~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* Disclaimer: The story of "Christy", by Catherine Marshall, is owned by the LeSourd family. I am in no way seeking profit from or credit for this story. I am continuing the story of "Christy" for my own amusement. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* Title: Prodigal Author: Lisa Renee ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* Scene One THE SUN had not yet begun its ascent over the Smoky Mountains, but that did not keep the man in bed. Again, he had spent restless watches of the night tossing and turning, plagued by the same troubling thoughts and questions that had tormented him for weeks. He had to find release; somehow, he had to quiet his tortured soul. So, stretching his stiff limbs and running a large, rough hand through a shock of unruly curls, Neil MacNeill grabbed some clothes hanging on the back of a chair, dressed, and exited his cabin, shutting the door softly behind him. The woods were quiet and serene at four in the morning, the only sound being the steady rushing of the river. The air was wintry and sharp, cutting and clean. Neil exhaled deeply and watched the steam from his breath swirl in the early morning air. “The birds aren’t even awake yet,” he mused, making his way down the hill to the river. The Doctor was quite content for the birds and other creatures to remain asleep; it would just be him and the river. When Neil was standing on the riverbank, where he could feel the icy spray on his face, he took another deep breath and gazed pensively at the river. Soon the solace would come; this was his source of comfort and strength. This was his river. * * * * * A long, white hand pushed aside the pale yellow curtains. The hand had once been beautiful, with elegantly tapered finger and manicured nails, but now it was a skeleton’s hand. Lifeless green eyes peered out from a sallow, gaunt face. Dark circles underneath the eyes conceded to a sleepless night---many sleepless nights. Margaret watched the lone silhouette keep its vigil by the river, a spark of some kind of feeling momentarily flashing in her catty eyes. Her colorless lips turned in a curious expression, neither a smile or a frown. Shivering in the dark bedroom, Margaret licked her wounds, knowing that Neil’s mind was tormented. If he didn’t want her, if he hated her, then at least this man, who had so arrogantly boasted of believing only in science and himself, had to accept the pride-crushing truth that his wife had wanted to get away from him so desperately that she had feigned death. And his doctor’s pity and compassion had trapped him; by agreeing to take care of his diseased wife, he was bound to honor his vows as a husband, no matter what he felt inside. It seemed as though Margaret had won a small battle. Neil felt something in addition to pity for a dying woman. Neil was feeling everything she felt. The thought was a small comfort to Margaret. As she let the curtains fall back in front of the window, she sniffed. Her cheeks were wet with tears. * * * * * Neil’s thoughts swirled like the rushing waters before him. Voices rang out in his head, a hundred past conversations playing out simultaneously. Neil unconsciously raised his hands and covered his ears, as if to silence the incoherent jumble. To the structured, controlled Doctor, it was maddening; everything was out of order, bombarding him. The more he tried to sort them all out, the more confused his thoughts became. Neil did not take his gaze off the river. The turmoil in his mind was too great; he had to hang on to the one solid, constant thing in his life. He sat down, ignoring the wet pebbles, dirt, and fallen leaves. A gentle, chilly breeze snaked its fingers through the sandy curls. Weary, bloodshot eyes closed, and the tense body relaxed. The peace was coming! The stars dimmed as the black sky faded into dark blues and greys. A thin arc of golden-orange peaked out from behind the jagged outline of the horizon. Wispy clouds were highlighted with lavenders and pinks. Chirps of birds and the scurrying of animals from the dense bush brought the forest to life. Neil, eyes shut in his silent reverie, was oblivious to it all. But the river’s soothing spell was ephemeral. Visions more troubling than the voices flashed through his mind. Neil opened his eyes with a start, looking about him in alarm. The past---long ago and recent---was closing in on him. And he couldn’t think; it was all happening to him again, all at once, stirring up every emotion he had ever experienced. He was drowning. Amid his absolute bewilderment, Neil MacNeill had two perfectly clear realizations. His life was totally out of control. And his river...was just a river. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* Scene Two IRIS MCHONE was miserable, Dr. MacNeill knew that the moment he rode into the McHones’ yard. Opal stood in the doorway, holding her crying, fidgety infant, vainly trying to calm her by rubbing her back and rocking her. “Law, I thought ye'd never git word fast enough. Shorely aim glad t’ see ye, Doc,” Opal said as Neil tethered Charlie to a nearby tree. “Bogg found me over at Bob Allen’s.” Opal nodded and shifted the baby from one shoulder to the other. “Cain’t rightly figger what’s ailin’ Iris.” “Let me have a look,” said the Doctor, taking the baby from her mother. He noticed that Iris’ nose was runny, and she felt a bit warm. She repeatedly reached up and pulled at her left ear. Opal was telling Dr. MacNeill about her baby’s symptoms, but he did not seem to be listening. “Come in the cabin, Opal,” he said, going inside. “I need a lamp.” In the dim light of the cramped cabin, Dr. MacNeill examined the tiny girl more closely. Opal noticed that he did not act as he usually did while treating children. He did not whisper to Iris in his low, soothing brogue or stroke her back with his big, gentle hands. He behaved as though this was just a routine call to one of many patients, not the sick child of his good friends. Something was bothering him. “Iris has an ear infection,” the Doctor said crisply as he reached into his bag and took out a dark brown bottle. “Give this to her three times a day, same as you did Isaak, only about half as much.” Opal nodded and took the medicine from him. She opened her mouth to speak, but Dr. MacNeill had already packed up his medical bags and was on his way to the door. “Iris will probably be fussy and grouchy while she’s ill,” the Doctor called back over his shoulder. “You’ll just have to rock her and try to keep her as calm as you can.” The thin, brown-haired woman took a small earthenware bowl from the table and caught up with the Doctor as he was fastening his bags to his horse’s saddle. “I’m obleeged t’ ye, Doc,” said Opal, holding out the bowl to him. “I jest made this here sauerkraut this mornin’.” “Thank you, Opal,” came Dr. MacNeill’s short reply as he accepted the woman’s payment for his services. Opal rubbed her temple, as if in deep thought as the Doctor unhitched Charlie. “Doc?” “Yes, Opal?” Dr. MacNeill replied, swinging up on his horse. “Ye awright? Seems as if ye’d got sompthin’ pressin’ ye.” “I’m fine,” the Doctor said tersely, not a bit convincing. “But I’ve got a few more calls to make, so I’d best be off.” As Charlie trotted to the edge of the McHones’ yard, Dr. MacNeill called over his shoulder, “Send word if Iris gets any worse,” then spurred his horse to a gallop in the direction of the mission. Scene Three SCHOOL had been out for more than an hour, but Christy