“I guess I shall fetch it,” said Newell Bond.

He was sitting on the doorstep, in the summer dusk, with Dorcas Lee.  She knew just how his gaunt, large-featured face looked, with its hawk-like glance, and the color, as he spoke, mounting to his forehead.  There were two kinds of Bonds, the red and the black.  The red Bonds had the name of carrying out their will in all undertakings, and Newell was one.  Dorcas was on the step above him, her splendid shoulders disdaining the support of the casing, and her head, with its heavy braids, poised with an unconscious pride, no more spirited by daylight than here in the dark where no one saw.  She answered in her full, rich voice: -

“Of course you will, if you want to bad enough.”

“If I want to?” repeated Newell.  “Ain’t I acted as if ’twas the one thing I did want?”

Over and over they had dwelt upon the great purpose of his life, sometimes to touch it here and there with delicate implication, and often to sit down, by an unspoken consent, for long, serious talks.  To-night Newell spoke from a reminiscent mood.  There were times when, in an ingenuous egoism, he had to take down the book of his romance and read a page.  But only to Dorcas.  She was his one confidant; she understood.

“I don’t know ’s Alida’s to blame,” he meditated.  “She’s made that way.”

Immediately Dorcas, in her sympathetic mind, was regarding a picture of Alida Roe as she saw her without illusion of passion or prejudice - a delicate, pale girl with a sweet complexion, and slender hands that were ever trembling upon fine work for her own adornment.  She had known Alida at school and at home, in dull times and bright, and she had a vision, when her name was mentioned, of something as frail as cobwebs, with all their beauty.  Whenever Newell Bond had begun to sound the praises of his chosen maid, she had set her mind seriously to considering what he could see in Alida.  But it was never of any use.  Alida always remained to her impalpable and vain.  Now she answered patiently, according to her wont: -

“Of course she’s made that way.”

It was like a touch to keep the machinery going, and he responded: -

“You see, I hadn’t asked her to set the day.  It was kind of understood between us.  An’ then Clayton Rand come along an’ begun to shine up to her, spendin’ money like water, an’ her mother was bewitched by it.  So she orders Alida to throw me over an’ take up with t’other man.  I don’t know ’s Alida’s to blame.”

“Do you s’pose they’re engaged?” asked Dorcas, for the hundredth time.

He was silent for a moment, brooding.  Then he answered, as he always did: -

“That’s more’n I can make out.  But if they are, I’ll break it.  Give me time enough, an’ I’ll do it when they’re walkin’ into the meetin’-house, if I don’t afore.”

Dorcas felt old and tired.  All her buoyant life seemed to settle to a level where she must foster the youth of others and starve her own.

“Well,” she said gently, “you’ve done pretty well this year, sellin’ house-lots an’ all.”

“I’ve done well this year an’ I’m goin’ to keep on,” said Newell, in that dogged way he had.  Often it heartened her, but never when it touched upon his weary chase.  Then it seemed to her like some rushing force that should be used to turn a mill, wandering away into poor meadows, to be dried and lost.  But he was ending as he always did:  “Clayton Rand won’t marry so long ’s his mother’s alive, no matter how much money he’s got.  An’ while Alida’s waitin’ for him, I’ll lay up what I can, an’ I bet you I get her yet.”

“You goin’ to pick peas in the mornin’?” asked Dorcas.

She had heard the clock striking, and it counseled her to remember how early their days began.

Newell came out of his dream.  “Yes,” he said, “that patch down the river road.  I guess we can get off ten bushels or more by the afternoon train.”

“All right,” said Dorcas.  “I’ll be there.”

“You mustn’t walk down.  I’m goin’ t’other way myself, but I’ll hitch up Jim, an’ you can leave him in the old barn till you come home.”

“No,” said Dorcas, rising.  “I’ll walk.  I’d rather by half than have the care of him.  Maybe I’ll catch a ride, too.”

They said good-night, and Newell was walking down the path where clove-pinks were at their sweetest, when he turned to speak again.  Dorcas, forgetful of him, had stretched her arms upward in a yawn that seemed to envelop the whole of her.  As she stood there in the moonlight, her tall figure loomed like that of a priestess offering worship.  She might have been chanting an invocation to the night.  The man, regarding her, was startled, he did not know why.  In that instant she seemed to him something mysterious and grand, something belonging to the night itself, and he went away with his question unasked.  Dorcas, her yawn finished, went in to think of him, as she always did, in the few luxurious moments before she slept.  But her nights were always dreamless.  She had the laborer’s tired muscles and acquiescent nerves.

