“My husband reads all the time,” she remarked, turning the small Bible in her hands.
“Umhm?” said the peddler.
“Every minute he’s not workin’, and sometimes while he is. I don’t hardly know what he looks like when he’s in the house, he’s always got his face hid in a book.”
The peddler smiled. “Do you like to read?”
“Well, I don’t have much time. I look at the Bible some. It’s nice you carry it with you.”
“Part of my stock.”
“Oh.”
“I read it sometimes when I stop to rest. It makes a good sound.”
“You read it out loud to yourself?”
“It’s the best way, especially outdoors—it sounds better outdoors.”
“I don’t see what difference that’d make,” she said, smiling.
“Try it and see. Read something.”
“Right now?”
“Of course.”
“Oh—you can read it for yourself, can’t you?”
“I’m busy,” he said with his mouth full.
“Well…I don’t read very good.”
“It’s no matter, as long as you read loud.”
She opened the book reluctantly. The print was so fine she could barely make out the letters, let alone read the words. She turned through it and at last, staring intently at the page, began to recite, skipping or inventing where memory failed her. “ ‘For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.’ ”
“You see?” said the peddler. “Doesn’t it sound better out here?”
“It sounds all right.”
“Go on, read some more.”
She turned several pages. “ ‘Judge not, that ye be not judged; condemn not, that ye be not condemned; forgive, and ye shall be forgiven.’ ”
She paused and glanced up. As he seemed to be waiting for more, she leafed through the pages and began again.
“ ‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
“ ‘He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters.
“ ‘He restoreth my soul…
“ ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me…
“ ‘Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
“ ‘Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.’ ”
She closed the book and looked up. The peddler was leaning against the stump, looking at her through half-closed eyes.
“You read very well,” he said after a moment.
“Oh, not so very.” She accepted the compliment, nevertheless, casting about in her mind for some justification. She could accept it for her memory; that would be fair enough. She smiled at him warmly. It was pleasant, sitting here in the sunshine with someone to talk to. It did get lonesome with Matthew away all day, and even when he did come home, he didn’t say much. She glanced down to find the young man looking at her with an odd, smiling gaze.
“What are you lookin’ at?” she said uneasily.
“The cobweb.”
She turned and saw it floating over her shoulder, one of those long fine threads that seem to hang from the sky, the filament spat out by a spider and blown loose from the web. She touched it with her finger. The peddler gave a low chuckle.
“Why do you laugh?” she said.
“Because it shines!”
It seemed reason enough.
She smiled, settling back and looking all around. The air was uncommonly clear. Green woods, blue sky, the red rooster parading in the lot, even the worn silvery wood of the granary, seemed to give off a light of their own. It was a kind of choir where everything joined with the sun and cast its radiance on the day. And everything was still. The stillness itself made a kind of music.
The peddler slid down and put his hands behind his head. “Now I am sleepy, like a dog with his belly full.”
“That wasn’t a whole lot of breakfast.”
“It was just right.”
“You may get hungry before you can eat again. I could fix you some lunch to take with you.”
“Oh, thank you, but that won’t be necessary.”
“Ain’t any more houses between here and the junction.”
“Then I may have to catch another fish,” he said, with his eyes closed.
“You don’t seem to worry much.”
“What good would that do?”
“Well, I don’t know. But I’d think you might like to know where your next meal’s comin’ from.”
“Heaven will provide, or a kind lady.”
She laughed. “Do you like bein’ a peddler, walkin’ around from place to place?”
“I like it very well.”
“Looks like you’d get awful tired.”
“Sometimes I do.”
“Ain’t it lonesome?”
“Sometimes.”
“But I guess you make a lot of money at it.”
“Not very much.”
“My land, then, what do you do it for?”
“So I can sit here like this in the sunshine.”
“The sun don’t shine every day,” she said.
“It does somewhere.”
He was right about that. He sat with his eyes closed, a little smile on his face, and for a moment she thought he had fallen asleep. But after a moment he sat up brightly.
“Yes, it’s a good life,” he said. “I have been a peddler for two days now!”
“That’s what I thought,” she said, laughing.
“And now I must be getting on.”
“Yes, you better get started.”
“How do I go now, the same way I came?”
“Well, you could; it’s a little shorter that way, cuttin’ through the woods. But it’s easier walking if you take the road. You go up that way, up the hill, and keep on till you come to a crossroads. Then turn north, and the junction’s about three and a half miles from there.”
“I’ll find it—if I don’t lose my way again.”
“Just keep to the road; you can’t miss it.”
“It has been very nice here,” he said, putting on his coat.
“Well, I enjoyed it. I hope you’ll come and see us again if you’re ever out this way.”
“Thank you. But I’ll not be this way again, I think.”
“You don’t think so?”
“The world’s a big place.”