Huddleston was still busy at the schoolhouse. It had become a habit for her, over the past several weeks, to stay long after her students had gone home, correcting tests and essays, planning lessons and projects. However, she also arrived at the schoolhouse early in the mornings. She felt better prepared for teaching sixty-seven rambunctious pupils when she arrived far ahead of time. Though she admitted it to herself with great reluctance, Christy was, in truth, purposely submersing herself in her teaching duties. School and work were escapes---from exactly what, she did not know, but there were some things she could not face just then. The air at the mission house was thick with tension, all the staff being out-of-sorts, everyone having some personal trial. Christy’s conscience often smote her for not being attentive to the needs of her friends and co-workers, but she justified her actions well: she had come to Cutter Gap to teach, not to solve everyone’s problems. Besides, the young woman told herself, Miss Alice has been gone for weeks, and David is mad at me. What can I do? The young schoolteacher was out on the front porch, sweeping away the last traces of the children’s mud, when she heard the pounding of approaching hoof beats. She glanced out across the schoolyard just as the horse crested the hill. At the sight of the horseman, though he was still quite distant, Christy dropped her broom, and her eyes grew wide for a moment. She knew that figure well; the large frame slightly bent over the neck of his black stallion could only be Dr. MacNeill. Christy had not seen the Doctor in nearly a month, not since David’s proposal, when he had spurred his horse and thundered out of the schoolyard. I can’t see him! Christy felt an incredible urge to turn and run, to hide from the Doctor, but her feet were rooted to the hard, wooden planks of the porch. Neil slowly swung down from Charlie, and he took his time as he tethered the horse, who immediately lowered his head to graze, to a sapling. “Miss Huddleston,” he said, approaching Christy. “Doctor,” Christy replied. She felt a little stab of pain over the unfamiliarity of their greeting. This man was her best friend, and the formality was unbearable. “Neil,” she quickly corrected herself. “How are you?” Christy’s voice quavered a bit when she asked Neil how he was; undoubtedly, he was not well at all, for his broad shoulders slumped and his forehead was creased in troubled lines. Neil hoarsely replied, “Christy, I---I need to talk to you.” Nodding, Christy lead the way into the schoolroom, and wordlessly, the Doctor followed her. Christy stood by her desk, and her gaze followed Neil as he wandered about the classroom, absently admiring the children’s work on the walls. He always did that when he was preoccupied, Christy observed. But she had never seen him this way, so obviously in agony. “It’s Margaret, isn’t it?” the schoolteacher blurted out. She started to apologize, but Neil cried, his tongue suddenly loosed, “It’s always Margaret!” His gaze drifted out the window. “Margaret is my wife and she left me. She betrayed me, she deceived me! She’s broken our wedding vows!” Neil’s face was hard, his voice loud and angry. “And now she expects me to take her back!” Christy was silent, her eyes locked on the Doctor. Neil was breathing hard, as if he had been running. Slowly, he grew more calm, and when he resumed speaking, his voice was low, and Christy thought, choked. “I couldn’t turn Margaret away; she’s dying. But I told her not to expect things to be like---like they used to be.” The big man stared at his boots, the toe of his right foot digging into the floorboards in frustration. Suddenly, he jerked his head up, wild curls flying back from his face, and looked at Christy with anguished eyes. “Christy, she’s still my wife. Those vows I made to her---I still have to keep them.” He faltered for a moment. “And---and I’m not keeping my vows if I allow Margaret to stay with me only because she’s ill.” The young schoolteacher watched helplessly, trying not to cry, as Dr. MacNeill walked back over to the window. His face was contorted with his emotional pain, and he beat his fist on the wall. “I have to honor my marriage vows! But God help me, I cannot unless I forgive her!” Neil gripped the windowsill until his fingers turned white. He was hunched over, shoulder muscles tense, straining, as if his inner struggles were made manifest in him physically. Christy longed to go to Neil and put her arms around him, to massage his shoulders, to comfort him and soothe his pain. But she could not. Again, Neil turned back to face Christy. His eyes were pooled with tears, and Christy felt drops welling up in her own at the sight of her friend. “I haven’t forgiven Margaret.” Neil’s brogue was thick and hoarse. “I thought I had, but each time I see her, the memories come back, and---and it’s as if I’m living them all over again...” Two pairs of blue eyes met and held one another as Neil cried, “I hate her sometimes! I hate what she did, and I hate why she did it...” Neil swiftly dropped to the bench on the front row, as the weight of his burden would not allow him to stand. He stared up at Christy, seemingly hanging on to her presence. “How do you do it, Christy? How did you forgive Lundy Taylor for disrupting school, destroying your supplies, setting the building on fire...Bessie Coburn for lying about you, Jarvis Tatum for kidnapping you?” The Doctor was wild-eyed with confusion as he ticked off the incidents on his fingers. “How do you always do it?” “I couldn’t, if it weren’t for God---” Christy ventured meekly, but Neil cut her off. “Your God. How do I forgive?” His eyes burned into her, flashing like blue fire, demanding an answer, an answer which Christy Huddleston feared she did not have. Scene Four OH, LORD, Christy thought. What do I say to him? She let out a deep sigh and sat down next to Neil on the bench. He reminded her of a schoolboy, his eyes were so hungry and lost, begging her to help him, to give him some direction. Christy felt that their roles were reversed; normally it was she who needed help and direction. She always went to Neil. But now, he had come to her. Even under the circumstances of his visit, the young woman felt touched that Neil, usually so reserved about his own feelings, trusted her with his deepest thoughts, his greatest needs. Give me the right words, God, she prayed, and suddenly she knew what to say. “Do you remember last year when Bird’s-Eye Taylor and the moonshiners were stalking Tom McHone for turncoating in the stilling?” Neil raised a sandy eyebrow, appearing to be confused as to what direction Christy was taking, but he nodded anyway. Christy took a deep breath and plunged in. “Bird’s-Eye was hiding out in the woods around the McHones’ house so he could kill Tom the minute he tried to come home. Opal was scared to death. Bird’s-Eye was after her husband, and she or the boys could also have been hurt. “I went to see Opal, to try to encourage her, but it ended up that she did all the talking.” The Doctor was totally engrossed by Christy’s words, his eyes locked on hers as she spoke. Staring vacantly out the window behind Neil, Christy told him the story Opal had shared with her about Bird’s-Eye and the fawn whose leg he had mended. Christy concluded, “What amazed me most of all in that whole story was not that Opal had seen a glimpse of the real Bird’s-Eye, but that she used that one incident to walk out her cabin door and invite that man to have dinner