It was two years now since she and Newell had become, in a sense, partners.  An affliction had fallen upon each of them at about the same time, and, through what seemed chance, they had stretched out a hand each to steady the other, and gone on together.  It was then that Dorcas’s mother had had her first paralytic stroke, and Dorcas had given up the district school to be at home.  But she was poor, and when it became apparent that her mother might live in helpless misery, it was also evident that Dorcas must have something to do.  At that time Newell, under the first cloud of disappointed love, had launched into market-gardening, and he gave Dorcas little tasks, here and there, picking fruit and vegetables, even weeding and hoeing, because that would leave her within call of home, where a little girl sat daily on guard.  Newell lived alone, with old Kate to do his work, and soon it became an established custom for Dorcas to cook savory dishes for him, on the days when Kate’s aching joints kept her smoking and grumbling by the fire.  In a thousand ways she unconsciously slipped into his life, with his accounts, his house purchases, and the work of his fields; and the small sums he paid her kept bread in her mother’s mouth.

And now her mother had died, but Dorcas still kept on.  She had no school yet, she told herself excusingly; but a self she would not hear knew how intently she was fighting Newell’s own particular battle with him, how she watched here and there lest a penny be spilled and his road be made the longer to the goal he fixed.  She was quite willing to consider breaking up Alida’s intimacy with the other man, because, to her dispassionate mind, Alida was of no account in the world of feeling.  She might have her mild preferences, but if Newell could give her muslin dresses and plated pins, he would suit her excellently.  And Newell wanted her.  As for Clayton Rand, he would be none the poorer, lacking her.  She had thought it all out, and she was sure she knew.

The next morning, dressed in brown, the color of the earth she worked in, Dorcas stepped out into the dewy world and closed her door behind her.  It was a long walk to the field.  For some unguessed reason she had been heavy-hearted at rising; but now the pure look of the early day refreshed her and she went on cheerfully.  Since her mother’s death life had seemed to her all a maze where she could find few certainties.  She had no ties, no duties, save the general ones to neighborhood and church, and her loneliness now and then rose before her like something inexorable and vast, and would be looked at.  Perhaps that was why she had thrown herself whole-souled into Newell’s willful quest, though at moments she longed to strangle it with passion fiercer than its own; and why she wondered just what she could do after the desire of his heart had flowered and Alida was his wife.

As she walked along, she held her head very high, and carried her hat in her hand, leaving the sun to strike upon her shining braids and light them to a gloss.  For the moment she was unreasonably happy, forgetful of the past, and aware only of the sunlight on green fields.  Then suddenly she found that a light wagon had drawn up and Clayton Rand was asking her to ride.  She looked at him one quick instant before she answered.  She had known him when they were both children and he came to spend the summer a mile away, and sometimes, for fun, went to the district school.  Since then they had kept up a recognized acquaintance, but this was the first time in years that they had spoken together.  He was a heavy-faced young man, with rough-looking clothes of a correct cut, and a suggested taste in dogs and horses.

“Ride?” he asked again, and Dorcas smiled at him out of many thoughts.  She could not have whispered them to herself perhaps; but they all concerned Newell and his daily lack.  Clayton saw the pretty lifting of her red lip above her small white teeth, and, being a young man ready to leap at desired conclusions, instantly thought of kissing.

“I can’t be mistaken,” he said elaborately.  “This is Miss Dorcas Lee.”

Dorcas put her foot on the step and seated herself beside him.  Then, surprised at his success, because she had looked to him like a proud person, though in a working-gown, he began a wandering apology for having failed to help her in.  Meantime he touched up the beautiful sorrel, and when they began to fly along the road, and the sorrel’s golden mane was tossing, Dorcas had a brief smiling concurrence with Alida.  To speed like that was perhaps worth the company of Clayton Rand.  He was talking to her, and she answered him demurely, with a dignity not reassuring from one of her large type and regal air.  But presently he began, by some inner cleverness (for he had a way with him), to tell her stories about horses, and Dorcas listened, wide-eyed with pleasure.  The way to the knoll was very short, and there she had to stop in the midst of a racing story that had the movement of the race itself, and bid him leave her.  This time he remembered his manners, and leaped out to help her gallantly.

“Miss Dorcas,” he called her back after her pretty thanks, “I suppose - I don’t half dare to ask you - but you like horses.  Just let me take you over to the Country Club to-morrow, and we can see the racing.”

For the space of a second, Dorcas gazed at the toe of her patched working-boots.  She was thinking, in a confused tangle, of Alida and Newell, and wondering if she had any clothes to wear.  Then she lifted her head quickly in a resolution that looked like triumph.