“I guess it is.” She watched him hoist the pack onto his shoulder. “That sure looks heavy.”
“It is lighter now by a length of ribbon.” He held out his hand. “Thank you for the breakfast.”
“You paid for it.”
“All the same I thank you.” With a quick little bow, he kissed her hand. Then he looked up with a smile of pure devilment. “And thank your husband—who is working in the barn. Goodbye!” he added. Clapping the hat on the back of his head, he marched down the lane like a whole parade.
Callie stood abashed, caught in a lie which she had forgotten. A silly lie, too, it turned out, seeing that the young man knew all the time that she was alone and hadn’t lifted a finger to harm her. She watched him go, wishing she might apologize. She could wave, at least, if he would look back. But he went on without turning and disappeared up the hill.
She walked back slowly to the house and carried the featherbeds in, wondering what to do next. The day was quite thoroughly disrupted. For all the visitor had left her of the morning, he might as well have stayed for dinner. She wandered through the house, dusted the piano stool with her hand, opened a window, returned to the kitchen, and, seeing the loaf of bread left out, cut off a slice and ate it. She chewed absently, staring out at the bright weather. The house was cold and unnaturally still, having no children in it. She wished they were at h
ome; she would take them on a picnic.
Out in the lot, a squawk of insult tore the air, as a hen escaped from a rooster. Watching her waddle away adjusting her feathers, Callie remembered her broody-hen. She jumped up from the table. This was a good time to look some more for that nest. Taking her sunbonnet, she set out, grateful for any task that would take her out of doors.
For most of an hour, she poked cautiously into weed patches and brush piles along the edge of the woods. There was no sign of the hen. But enjoying the walk, she went on through the trees and came out on the other side on the Old Chimney Place. The blackened chimney stood some distance away, surrounded by a thicket of sumac, buckbrush, and wild plum. “Well, I’ll look up there,” she said. It seemed a likely place for a hidden nest.
As she crossed the open meadow, she took off her bonnet and opened her dress at the neck, baring her throat to the gentle warmth. The sun shone from the top of the sky and the air smelled sweet. Her footsteps flushed a lark from the grass. He flew off toward the road and his whistle came back sweet and lonely in the stillness. Everything was hushed with noon, resting, like a traveler at the crest of a hill. She thought of the peddler leaning against the stump, his face lifted to the sun. She was a little sorry he had gone. He seemed a natural part of the shining day, and something was missing when he went.
The thicket rose on all sides of the old house site, walling it in, leaving in the middle an opening where the grass grew soft and thick in summer. She and the children often came here on picnics. Having searched around the edges, she parted the brush at a certain spot and stepped through to the clearing. The grass inside was already green, spangled with dandelions. And there, not twenty feet away, lay the peddler, bare to the waist and sound asleep in the sunshine.
Her mouth fell open with a soundless gasp, though, to tell the truth, she was not much surprised. She might have conjured him there by her very thoughts. The scamp! He hadn’t kept to the road. She stood absolutely still and gazed at him with furtive pleasure, as she would at a robin on its nest or a lizard sunning himself on a log. He lay on his back, his hands above his head. The hair curled dark and shiny under his arms. It curled on his forehead. And the upturned face wore a little smile, as if he dreamed happily. She wouldn’t want to wake him. It would embarrass them both to find her spying. She looked at him fondly for another moment, then with great caution turned away.
“Hello!” said the peddler.
She looked over her shoulder, and a queer kind of numbness seemed to creep upward from her feet.
“It’s nice to see you again,” he said.
“I didn’t know you was here,” she said in a breathless voice. “I was lookin’ for my broody-hen.”
“Your what?”
“My old broody-hen—she’s hid out a nest somewhere.”
“I hoped you were looking for me.” He rose to his feet, smiling. “I’ve been thinking of you.”
Her knees had begun to tremble. She took a faltering step backward.
“Shall I help you look?” he said, starting toward her.
“No—I can do it some other day.”
“Where are you going?”
She wasted no time for an answer, but plunged into the brush, her heart pounding in her throat.
He caught her before she got through to the open. “Don’t go! I’m nicer than a broody-hen.”
“Let me go!”
The jerk of her arm did not free her, but only brought him up close. He pulled her against him, pressing her hand against his bare chest, and she dug her nails into his flesh.
“So we must fight!” he said sadly.
She raised her free hand to strike him. He smiled as he caught it, and they began to struggle.
They fought in silence, the only sound their breathing and now and then a soft laugh from the peddler. He fought like a boy at play. It was a sport with him, a game he knew he could win. But he fought hard because he had to. Her flesh stung where he gripped her, and one knee twisted under her as she went down. He fell with her, pinning her to the ground.
“There!” he panted. He put his hands on her shoulders and pushed himself up part way, catching his breath. “You’re stronger than I thought—you are good!” He leaned down and kissed her hard on the mouth. Then without warning he let go of her and sat back on his knees. “Now I have won, I let you go.”