in her cabin and ultimately, to stop some of the feuding.” Neil’s brow crinkled as if he did not fully grasp what Christy was saying. But he said nothing; only his eyes begged her to continue. Meeting Neil’s intense gaze, Christy said, as though the Doctor was Sam Houston or Little Burl or one of her young schoolboys, “Opal forgave Bird’s-Eye even though he had treated her and her family hatefully. Do you know how she did it?” “How?” he asked, his mouth turning in a slow smile. Christy did not answer Neil immediately, for that smile had caught her completely off-guard. His eyes were penetrating, also smiling. “What---”Christy stammered, wanting to look away from Neil’s gaze, yet at the same time, drawn to it. “Why are you smiling?” Neil’s expression as he answered made her catch her breath. “Why, Miss Huddleston,” he said, “I just understood why it is the children love you as they do.” Neither said anything for a moment, Christy, being quite flumoxed by her friend’s remark. What exactly could he mean? Finally, Neil returned to their original conversation, the lightness leaving his expression and voice inflection as quickly as it had come. “So, how did Opal do it?” Christy’s eyes wandered back out the window, but Neil’s pulled them back like magnets. “She kept looking at Bird’s-Eye like he was when he fixed that fawn’s leg.” The young woman fell silent, and Neil sat contemplating what she had said. He got up from the bench, walked to the front of the room, and leaned against Christy’s desk. “So,” he said, examining the floorboards, “I’ve got to ignore---” His eyes were misty. “I’ve got to look past everything that happened and see the Margaret I married...” Neil jerked his head up, and Christy saw his eyes were again pooled with tears. “But she’s not that woman anymore!” he cried in desperation. “She is,” said Christy, rising. She rose and went to Neil, placing her small hand on his arm. “She’s just hiding under some dirt and behind a wall.” Neil was silent, reflecting. After a few moments, he gently covered Christy’s hand with his own. “Can I do it?” Christy looked the Doctor squarely in the eye. “ I know you want to.” Neil nodded. “I don’t think you’ll have to try very hard to see the Margaret you married,” Christy said. “You already do---that’s why it hurts so much.” Her face still lifted up to his, she gripped Neil’s big, rough hand. “I will pray for you, Neil.” Christy fell silent, and the Doctor was quiet, contemplative. Long minutes passed, and Christy studied Neil. She saw a subtle change in his countenance and wondered at it. Only minutes before, he had been distressed beyond measure, but now there was a glimmer of peace about him. What could have caused this? Surely not anything she said... She still grasped Neil’s hand, and Christy pulled it away, suddenly self-conscious. What if someone saw them? The young woman turned her head so that Neil would not see her slightly reddened face. “So, are congratulations in order?” Neil said at last, voicing the long unasked question. Christy just stared at him, utterly confused. “For your marriage to Reverend Grantland,” Neil explained, shifting a bit uneasily on his feet. “We’re not getting married,” came the schoolteacher’s simple reply. Neil colored a little. “I’m sorry.” “Don’t be,” Christy said bluntly. “I’m not.” Neil laughed---a loud, hearty laugh. “Fiery lass!” he cried gleefully. “At least you’re honest!” he told her, still laughing. “But I meant I was sorry I pried.” The schoolteacher laughed, too, unable to help thinking how good it felt to laugh with Neil MacNeill. “And I meant that I’m not sorry I said no.” His voice low and gentle, Neil said, “He doesn’t deserve you, Christy.” To Christy, Neil’s remark sounded rude and arrogant, and she opened her mouth to retort, but the Doctor continued, “No one does.” A maiden blush crept across Christy’s cheeks as she looked up into Neil’s eyes, the meaning of his statement sinking in. No man had ever paid her a compliment like that. It revealed that not only did he respect her work and consider her a friend, but he held her in the highest esteem. She wondered how he could look and speak to her so in the midst of his intense pain and struggle; his expression, though shadowed by melancholy, made her knees grow week. “Well,” Neil said softly, after another brief silence, “you’ve given me a lot to ponder, Miss Huddleston. I’d best get to it.” Christy walked with him to the porch, and as he started down the steps, she called after him. “Neil...” Christy was surprised to her a quaver in her own voice. The Doctor turned back to Christy. “You are in my prayers, Neil.” Neil took her hand in both of his, pressed it earnestly, caressing it with his thumb as he did. “Thank you, Christy.” A tear rolled down Christy’s cheek as she watched Neil ride away on Charlie. “Oh God,” she murmured, looking up at the sky when he was gone from sight. “Oh God, I must ask You again---let me love Neil---” She choked back a sob. “Let me love Neil---without being in love with him.” Scene Five DAY AFTER DAY, week after week, for over a month, Margaret had lain in bed. She neither saw nor spoke to a soul---except Neil, but he only came to inquire after her physical state. Occasionally Margaret would slip out of bed to find something to eat or go to the outhouse, but she would quickly return to her haven, huddled under quilts, staring at Neil’s bedroom wall. Never before in her life had Margaret voluntarily been without anything to do. As a very little child, she had played with her mother. When she grew a bit older, she made up songs and played contentedly in her childish dream world. Then she became engrossed in her books, scarcely putting one down before devouring another. In Philadelphia she had her circle of friends: artists, writers, poets, musicians, “philosophers” whose active minds sparked hers. As long as there was a stimulus, Margaret was happy and life was never dull. She faced her first boredom in Cutter Gap; Neil was always gone, and the mountain people were anything but stimulating. Yet even then, in the hope of keeping her sanity and holding on to the one person who cared for her, she had tried to keep herself occupied. But now, nothing mattered to Margaret; there was nothing to fight for. Her mother didn’t love her. Her husband didn’t want her. Her life was utterly worthless. At least I’m not paying for a doctor, Margaret thought bitterly as she counted the boards on the walls for the billionth time. And I’ve got a comfortable, quiet place to die. Eyes fixed steadily on the wall, she remembered her resolution: she would simply lie in Neil’s big, four-poster bed until the tuberculosis overtook her. However, the woman’s inner-fire, though she thought it quenched, had only been reduced to glowing embers. And embers can be made into a blaze, if only they are rekindled... Four walls with a few shadowy, yellowed photographs. One window, hung with faded yellow curtains. The bed. The little chest at the end of it. Two night stands, one on either side of the bed. The dresser. The cupboard in the corner. The washstand with the blue-speckled pitcher and basin. These things had always been in Neil’s bedroom, as long as Margaret could remember. Probably, they had been there since it was his grandfather’s bedroom. Always the same... You’ve been lying here for a month, Margaret, and are you any closer to dying now than you were then? a small voice within her asked. Focusing more intensely on Neil’s bedroom she thought, No, it hasn’t always been the same. It