“Thank you,” she said, with a shyness very charming in one of her large type; “I should be happy to.”

“Thank you,” said Clayton, jumping into the wagon.  “I’ll be along about half-past one.”

All that day Dorcas bent over the pea-vines and listened to her thoughts.  There were other pickers, but she had no words for them, even when they sat down together for their luncheon, nor for Newell himself, coming at night to take her home.

“You’re real tired, I guess,” he said, as he left her at the gate.

Dorcas flashed a sudden smile at him.  It was all mirth and mischief.

“No,” she said soberly, “I don’t believe I’m tired.”

“I’m goin’ to Fairfax to see about sellin’ the colt to-morrow,” said Newell, from the wagon.

Dorcas nodded.

“Maybe I’ll take a day off myself,” she said.  “I’ll be on hand next-day mornin’, if you want anything picked.  Good-night.”

That evening at ten Newell was driving home from the village, and he marked her light in the kitchen.  He stopped, vaguely uneasy, and walked up the path to the side door, and as he came he saw the shades go down.

“Dorcas!” he called, at the door, “it’s me, Newell.”

Then he heard her hurrying steps.  But instead of opening the door to him she pushed the bolt softly, and he heard her voice in an inexplicable mixture of laughter and confusion.

“I’m real sorry, Newell, but I can’t let you in.  I’m awful sorry.”

“All right,” he said bluffly, turning away, yet conscious of a tiny hurt of pained surprise.  “Nothin’ wrong, is there?”

“No,” came the laughing voice again, “there’s nothin’ wrong.”

“That’s all I wanted to know,” he explained, as he went down the path.  “Seein’ the light so late - ”

And again the voice followed him.

“Yes, Newell, I’m all right.”

Dorcas, an hour after, at her table ironing the dotted muslin she had washed and dried before the fire, laughed out again.  She had a new sense of triumph, like a bloom upon the purpose of her life.  At last she saw before her a path quite distinct from the dull duties of every day.

When Clayton Rand drove up with his pair of sleek horses and the shining rig that was admired by all the town, she went out and down the path very shyly, and with a blushing sedateness becoming to her.  Clayton saw it, and his heart leaped with the vanity of knowing she was moved because of him.  But the cause was otherwise.  Dorcas knew her hair was beautiful, and that her skin, in spite of its tan, was sweetly pink; but she also knew that the fashion of her sleeves was two years old, and that no earthly power could bring the gloss of youth to her worn shoes again.  So she blushed and shrank a little, like a bride, and Clayton, who saw only that her skirts fluttered airily and her hat was trimmed with something soft and white, straightway forgot all the girls he had ever seen, and wondered if his mother could fail to approve such worth as this.  And then again he began to talk about horses, and Dorcas began, in her rapt way, to listen, and put in a keen word here and there.  Alida, she knew, had one idea of horses:  that they were four-legged creatures likely to run away, or to bite your fingers if you gave them grass.  It was easy to compete with her there, and also because Dorcas really did love animals and need not pretend.

It was a beautiful day at the races.  There were all sorts of magnificent turnouts, and ladies dressed in raiment such as Dorcas had never even imagined.  She innocently fancied Clayton must know any number of them, and grew very humbly grateful to him for troubling himself about her.  When she suggested that he must have many friends among them, he laughed with an amused candor, and told her they were gentry, a cut above.  Yet Dorcas continued to believe he might have consorted with them, if he chose, and her manner to him had a softer friendliness because he was so kind.  And when she could forget her old-fashioned gown, she was quite childishly content.  At the gate that night he thanked her profusely for the pleasure of her company, and added, boldly: -

“Won’t you go to ride a little ways to-morrow night?”

A sudden shyness made her retreat a step, as if in definite withdrawal.  It was like a flower’s closing.

“Maybe not to-morrow,” she hesitated.  It seemed to her the events she had moved were rushing, of themselves, too fast.

“Next day, then,” he called.  “I’ll be along about seven.  Good-night.”

And Dorcas went in to think over her day and dream again, not so much of that as of the desire she was fulfilling for another man.

At that time Newell was very busy over questions of real estate.  He had bought, two years before, the whole slope of Sunset Hill, overlooking three townships and the sea, and now city residents had found out the spot and were trying to secure it.  That prospect of immediate riches drew his mind away from his gardening.  He forgot the patient things that were growing silently to earn him his desire, and only gave orders in the morning to his two men before he drove away to talk about land.  Even Dorcas he forgot, save as a man remembers his accustomed staff leaning against the wall till he shall need it.  But he has no anxiety about it, for he knows it will be there.

