after inevitable exclamations, toward home, Calvin found Lucy
sitting moodily on the porch.
"I've got a right ugly piece of news," he told her, masking the painful
interest with which he followed her expression. "Martin Eckles was
killed yesterday; shot out of the buggy."
She grew pale, her breast rose in a sudden gasp and her hands were
clenched.
"Oh!" she whispered, horrified.
But there was nothing in her manner beyond the natural detestation of
such brutality; nothing, he saw, hidden.
"He wanted me to go away with him," she swept on; "and get married in
Stanwick. Martin wanted me to see the world. He said I ought to, and
not stay here all my life."
The misery that settled over her, the hopelessness dulling her youth
filled him with a passionate resentment at the fate that made her what
she was and seemingly condemned her to eternal denial. His love for
her--Lucy, Hannah, Hannah, Lucy--was intolerably keen. He went to her,
bending with a riven hand on the arm of her chair.
"Do you want Wilmer?" he demanded. "Do you love him truly? Is he
enough?"
"I don't know." Slow tears wet her cheeks. "I can't say. I ought to;
he's good and faithful, and with some of me that's enough. But there's
another part; I can't explain it except to say it's a kind of
excitement for the life Mr. Eckles told us about, all those lights and
restaurants and theaters.
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