was my room, too, once. Margaret had not played make-believe since her childhood, but suddenly she was in the room she had slept in every night, years ago, when it had been her room---hers and Neil’s. The right-hand nightstand was covered with a small spread of delicate lace, and on it stood a cut-glass lamp from Philadelphia, which cast a warm glow on a few beautiful books of poetry, marked with dried columbine. Whatever happened to those poetry books? thought Margaret for a fleeting moment. You loved them, nearly read the words off the pages... An ashtray, a kerosene lamp, and a slightly crinkled medical journal topped the other nightstand, grossly dissimilar to the elegant, artistic woman’s style on the opposite side of the bed. This same contrast of rustic masculinity and feminine refinery played out all over the bedroom: Neil’s cabinet, filled with medical books, one of the doors open, his robe hanging on the knob; a woman’s dressing table littered with perfume bottles and pots of powder, rouge, and lip color, a fine ivory and silver brush set, a mahogany jewelry box decorated with hand-painted flowers and leaves, and a dark brown bottle of spicy men’s cologne; the stool, with a dainty dressing gown of pale green silk tossed across it and trim little slippers underneath; an elegant porcelain vase filled with heather and mountain laurel graced the cherry chest of drawers, as well as a delicate locket, a tobacco box and a pair of suspenders; a pile of dirty laundry in the corner: pretty dresses, flannel shirts, silk stockings, corduroy pants... Margaret sat up, turning to look at the large framed picture hanging over the head of the bed. It was of her and Neil, made just after their wedding. She was seated on a swing, and Neil leaned over her, holding the ropes. The dark-haired young woman gazed up at the handsome, curly-haired man, both of their eyes full of laughter and fire. The green eyes stared longingly, hungrily at the loving picture on the wall, then she shook her head, clearing her mind of the vision. Margaret looked around, seeing the room as it really was: cold, indifferent, devoid of aesthetic comfort, purely functional. What had happened to all of it---all of her things she had left behind? Slowly, Margaret sank back against the pillows, hoping, sardonically, that she would drown in her misery and self-pity, be washed away by the waves of her past, now churning, mocking... Suddenly, Margaret sprang out of bed. She couldn’t stand it any more. She had go get up, had to do something---anything---or she would go stark-raving mad. * * * * * The wooden stairs creaked beneath slippered feet. Waning afternoon sun left the cabin dark and gloomy and cold, for the fire was dying in the hearth. Shivering, Margaret sauntered over to the fireplace and halfheartedly stoked the dying embers. Outside, the wind howled and wailed. The old cabin groaned as the gales beat against the walls, and so did Margaret; how many evenings like this one had she spent alone in the cabin, fearing the winter storms would blow her home down on top of her? “”Too many,” Margaret muttered, then reached for a wooden box on the mantle. She opened it, rummaged among matches, change, and a few dollar bills, and extracted a large key. Margaret laughed to herself. “He never changes---if he lived a million years, this box would still be here, with the spare key to his laboratory.” Neil MacNeill was the most predictable, habit-driven person she had ever known, and though that characteristic generally annoyed her, it was amusing then, for Neil’s predictability had worked to her advantage. Quickly, Margaret struck a match and lit a lamp. She thrust the old-fashioned key into the lock on the laboratory door, turned it, and to her delight, heard a small click within the door. Hinges squeaked as Margaret opened the door. The lamplight threw long shadows of the furniture against the walls of the laboratory as she tentatively stepped inside. Wall-to-wall shelves and cabinets, filled with bottles of medicine and pill boxes and other medical paraphernalia, a desk cluttered with stacks of papers, a bed, and a table with a microscope and slides made Margaret feel claustrophobic as she moved about in the semi-darkness. Her stomach tied itself in knots, and a tightness gripped in her chest. Neil’s diplomas and certificates hung on the wall, as well as charts and diagrams of various stages of both healthy and diseased eyes. And Margaret writhed, utterly reviled. All this, every syringe and beaker and serum and bacteria-covered slide, every record of every house call---this was what her husband was married to---his work. Blinking hard, Margaret reined in her emotions and straightened her posture, tall, rigid. Then she saw it, shoved away in a dark corner, a large, dust-covered trunk. Crouching before the trunk, poised to lift the lid, Margaret wavered for a moment. To open it would be to turn back the pages of her life, to step back into the life she had fled, the life she had vainly tried to forget. But her lower lip trembled a little: Neil had kept it, kept it in his sanctuary. Swiftly, she undid the two clasps and opened the trunk. Immediately, she was greeted with the fresh scent of woodruff. It had been a long time since she had smelled that; lately she had been accustomed to the overpowering, sickly-sweet smell of heady, almost intoxicating perfume. Margaret took the sachet and held it to her face, drinking in the fragrance. The woodruff was clean and pleasant. It smelled like home. Turning back to the trunk, Margaret gave a little gasp as she noticed for the first time the top garment in the stack of clothing. Gently folded in the trunk was her favorite dress---the lavender silk trimmed with dainty lace. Margaret’s hands trembled as they fingered the delicate material. How she had loved that dress---it was soft and light as the breeze, so pretty... Filled with a sudden impulse, Margaret jumped to her feet and ran, with the dress, back up the stairs to Neil’s room. She unbuttoned her nightgown, letting it fall to the floor, reached into her still-packed steamer trunk and pulled out her corset and stockings. Shivering with both cold and an unexplainable excitement, she pulled on the underclothes. At last, she slipped the silky, sweet-smelling folds of the dress over her head, then turned to look in the full-length mirror that stood in the corner. Margaret was filled with absolute dismay as she peered at herself in the mirror. It wasn’t right---wasn’t right at all. The dress was modest, simple, innocent...Suddenly Margaret felt that the silk was burning into her skin. She shouldn’t be wearing such a dress. She didn’t deserve it. She had left it behind, left her life behind... Tearing frantically at the buttons, Margaret stripped off the dress and flung it away from herself. Hot, angry tears rolled down her cheeks as she dug through the trunk, her chest heaving with wrenching sobs. She pulled out dresses, skirts, blouses, underclothes, furiously tossing them aside. At last, at the bottom of the trunk, she found what she was searching for---a low-necked dress of deep crimson. With overwhelming willpower, she forced herself to stop crying, and quietly, mechanically, she walked over to the wash stand and splashed her face with icy water, purging herself of all signs of her painful outpouring. Then she put on the dress, arranged her hair, and rouged her cheeks. Without another glance in the mirror, Margaret picked up the discarded lavender dress and walked out of the