Dorcas hardly missed him, for she, too, had new ways to walk.  Clayton Rand came often now.  He seemed to be fascinated, perhaps by her beauty and the simplicity of her mien, and perhaps by the dignity of her undefended state.  She never asked him into her house, though she would drive and walk with him.  Her strength, that summer, seemed to her boundless.  She could work all day and sit up half the night sewing old finery or washing and ironing it, and then she could sleep dreamlessly for two or three hours, and wake to work again and drive with Clayton Rand in the evening.  It seemed to her at times as if that life would go on breathlessly forever, and then again she knew it would not go on; for she had planned the end toward which it was tending, and the end was almost there.

One afternoon, as she came home from her work flushed and covered with dust, yet looking like an earth-queen in her triumphant health, she had to pass Alida’s house, and Alida’s mother was waiting for her by the gate.  As Dorcas came on swiftly, she had a thought that Alida was not very wise, or she would keep her lovers away from Mrs. Roe.  The mother and daughter were too much alike.  The older woman was a terrible prophecy.  The fairness of youth had faded in her into a soft ivory, her hair was a yellow wisp tightly coiled, and her mouth drooped in a meagre discontent.  She regarded Dorcas frowningly from sharp eyes, and Dorcas stepped more proudly.  She had fancied this onslaught might await her.

“Dorcas Lee!” called the woman sharply.  “Dorcas Lee!”

Then, as Dorcas stopped, in a calm inquiry, the woman went on rushingly, all the words she had not meant to say tumbling forth as she had thought them.

“Dorcas Lee, what are you carryin’ on for, the way you be, with Clayton Rand?  There ain’t a decent girl in town would step in an’ ketch anybody up like that.  You’ll get yourself talked about, if you ain’t now.  I was a friend to your mother an’ I’m a friend to you, an’ now I’ve gone out o’ my way to give you warnin’.”

Dorcas looked past her up the garden walk and at the porch where Alida sat rocking back and forth, her hands busy as ever with her delicate work.

“Alida!” she called softly. “’Lida, you come here a minute.  I want to speak to you.”

Alida laid down her work with care and placed her thimble in the basket.  Then she came along the garden path, swaying and floating as she always walked, her pretty head moving rhythmically.

“’Lida, you come a step or two with me,” said Dorcas gently, when the girl was at the gate.  “I want to speak to you.”

Alida opened the gate and, without a glance at her mother, stepped out upon the dusty path.  People said Mrs. Roe talked so much that everybody had long ago done listening to her, and perhaps she had done expecting it.

“You’d ought to have suthin’ over your head,” she called to Alida.  “You’ll be ’s black as an Injun.”

Dorcas took a long stride into the roadside tangle and broke off a branch of thick-leaved elder.  She gave it to Alida, and the girl gravely shaded herself with it from the defacing sun.  They walked along together in silence for a moment, and Dorcas frankly studied Alida’s face.  There was no sign of grief upon it, of loneliness, of discontent.  The skin was like a rose, a fainter, pinker rose than Dorcas had ever seen.  The soft lips kept their lovely curve.

“‘Lida,” she breathed, “what you goin’ to do to-night?”

“I don’t know,” said Alida, in her even voice.  “Sometimes I sew, when it ain’t too hot.  I’m makin’ me a dotted muslin.”

Dorcas found her own heart beating fast.  The excitement of it all, of life itself, the bliss, the pain and loss, came keenly on her.  She thought of the days that had gone to buying this thing of prettiness, the strained muscles, the racing blood and thrilling brain, the sweat and toil of it, and something choked her to think that now the pretty thing was almost won.  Newell would have it, his heart’s desire, and in thirty years perhaps it would look like Alida’s mother with that shallow mouth.  Yet her simple faithfulness was a part of her own blood, and she could not deny him what was his.

“Alida,” she said, in an eloquent throb, “do you - do you like him?”

“Who?” asked Alida calmly, turning clear eyes upon her.

Dorcas laughed shamefacedly.

“I don’t know hardly what I’m talkin’ about,” she said.  “I’ve worked pretty hard to-day.  ’Lida, if there was anybody you liked, anybody you want to talk things over with - well” - she paused to laugh a little - “well, if I were you, I should just put on my blue dress, the one with the pink rosebuds, an’ walk along this road down to the pine grove an’ back again.”

“The idea!” said Alida, from an unbroken calm.  “I should think you were crazy.”

Dorcas stopped in the road, decisively, as if the moment had come for them to part.

“That’s what I should do, ’Lida,” she said, “to-night, every night along about eight, till it happens.  An’ I should wear my blue.”

