A Pastel
Above all hangs the dreadful night.
He pleads with her.
His hand is on her arm.
They stand in the cold, solemn night, gazing into a brilliantly lighted room. His face is white and terror-stricken. Hers is willful, defiant, and white with the surging impulse of destiny.
Ten miles away on the Harrisburg road a draggle-tailed rooster crows, but the woman does not falter.
He pleads with her.
She shakes off his hand with a gesture of loathing, and takes a step forward toward the lighted room.
He pleads with her.
Crystal flakes of moonlight quiver on the trees above; star dust flecks the illimitable rim of the Ineligible. The whicheverness of the Absolute reigns preeminent.
Sin is below; peace above.
The whip of the north wind trails a keen lash upon them. Carriages sweep by. Frost creeps upon the stones, lies crustily along parapets, spangles and throws back in arctic scintillation the moon’s challenging rays.
He pleads with her.
At last she turns, conquered.
He has refused to treat to oysters.
Thanks, young man; I’ll sit awhile,
And rest while Betsy trades a bit.
We’ve druv ’bout twenty mile to-day;
I’m real tired. Just think of it!
“Me a-restin’ on this here bench
’Mongst all these trees and flowers and sich;
A park! You say? It’s a nice place
To drive your team and stop and hitch.
“Farm? Yes, we’ve got a good one;
Two hundred acres as fine as you’ll see,
We’re purty well fixed as to worldly things,
We’ve worked hard for it, Betsy and me.
“But there’s one thing keeps me mighty sad,
We can’t get over it, night or day.
Never an hour we don’t think of Jim—
Ten years now, since he went away.
“Dead?—No; just got mad and left.
Never a word have we heard from him;
Ten years of waitin’, hopin’, and prayin’
Jest fur one more sight of Jim.
“Jest about your height, young man;
Slender and straight as a stalk of corn;
Good as gold, though quick to get angry—
But, then he was mine and Betsy’s first-born.
“I think if I could git hold of Jim’s hand,
And kinder explain the words I said,
He’d know his old dad’s heart would ever
Be just the same—but I guess Jim’s dead.
“Or he never—what’s that you say, sir?
You Jim!—My God!—it can’t be true!
Come to my heart, boy—closer, closer—
Can it be Jim—oh, can it be you?
“Run quick and call your mother!
She’s in the store—come quick again;
I’ll wait here for you. …
… Here! Police! Police!
That young feller’s got my watch and chain!”