room. Scene Six “What’s on yer mind, Neil?” Hattie asked her nephew, who stood in her doorway. With a grin, Neil said, “Hattie, you’re amazing! I had not called out to you, yet you knew it was me.” The elderly lady smiled and turned in rocker toward the doorway. “Yer footsteps--they’re farther apart then anyone else’s in this Cove, and heavier, too. You walk jest like yer daddy.” Neil gave a small chuckle and knelt beside his aunt’s chair. Hattie touched his cheek in her motherly way, and her eyebrows arched questioningly. “Neil, lately when you’ve been here,you’ve been troubled.” Her blue eyes, if they had not been sightless, would have looked the big man full in the face as she continued, “But yer face is easy now, like some o’ th’ trouble was gone.” Again marveling at his aunt’s perception, Neil took her hand in his and nodded. “Aye, Hattie. Some of the trouble is gone. This morning it was horrible, but now, since I talked to---” “Who’d you talk to?” “Christy,” Neil replied, going over to the fireplace. “Miss Huddleston,” he corrected himself, poking the embers and adding another log to the fire. “Hmm,” Hattie murmured with feeling. “Fine gal she is---right good Christian woman.” Shifting a little in her chair, she asked, “Now, what’d she say that helped you?” Neil shook his head, a faint smile playing on his face, the lines on his forehead raised slightly. “I don’t know exactly---or why---but Christy said she’d pray for me and---” he fumbled for a moment. “I felt better when she said that---it was good to know that---someone cared.” “We-ell, just so you know, I’m a-prayin’ for you, too, just like Miz Christy.” Neil bent over Hattie and tenderly kissed her cheek. “Neil,” Hattie said as her nephew went to the door. “Maybe you ought t’ try prayin’ yerself.” “Good evening, Hattie,” was Neil’s only reply. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* Charlie plodded steadily along the lonely mountain trail toward his master’s cabin. He knew the trail well, and he did not need to be directed. Except for an occasional snort or the small sound as he chomped at the bit, not a sound came from the stallion. He never stopped along the wayside to nibble at sparse patches of grass, and though usually spirited, he kept his pace at an easy canter. Neil took comfort in the way his horse seemed to be aware of his weariness and melancholy, and he reached down patted Charlie’s glossy shoulder. “Thanks boy,” he murmured in the twitching ear. Charlie responded with a gentle neigh and shake of his magnificent head. An icy rain began to fall from the wintry clouds. Neil shivered and urged Charlie a little faster. But as horse and rider quickened their pace, the rain fell harder. Soaking wet and nearly freezing, Neil spurred his horse even faster. The sure-footed animal took the narrow mountain paths in leaps and bounds, never questioning his master’s command. Not a second did the horse hesitate as he galloped through the woods and perilous heights, though lightning cracked across the sky and the path grew slick and hazardous. “Only another mile, Charlie,” Neil encouraged, but suddenly the horse lost his footing and let out a crazed whinny. Before he could think, Neil found himself lying on his backside in the muddy trail. He lay there for a minute, slightly dazed, trying to decide if he was injured. No one part seemed to be hurting any more than his entire body did, so he gingerly got to his feet, groaning as he stood. “Idiot,” he muttered to himself. “You’ll be sore tomorrow, and you certainly deserve it for riding like that.” Neil stiffly walked over to Charlie, who was covered with mud, his mane tangled and dripping. The horse was standing yet obviously favoring his foreleg. “Sorry, boy,” said the Doctor, checking Charlie’s leg. Fortunately, it was not broken, but Neil would be walking the last mile to his cabin. The rain had begun to let up as Neil took Charlie’s reins and led him slowly along the path. Neil ran his gloved hand through his own wet, matted hair and let out a great sigh, pondering the same thing which had preoccupied him during his ride. “What am I going to say to Margaret?” Lifting his face to the sky, he repeated, “What am I going to say? I’ve failed so many times---so many. I have to make things right; I cannot fail again. Please, don’t let me fail...let me see the Margaret I mar---” The Doctor stopped mid-sentence. Had he been praying? He wasn’t a praying man. He didn’t need God. He could live his life on his own. He knew how to make things right. A low rumble of thunder seemed to reverberate a voice deep inside Dr. MacNeill, and he halted dead in his tracks. “Do you Neil? Do you really know how to make things right? Are you in so much control of your life?” Neil blanched at the thought, yet he admitted that he did not always make things right. However, the thought of his life being beyond his control shook him to the core. He was a doctor, a man of science---it was his duty to be in control. True, he needed advice occasionally, like he had that very morning. But he didn’t need God. Christy had pointed him in the right direction. He could take it from there. “Margaret is my wife!” he shouted to the heavens, with a defiant toss of his head. “I promised her, for better or for worse, that I would stand by her---I will keep my vows!” His eyes flashed, and he shook his fist at the clouds. “I will keep them!” ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* Margaret sat on the front steps of the cabin, looking dismally down the muddy trail. She was unprotected from the inclement weather, and she had begun to cough again, but still she remained on the steps and waited. How many times did you sit here, just like this? You waited for hours sometimes, but he never came. Why do you think he’ll come now? Why are you still waiting for him? If he had wanted you, he wouldn’t have ever left you alone... Margaret shivered, which provoked a coughing spasm. She pulled out her handkerchief and covered her mouth. The dainty lace and linen cloth was stained with blood and phlegm. When the spell had passed, she weakly leaned against the porch rail. Go inside and lay down, her mind said, but Margaret would not. She saw a figure coming towards her. Why isn’t Mac riding? He looked awful---wet and muddy, walking very slowly. Neil did not even glance toward his house, so he did not see Margaret sitting on the porch. He went directly to the back of the cabin, to the barn, where he cleaned the mud off Charlie, brushed out his tangled tail and mane, and dried him off. He poured the horse a bucket of oats, then exited the barn. When Neil saw Margaret shivering on the porch, coughing, looking very pale and ill, he quickly took her arm and pulled her to her feet; he pulled off his coat, as wet as it was, and draped it over her shoulders. “Are you daft, woman? You’ll catch your death---” “That’s what I was hoping for,” Margaret managed through chattering teeth as Neil guided her---gently, in fact---to the door. “I think I have a better alternative,” Neil replied calmly. “We need to talk.” “Talk?” Neil nodded and opened the door for Margaret. “Don’t you think it’s about time?” Scene Seven The rain pounded against the windows of the mountain cabin. Neil and Margaret, after changing out of their wet clothes, sat in front of a roaring fire, sipping hot tea. Neither of them said a word; both were earnestly trying to collect their scrambled thoughts. After a long, uncomfortable silence, Neil got up from his chair and stood in front of the fire, casting a