The Broken Gate.

by Emerson Hough.

CHAPTER I

THE HOMECOMING OF DIEUDONNe LANE

"Eejit! My son John! Whip ary man in Jackson County! Whoop! Come along!

Who'll fight old Eph Adamson?"

The populace of Spring Valley, largely a.s.sembled in the shade of the awnings which served as shelter against an ardent June sun, remained cold to the foregoing challenge. It had been repeated more than once by a stout, middle-aged man in shirt sleeves and a bent straw hat, who still turned a truculent gaze this side and that, taking in the straggling buildings which lined the public square--a quadrangle which had for its center the brick courthouse, surrounded by a plat of scorched and faded greensward. At his side walked a taller though younger man, grinning amiably.

The audience remained indifferent, although the challenger now shifted his position to the next path leading out to a street entrance; and repeated this until he had quite traversed the square. Only, at the farther corner back of him, a woman paused as she entered the courthouse inclosure--paused and turned back as she caught sight of the challenger and heard his raucous summons, although evidently she had been hurrying upon some errand.

Ephraim Adamson walked hither and thither, his muscular arms now bared to the elbows; and at his side stalked his stalwart son, who now and then beat his fists together, and cracked his knuckles with a vehemence like that of pistol shots. But none paid great attention to either of the Adamsons. Indeed, the eyes of most now were following the comely figure of this woman, as usually was the case when she appeared.

"Take her now, right how she is," said one of the sidewalk philosophers, "and you got to admit yonder's the handsomest woman in this town, and has been for twenty years." He nodded to where she stood, hesitating.

That she was a tallish woman, of less than middle age and of good figure, was perceptible even at some distance as she finally advanced.

She was well clad enough, and with a certain grace and trimness in her appointings--indeed seemed smart in a quiet and un.o.btrusive way--very neat as to hands and feet, and trim as to the small turban which served now as her only defense against the heat of the summer sun.

"'Rory Lane," said one languid citizen to another, as they sat on comfortable boxes in front of the leading grocery store. "Wonder where _she's_ goin', this time of day? Anyhow, she runs into Old Man Adamson on his regular weekly spree. He wants to fight, as usual, him and his half-wit boy. It's a shame."

"But they kin do it," responded the other ruminatingly. "It's got so lately, every Sat.u.r.day afternoon regular, him and his half-wit yonder stands off the whole town. No man wants to fight a eejit--it ain't proper."

"Some has," remarked the first citizen thoughtfully.

"Well, anyways, old Joel Tarbush, the town marshal, had ought to look after such things. There he sets now, over yonder under the awnings in front of the Golden Eagle, and he sees them two plain enough."

His crony only chuckled. "Reckon Old Man Tarbush knows when he's well off," was his sententious reply.

The first speaker again pointed a thumb toward the courthouse grounds, where the woman now was crossing toward the street. She was walking rapidly, apparently anxious to escape the notice of the two men in the yard, and intent on her purpose, as though she feared being late at some appointment. The younger and taller was hastening toward her, but shrinking from him she hurried on across through the turnstile, and out into the street. She advanced with a nod here and there to those whom she met along the street front, but she showed no effusiveness, and did not pause to talk with anyone, although all seemed to know her. Some women smiled at her faintly. Some men smiled at her also--after she had pa.s.sed. All talked of her, sometimes nodding, head to head.

The woman so frankly discussed presently disappeared around the corner of the street which led down to the railway station, a half-mile distant. And now could be heard the rumble of the town "bus," bringing in its tribute from the train to the solitary hotel.

"Huh!" said one of these twain, "'Rory was too late, like enough, if she was plannin' to meet Number Four, fer any reason. Here comes the bus a'ready."

Aurora Lane had indeed been too late to meet the train, but not too late to attain the purpose of her hurried walk. A moment later the two watchers on the sidewalk, and all the other Sat.u.r.day loafers, saw her emerge again from the street that led up from the railway station.

She was not alone now. A young man had spied her from his place in the hotel bus, and, whether in answer to a signal from her, or wholly of his own notion--regarding which there was later discussion by the two gossips above mentioned--had sprung out to join her on the street.

He walked by her side now, holding her by the arm, patting her shoulder, talking to her volubly, excitedly, all the time--a tall young man in modern garb; a young man with good shoulders and a strong and easy stride. His face seemed flushed with eagerness and happiness. His hat, pushed back on his brow, showed the short curling auburn hair, strong and dense above the brown cheeks. Those who were close might have seen the kindly, frank and direct gaze of his open blue eyes.

A certain aloof distinction seemed to cling about the young man also as he advanced now, laughing and bubbling over with very joy of life and eagerness at greeting this woman at his side--this woman whose face suddenly was glorified with a light none ever had seen it bear before.