Alida turned away, as if she felt something unmaidenly in the suggestion and might well remove herself; yet Dorcas knew she would remember.  They had separated, and when they were a dozen paces apart, Dorcas called again: -

“’Lida!”

Alida turned.  Again Dorcas spoke shyly, from the weight of her great task.

“‘Lida, Newell Bond’s sellin’ off Sunset Hill.  He’s doin’ well for himself.”

“Is he?” returned Alida primly.  “I hadn’t heard of it.”  Then she turned and, keeping her feet carefully from the dust, went on again.

It seemed to Dorcas that night as if she could not wait to finish the bowl of bread and milk that made her supper, and to put on her white muslin and seat herself by the window.  She felt as if the world were rushing fast, the flowers in the garden hurrying to open, the sun to get into the sky and make it redder than ever it had been before, and all happy people to be happier.  Something seemed sweeping after her, and she dared not turn and look it in the face.  But her heart told her it was the moment that would come after her work had been accomplished and Newell had found Alida.  As if she had known it would be so, she saw him coming down the road and called to him.  He was walking very fast, his head up, and his hands, she presently saw, clenched as they swung.

“Newell!” she cried, “come in.”

He strode up the path and she rose to meet him.  She remembered now that she had many things to tell him, and the knowledge of them choked her.

“Newell,” she began, “you mustn’t go - I don’t know where you’re goin’ - but down that way, you mustn’t go till eight o’clock.  An’ then I guess you’ll see her.  It’ll be better than the house, because her mother’s there.  Why,” her voice faltered and she ended breathlessly, “what makes you look so?”

He looked like wrath.  It was upon his knotted brow, the iron lips, and in the blazing of his eyes.

“What’s this I’ve been told?” he said, in a voice she had never heard from him, “about Clayton Rand?”

She laughed, relieved and pleased at her own cleverness.

“It’s all right, Newell,” she called gleefully.  “He hasn’t been there for two weeks.  He’s comin’ to-night to take me to ride, an’ I’ll make him go the turnpike road, an’ she’ll be down by Pine Hollow, an’ you can snap her up under her mother’s nose - an’ she’s got on her blue.”

Newell put out his hands and grasped her wrists.  He held them tight and looked at her.  She gazed back in wonder.  In all the months of his repining she had not seen him so, full of warm passion, of a steady purpose.

“Dorcas,” he said, “I won’t have it!”

She answered in pure wonder and with great simplicity: -

“What, Newell?  What won’t you have?”

He spoke slowly, leaving intervals between the words.

“I won’t have you ridin’ with him, nor walkin’ with him, nor with any man.  If I’d known it, I’d put a stop to it before.  Why, Dorcas, don’t you know whose girl you are?  You’re mine.”

Floods of color went over her face, and she looked down.  Then, as he was silent, she had to speak.

“Newell,” she said, “I only meant - I thought maybe I might help you - ” There she had to look at him, and found his eyes upon her in a grave sweetness she could hardly understand.  No such flower had bloomed for her in her whole life.

“Why, Dorcas,” he said, “think how we’ve worked together!  What do you s’pose we worked so for?”

Alida’s name rose to her lips, but her tongue refused to speak.  At that moment it seemed too slight a word to say.

“’Twas so we could find out where we stood,” the grave voice went on.  “That was it.”

She felt breathless, as if they had together been pursuing some slight thing, a butterfly, a bubble, and now, when it was under their hands, they saw that the thing itself was not what mattered.  It was the race.  They had kept step, and still together now, they had run into a safe and happy place.

There was the beat of hoofs upon the road.

“Stay here,” she breathed.  “I can’t go with him.  I’ll tell him so.”

She ran out and down the path, a swift Atalanta, her white skirts floating.  Clayton Rand was at the gate.  Even in the instant of his smiling at her she realized that the smile was that of one who is expectant of a pleasure, but only of the pleasure itself, he does not care with whom.  Her eyes glowed upon him, her brown cheeks were red with dancing blood.

“I can’t go,” she said, in a full, ecstatic voice.  “Thank you ever so much.  I can’t ever go again.  See!” she pointed down the road.  “Don’t she look pretty in among the trees?  That’s ’Lida.  She’s got on her blue.”

She turned and hastened up the path again.  At the door she paused to look once again at the spot of blue through the vista of summer green.  It was moving.  It was mounting into Clayton Rand’s wagon.  Then Dorcas went in where Newell was waiting to kiss her.

“He’s drove along,” she said, from her trance of happiness. “’Lida’s gone to ride with him.”

Already the name meant no more to them then the bubble they had chased.

“Come, Dorcas, come,” said her lover, in that new voice.  “Come here to me.”