sidelong glance at the the dark-haired woman who sat on the hearth. “I---I’m sorry---Margaret.” Margaret arched her brow. “You’re sorry?” “For leaving you alone...not talking to you...” Neil ran his hand through his hair. “I’ve not behaved rightly towards you---and I’m sorry.” “You’re sorry,” Margaret murmured. “That’s a new---” she stopped and softened. “No, it’s not. You used to apologize all the time---every time you were called away.” Neil sat down beside his wife. “I suppose me being gone when you needed me has been the story of my life.” “You’d gaze at me reluctantly,” Margaret continued, as if she had not heard her husband. “You’d whisper, ‘I’m sorry; I’ll be back as soon as I can,’ then you kissed me and left. You always did that---” She stood and walked to the window, stared out at the rain for a moment, then looked scornfully back at Neil. “---until your duties became an escape from me.” The Doctor looked away. “What you needed was a husband who would give you his undivided attention, who could give you his undivided attention twenty-four hours a day.” His face hardened as he berated himself. “I should have seen...it’s my fault---my fault you were miserable, all this happened...” Margaret did not deny Neil’s statement, nor did she offer to share the blame in their situation. The Doctor thought that his wife looked almost exultant in her silence, and he felt sick. “But I did tell you what Cutter Gap would be like,” Neil said, agitation rising within him. “You knew---” With a shake of her head, Margaret argued, “No, Neil, no. If you had lived in Cutter Gap for a hundred years, you could never make someone understand what it’s like here.” She stared vacantly at her cup of tea. “Why’d we get married? God, we were naive.” A small chuckle escaped Neil. “Naive? You were never naive---not a day of your life.” Margaret, joining in her husband’s laugher, resumed her seat by him on the hearth. “True,” she replied. “Maybe I should have said that we were blind.” “I’d never met a woman like you---” Neil reflected, “---so fiery and captivating... I couldn’t think at all...and suddenly we were married...” After a moment, Neil commented, “It’s a bit ironic that the reasons we married each other became the very things that drove us apart.” Swallowing the lump that had risen in her throat, Margaret asked, “Do you hate me, Mac?” “No. I don’t hate you. We---we just weren’t meant to be.” “Do you want a divorce?” Shame crept over Neil. “That’s not what I meant.” Margaret was persistent. “Do you?” Neil let out a long sigh and stoked the fire. “No, Margaret, I don’t. Do you?” “It would just be a waste of time and money,” she replied, shaking her head, a caustic smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I won’t be around for very much longer.” Neil saw that Margaret was struggling to fight back tears, and he put his arm around her shoulders. For a moment she relaxed, but then she shrank from his touch and abruptly stood up. “Atlanta and the El Pano Tea House certainly aided in the dying process, don’t you think?” she asked sarcastically, green eyes flashing as she spread her arms, striking a dramatic pose. Almost as suddenly as Margaret’s mood changed, she was seized by another series of coughs. Neil went to her and supported her as she wheezed and heaved, then led her back to the hearth when it had passed. “I understand why you could not stay here before,” he said after a few moments. “But what I cannot see is why you came back to me. I don’t really think that it’s because you love me, like you said.” “At least you were listening,” replied a subdued Margaret. “No, you’re right. That’s not why I came back.” Neil stared at his feet. “But you were telling the truth---I know you were---when you said you didn’t want to die alone.” Slowly, he continued, “The last time you came back, you went to Alice first.” “I did this time, too,” Margaret explained. “Only she disowned me when I told her I wanted money.” Noting the somewhat startled expression on Neil’s face, Margaret laughed---mockingly. “Oh, don’t worry, Mac. Mother will come around. She always does. Her God expects it of her.” Neil decided to let that conversation go and return to his questions. “So this was the only place you could go---” Neil waved his hand, indicating the cabin. “A place you despise---and me.” Again, Margaret softened, and she leaned against Neil. “I knew you’d stay by me, no matter what I’d done to you.” She gazed intently at his rugged face. “That’s something I’ve always loved about you---you’re as faithful as an old hound dog.” “Thanks,” Neil replied, not knowing whether to feel insulted by Margaret’s analogy. However, she appeared to be in earnest, so he added, “I will take care of you, Margaret. I’ll do whatever you want, whatever you need---even it means leaving the Cove.” Margaret was somewhat taken aback. “Why?” Neil gently took his wife’s hand. “I made you a vow. And however shallow it was then, whatever troubles we’ve had, I intend to keep my vows now.” “You’d leave here for me? Even after everything...” “I should have taken you away from here before all of this happened.” For a moment, Margaret was silent. A soft expression was in her eyes, and Neil thought she might throw her arms around him. Instead, Margaret gave her curly hair a toss and replied flippantly, “Whatever you want, Mac.” She smiled and stood again, her voice rising to a lilting drawl. “Although, you know what a city girl I am!” Then she added, in a low, sweet voice, running her long fingers through Neil’s unruly curls, “Mac, I’ll be a dutiful wife from now on---won’t that be a change--and ‘wither thou goest, I will go: where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God, my God...” Neil inwardly recoiled at his wife’s touch and her biting sarcasm, but he let her have her way. “Well,” Margaret said in a sing-song voice, leaning close to Neil and planting a quick kiss on his cheek, “Do you want some dinner, my dear?” Scene Eight Alice Henderson knew that she had to take shelter from the violent, early-winter storm. Her mare, Goldie, was half-spooked by the canon-like blasts that shattered the quiet of the mountain woods, and both horse and rider were pelted with wet, frozen bullets. The Quaker woman had hoped that she would reach the mission house by nightfall, but the day’s rain had made the journey slow, and now the road was nearly an impasse. And the sorrel’s energy was spent from her effort to pick up her hooves and walk up the muddy path. Fortunately, the lightning flashed at such frequent intervals that Alice was able to see, fairly clearly, the woods surrounding the trail. “Give thanks in all circumstances,” Alice chuckled in the midst of the tempest and the miserable cold. She could tell that she was less than a quarter of a mile from Dr. MacNeill’s cabin. With a tug of the reins, Alice directed her horse to the left, off of the muddy trail. It was an uphill slope to the Doctor’s cabin, but after the oozing mud through which they had been traveling, Goldie managed the terrain much better, and in a few minutes, they could hear the thunderous roar of the river. The old, grey cabin, stalwart and enduring as the generations of MacNeills it had housed, loomed at the top of the hill. Goldie was immediately taken to the barn with Charlie, and once the animal’s needs had been attended to, Alice made her way through the sleet to the cabin. She knocked, though it was too soft to be heard, for while Alice did not like entering a home uninvited, she also did not want to wake Neil. She