Why not? It was his mother--Aurora Lane, the best known woman of Spring Valley, and the woman with least reputation.

The two pa.s.sed directly into the center of the town's affairs, and yet they seemed apart in some strange way. They met greetings, but the greetings were vague, curious. No one knew this young man.

"Huh!" exclaimed one of the two town critics once more. "There they go.

Pretty sight, ain't it! Who's he?"

Old Silas Kneebone leaned to his friend, Aaron Craybill, on the adjacent store box. "Taller'n she is, and got red hair, too, like hers. I wonder--but law!--No, good law! No! It kain't be. She ain't n.o.body's wife, and never was."

"But there they go, walking through the streets in broad daylight, as bold as you please," commented his crony.

"I dunno as I'd call her bold, neither," rejoined Silas. "'Rory Lane, she's kept up her head all these years, and I must say she's minded her own business. Everybody knows, these twenty years, she had a baby, and that the baby died; but that's about all anybody ever did know. The baby's dad, if it had one, has hid d.a.m.ned well--the man nor the woman neither don't live in this town that can even guess who he was. But who's this young feller? Some relative o' hern from somewheres, like enough--reckon she must 'a' been goin' down to the train to meet him.

Never told n.o.body, and just like her not to. She sure is close-mouthed.

They're going on over towards her place, seems like," he continued.

"Say, don't she look proud? Seems like she's glad over something. But why--that's what I want to know--why?"

The two persons thus in the public eye of Spring Valley by this time had come again to the corner of the courthouse inclosure, and apparently purposed to pa.s.s diagonally through the courthouse yard. Now and again the young man turned in friendly fashion to the onlookers, none of whom he knew, but whom he fancied to be acquaintances of his companion. He himself was altogether a stranger in the town. He felt a chill at the curious stares, the silent half smiles he encountered, but attributed that to bucolic reticence, so shrugged his shoulders and turned to Aurora Lane. Had any at that time heard his speech, they surely must have felt yet more surprise.

"Mom!" said he. "Mother! I've got a mother, after all--and such a splendid one! I can't believe it at all--it must all be a dream. To be an orphan all my life--and then to get word that I'm not--that I've a mother, after all--and you! Why, I'd have known you anyhow, I'm sure, if I'd never seen you, even from the picture I had. It was when you were a girl. But you've not changed--you couldn't. And it's you who've been my mother all the time. It's fine to be home with you at last. So this is the town where you have lived--that I've never seen. And here are all your friends?"

"Yes, Don," said she, "all I have, pretty much." Aurora Lane's speaking voice was of extraordinary sweetness.

"Well, you have lived here all your life."

"Yes," she smiled.

"And they all know you."

"Oh, yes," noncommittally. "It was too bad you had to be away from me, Don, boy. You seem like a stranger to me--I can't realize you are here, that you are my own boy, Dieudonne! I'm afraid of you--I don't know you--and I'm so proud and frightened, so surprised, so _glad_--why, I don't know what to do. But I'd have known you anywhere--I _did_ know you. You're just as I've always dreamed of you--and I'm glad--I'm so very glad!"

"Mom! I loved your little picture, but I never knew how much I loved _you_ till now--why--you're my _mother_! My mother! And I've never seen you--I've never known you--till right now. You're a ripper, that's what you are!

"And is that where you live, over yonder?" he added quickly, to conceal the catch in his throat, the quick moisture in his eyes. His mother! And never in all his life had he seen her face--this sweet, strange, wistful, wonderful face. His mother! He had not even known she was alive. And now, so overwhelmed was he, he did not as yet even think of unraveling the veil of ignorance or deceit--call it what one might--which had left him in orphanage all his life till now.

"Yes, over yonder," said Aurora, and pointed across the square. "That little house under the shade trees, just at the corner. That's home and workshop for me, Don."

She spoke softly, her eyes still fixed on him, the color of her cheeks deepening.

"Not so much of a house, is it?" laughed the boy, tears on his face, born of his new emotion, so sudden, so tremendous and so strange.

"Not so very much," she a.s.sented, laughing gayly also, and also in tears, which gave him sudden grief--"but it has served."

"Well, never mind. We're going to do better out West, Mom. We're going to have you with us right away, as soon as I can get started."

"What--what do you say--with _us_! With _us_?"

She spoke in swift dismay, halting in her walk. "What do you mean, Don--_us_?"

"I didn't tell you the news," said he, "for I've just got it myself.

"What a week! I heard of you--that you were alive, that you were living here--though why you never told me I can't dream--and now, today, Anne!

Two such women--and for me. I can call G.o.d kind to me. As if I deserved it!"