It happened so quickly that for an instant she was too stunned to move. She stared at him in disbelief.
“Go,” he said, “if you want to.”
She struggled to her feet and pitched forward with a cry of pain as the hurt knee gave way beneath her. He caught her as she fell.
“Ah, you are hurt!” he said gently. He pulled her close and began to murmur in a language she did not understand but whose meaning she knew, soothing and gentle, as if she were a child. She hung limp in his arms, sobbing helplessly.
“Don’t cry,” he said. “Let’s be happy together for a little while. You will like me—I am clean, I won’t give you a disease. I am careful. Stay with me,” he said, and his whisper roared like a seashell held against the ear.
3
Callie went home sobbing through the tender noon. She felt the air and heard the meadowlark, she smelled the blossoming orchard. The day had been so beautiful—it still was—but she was a blemish on it. All her life she had been virtuous; no man but Matthew had ever touched her. She had saved herself for love and she came to him so proudly, all new and unsullied for him. That was changed now. And the pure clear air and the sweet sounds broke her heart. She went inside and locked the door. Hiding her face in Matthew’s old coat, she wept bitterly, weeping for him. For the harm had been done to him as much as to her. Something of his was defiled.
With no other thought than to go to him, she unlocked the door and ran to the barn, where she took down the bridle, intending to find the sorrel mare and ride into town. But as she started toward the pasture, something—some rapidly emerging apprehension—slowed her down, and, running through the barnlot, she stopped and looked back at the spot where the peddler had built his fire. Suddenly the whole scene rose before her again: herself and the peddler laughing and talking, having a pleasant time together. How was that going to sound?
And with that question, others came crowding in, one over another. She heard them in Matthew’s voice: Why did you let him stay, in the first place? You were there by yourself, you were asking for trouble. Why didn’t you stay in the house? Why did you follow him when he left? (She had followed him, in a way; the road he took ran alongside the Old Chimney Place, and she knew which way he went.) Didn’t you know something like this could happen? Haven’t you got any sense at all? Furious, accusing questions. And how was she going to answer!
She had been foolish. She could see that now. To anyone that didn’t know better, it might look as though she invited the peddler Matthew would know better. He could never accuse her of being unfaithful. But he could certainly, and he might, accuse her of being a fool. He was so cross, these days. Perhaps she deserved his anger; but just the same, she cringed at the prospect. Why did he have to know? She didn’t have to tell everything. She could leave out the part about the breakfast and even the peddler’s coming to the house. All she had to say was that she came on him unexpectedly—that was true—while looking for the broody-hen. That was all he needed to know. Unless—it occurred to her with a start—unless the peddler told his story! But he wouldn’t—he was no fool! He would take the first train and get out of the country. But suppose, just suppose, that he stayed in the neighborhood a few days, and suppose that Matthew called the law! It could happen. Matthew was not a violent man, but he was a man and had a right to avenge his honor.
She sank down on the stump, her head thronging with echoes of country tragedies—jealous husbands, guilty lovers, bloodshed and disaster. Suppose he had the peddler brought to justice? The peddler would then tell his side of the story, and even if he told only the truth, that was enough to damn her. Oh, she could say
that she fought him. That was true. But so was it true that she had been easy; she had sat with him for an hour or more, visiting as she might with a neighbor’s wife. They laughed and talked, he kissed her hand! She could never look him in the face and deny it—any more than she could deny that she liked him.
She covered her face in shame. She wanted never to see him again, but while he was there, she had liked him. Leaning against the stump, he had shone in the sunlight. He shouted the Bible like one singing—God is love and life a praising. He was all joy and freedom and innocence. How could she see him punished, a boy like that! The thought of him locked up, beaten, or maybe worse (men hung other men for such as this) made her sick at heart. He had done wrong, and he deserved to be punished—but only for what he did to Matthew, not for what he did to her. That was the bitterest part of all. A thing that should have been shameful and ugly was not. Not to the peddler and not altogether to her. There was something about him, even in his trespass, that kept it from being mean. He had come down the road full of shout and halloo, drunk with the spring weather, taking the good things of the day as his rightful pleasure, and she was one more of those. He took her in high spirits, for the plain joy of it, as easily as he took a branch of redbud. And for a little time there, under the blue sky, on the new grass, she had loved him.
But it was Matthew she loved truly. Plain, earnest, hard-working Matthew, who tried to do right, even though he didn’t always make it, and who had been good to her, gentle and loving. It broke her heart that for a moment, against her will, she had forsaken him.
He must never know that. “O Lord,” she prayed, “isn’t part of the truth enough?” It would have to be. Whatever else happened, and for everyone’s sake, the peddler must not be caught.
The Moonflower Vine Page 36