tentatively went in, then slumped against the door in weary relief. Drenched and shivering, Alice forced her stiff legs to walk the few steps to the fireplace. She threw a log into the fire, and a cheery blaze flamed up. The woman pulled off her gloves, the leather shrunken a bit from the thorough soaking. When Alice was somewhat warmed, she realized she had to get out of her wet clothes. But all of her extra things were as wet as the clothes on her back. She went to the laboratory, thinking that Neil might have something in there---a shirt, perhaps---that she could wear for the night. Neil bolted upright at the creaking of the laboratory door. “Alice,” he said in sleepy confusion. “Neil,” replied Alice, in equal surprise. “What are you doing here?” the Doctor asked, growing more alert. He threw back the bedclothes, and Alice saw that he had been sleeping in his clothes. Without giving the woman time to reply, Neil surmised, eyes sweeping her, “You’re drenched.” “I was on my way back from Big Lick when the storm hit,” Alice explained. “Any colder out there, and this would have been a blizzard.” “You get out of those wet clothes,” Neil ordered, giving her a robe which was slung over the back of a chair. “I’ll fix you something to eat.” * * * * * All of Alice’s clothes were drying before the fire when she emerged from the laboratory, dressed in Neil’s robe and slippers, her dripping hair combed and pulled back in a braid. “Hungry?” Neil asked, turning from the steaming pot he was stirring to face Alice. Gratefully and eagerly, Alice took a bowl of stew from the Doctor and sat down at the table. For several minutes, neither Doctor nor missionary said a word, as Alice ate her first meal since mid-day, hot and filling. “How was everything in Big Lick?” Neil at last broke the silence. Alice nodded as she chewed, then swallowed. “Fine. No serious illness, and the school children are slowly yet surely making progress.” Taking another bite of stew, she added, “I do wish there was a permanent teacher there like in Cutter Gap.” The two discussed various situations and families in the mountain community for a while, and at last, after a cup of hot tea, Alice began to yawn. “I suppose I’d better be off to bed,” Alice grinned sleepily, pushing her chair back from the table. She regarded her weary-looking son-in-law thoughtfully. “Neil, go on up to your room; I can wash up these dishes and sleep on thy spare bed.” “Alice,” Neil said, swallowing hard in sudden realization. “Alice, do you know why I was asleep in the laboratory when you came in?” The woman chuckled. “You stayed up late studying a case or researching trachoma, and you collapsed on the closest bed. It is an old story, Neil; thee does not have to explain.” “No, Alice, no.” Neil sadly shook his head and examined the floorboards for a moment. Alice didn’t know...How could he tell her? With pain-filled eyes, Neil lifted his face and met Alice’s gaze. “Margaret is sleeping upstairs.” Scene Nine Three o’clock. Alice did not hear the old London clock in Neil’s living room chime the hour, but she knew. The loneliest time of day was three in the morning, and Alice’s loneliness had never been more profound than it was at that black, silent hour. The storm had died down hours before, but Alice could not sleep. She felt as empty as the trees, the wind no longer in their denuded boughs. The stillness was more disconcerting than the storm’s fury had been, Alice thought, pacing the laboratory’s hard wood floor with deliberate steps. The cabin was too quiet; she stepped heavily so she could hear the creak of the boards as she paced. Alice stopped mid-stride as she heard a noise overhead. Instinctively, she raised her face to the ceiling and listened. Gentle thuds and low creeks. Someone was walking around upstairs. The woman wanted to believe that it was just Neil momentarily aroused from his bed, but the footfalls were too light---a woman’s steps. Yet maybe...Alice opened the laboratory door a few inches and peered out into the living room. There was Neil, asleep on the sofa, his long legs draped over the arm. The sound of the catch on the door as is clicked shut echoed the disappointment in her heart. Margaret was in the room upstairs. For the thousandth time, Alice turned the thought over in her mind, trying to accept it. She had not known that Margaret was with Neil, for she had left for Big Lick Springs the day after her horrible confrontation with her daughter. Alice stood, like a statue, her heart in her throat. The creaking overhead continued, back and forth---pacing. “Mar, Mar,” came the two-syllable creak. Margaret was pacing upstairs. Breathing deeply, vainly trying to still her pounding heart, Alice resumed her pacing, stepping even harder than before to drown out the sounds above her. Yet the floorboards continued to creak: “Mar, Mar...” She flew to the window and pulled back the black covering. Beams of moonlight shone down through gaps in the thick clouds. “When will it be morning?” Alice cried, frustrated that she could not leave Neil’s cabin until then. She wanted to leave at that very moment, but she knew that if she tried, her son-in-law would wake and prevent her from doing so. “When will it be morning?” she repeated, sinking to the floor in despair. One arm was raised above her head, clutching the windowsill with her fingertips. In a moment, still whimpering softly, Alice Henderson drifted into a restless slumber. * * * * * Brown eyes opened slowly, painfully. Alice groaned as the dim room came into focus. Her head throbbed terribly, and she was so cold and stiff; she had slept on the hard floor, slumped in the awkward position in which he had fallen. At least it is morning, she thought, glancing up at the window as early grey light peaked from behind the dark curtain. When Alice rose, rolling her head to try to relieve some of the stiffness in her neck, she noticed her clothing, dry and neatly folded, was stacked just inside the door. She put the clothes on the bed, then sighed deeply as she slipped the woodruff-scented chemise over her head. Neil was at the stove, heating a pot of coffee when Alice came out of the laboratory. He turned around and noted his mother-in-law, dressed in her riding clothes. “Well,” he commented, “I see that your night of pacing has refreshed you from yesterday’s travels.” Alice snorted and proceeded to stuff her clothes into her bag. “I hope that I did not disturb thee, Doctor,” she said tersely. “Not at all,” came Neil’s mild reply. He poured two cups of the steaming, aromatic drink. “I’m getting used to hearing someone pacing in the wee hours of the morning---Margaret is always up at night.” His level gaze settled on Alice. “Some family trait?” The observant physician’s eyes did not fail to notice that the Quaker woman was ashen-faced and spent. “Alice,” he said, stepping towards her, “you should be back in bed, sound asleep.” “I am fine, Neil,” Alice replied, physically avoiding his scrutinizing stare by going over to where Neil had set the coffee. “In fact,” she continued, taking a sip, “I will be leaving for the mission now.” Neil crossed the room and said gently, “Alice, you’re exhausted. You must go back to bed and try to get some sleep.” Instinctively, as Alice’s dull, hollow eyes stared defiantly at him, Neil reached up and felt the woman’s forehead. “I think you have a fever---” “Nonsense!” Alice argued. “I have just been drinking coffee, which is very hot, I might add.” “You are the most stubborn, long-headed woman I have ever met, Alice Henderson,” he growled. Then, more gently, he added, taking her elbow and turning her towards the normally locked door, “Please, go back to bed. Margaret won’t be up for hours, and...” “I told thee, Neil, I must get back to the mission. I have been gone for a month. I am needed there.” Neil stared, sensing the meaning Alice was trying to hide from him. “You’re not going to talk to Margaret.” In response to Alice’s silence, Neil said, “Alice, you need to talk to her.” Alice turned away, her voice small and choked. “I cannot.” She began to cry, and Neil went to her and placed his large hands on her trembling shoulders. “I know Margaret hurt you---” Alice sniffed and shook her head. “I brought it upon myself.” The Doctor’s brows knit in confusion. “I failed,” Alice continued. “I failed as Margaret’s mother.” In a low voice, Neil uttered some words of comfort which Alice did not hear. All she heard was her daughter’s mocking voice: “Spare the rod, spoil the child, Mother?” “All that Margaret has become, all that she has done,” said Alice, “is the result of my own foolishness. I spoiled her and reinforced selfish tendencies, neglecting to correct a headstrong little girl.” Alice’s voice rose with her struggle. “And yet when I saw the path she has taken, I blamed her. Neil, I disowned her---I disowned my own daughter.” Neil rubbed Alice’s back soothingly. “I know,” he said softly. “Margaret told me. But---” Turning to face him, Alice cried in anguish, “Then you see why I cannot speak with her!” Before Neil could even think of how to respond, Alice snatched up her bags and fled the cabin, and seconds later, a brownish blur flashed past the window. Neil sighed deeply and ran his hands through his tangled curls. “She’s gone.” The voice startled Neil, and he whirled around. “Aye,” he replied sadly to Margaret, realizing that she had heard every word between him and Alice, both the night before and just then. He went to his thin, pale wife who stood at the foot of the stairs in her loose nightgown and put his arm around her shoulders. He pushed aside his thoughts of how bony those shoulders were as he sought only to comfort Margaret. “Aye, your mother left.” “A mother wouldn’t have left,” Margaret replied stonily. Neil shook his head and held Margaret tighter under the crook of his arm. “I’m sorry---I tried to tell her to stay...” Looking up at Neil, Margaret touched his arm and answered, gratefully, “I know.” The Doctor gave his wife a melancholy smile, then let his gaze wander out the window. “Alice will be back.” “Of course,” Margaret said bitterly. “I told you that---she’s Mother. When her God takes away her anger ...” “She’s angry with herself.” “I know that. I heard every word.” Dark curls were flipped back over the thin shoulders, and Margaret stuck out her chin in resolution as she ascended the stairs. “Mother will be back.” Once in Neil’s room, Margaret lay down and pulled the quilts around her. “Mother will be back,” she told herself in a small voice, much less confident than she would have liked. “She’ll be back. She’s Mother.” Scene Ten “How is she?” Dr. MacNeill called, riding into the mission yard several days later. Christy was at the pump, filling two large buckets with water. “Better, I think,” she replied, puffing a little from her pumping. She set the half-filled bucket on the ground and continued, “She seemed to be having a very difficult time breathing late last night, so I made some onion poultices---like Opal did when Iris had the croup...” Dr. MacNeill just stared, and Christy suddenly felt concerned. “Was that the wrong thing to do? I just thought it seemed seemed right---” “Did that loosen the congestion in her lungs any?” the Doctor asked, tethering Charlie. Christy turned her face away from the Doctor. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he said with a chuckle, not missing her grimace. “Pneumonia’s not a pretty sight, Christy.” The schoolteacher shook her head, trying not to recall the images. “She coughed up a lot of mucus and blood.” She turned back to Dr. MacNeill. “But she seemed to be able to breathe more easily after that, and she slept the entire night.” She began to pump again. “In fact, she’s still asleep.” “Good,” Dr. MacNeill said. “And no, Christy, that wasn’t the wrong thing to do. Onion poultices are one of the more effective herbal remedies. Besides, a little onion couldn’t have hurt anything.” More to himself than to Christy, he added, “I’m just glad it’s not more serious.” Again Christy stopped pumping, and she placed a hand on the Doctor’s arm. “Neil, it’s not your fault that Miss Alice has pneumonia; she is the one who didn’t take care of herself---not you.” “I know.” “Then why do you keep flogging yourself over it?” Christy asked. Neil grinned to hear his own words come from the schoolteacher’s lips. “I guess I’m just a stupid, stubborn Scot.” Christy laughed and resumed her pumping. The Doctor took a few steps toward the mission house, then stopped. “She’s still asleep, you say?” “Mmm-hmm.” “I hate to wake her when she’s had so little rest lately,” the former replied, half to himself. Christy bent over and picked up the filled buckets, groaning a little with their weight. Dr. MacNeill went to her and took them from her. “Have you had any breakfast, Neil?” Christy asked. “Would you like some coffee or something?” “Coffee would be great.” Upon entering the mission house, Christy set to work warming a pot of coffee. She also heated some leftover sausage and pancakes and scrambled a few eggs for the Doctor, who, in her opinion, looked as if he had not had a good meal in a long time. She spoke cheerfully to Neil about school and the children and her plans. “And I’m hoping to delve a little deeper into chemistry, too,” she said. “If you can help, of course.” Neil nodded as took a hearty bite. “Christy,” he suddenly asked while young woman heaped another helping of eggs onto his plate, “have you seen Dan Scott lately?” The mention of the Negro man caught Christy by surprise. She had completely forgotten about him. “I just wondered,” the Doctor continued, shifting in his chair so that he faced Christy, “because I haven’t seen him since the fire. Has he been staying here?” “He did---for a few days,” came Christy’s slow reply. “But then I didn’t see him, and I assumed he was off rebuilding his cabin.” “That’s probably what he’s been doing,” Neil agreed, taking a bite of eggs. “I thought it was a little odd that he never came in for meals, and I meant to check on him, but I’ve been so busy...” “I know what you mean,” said Neil, standing and taking his plate over to the counter. He carefully scraped the scraps into a bucket. “I’ve thought about him several times, and I feel badly that I haven’t gone to help him any.” “You’ve had a lot on your mind lately,” Christy said, submersing the dirty dishes into sink filled with warm, soapy water. Neil did not comment, but took another sip of coffee. “Well,” he said, stretching, “that was much appreciated.” He squeezed the schoolteacher’s shoulder. “Thank you, Christy.” “You’re welcome, Doctor,” Christy said softly, bowing her head as she blushed. The Doctor grinned and picked up his medical bags. “I’ll be checking on Alice now.” * * * * * The hinges let out a low squeak as Neil pushed open the door to Alice’s room. The woman laying in the bed was still sleeping, and the Doctor observed her furrowed brow and various lines punctuating her gaunt face. Alice Henderson battled even in her slumber. “Alice,” Neil said in a low voice, dragging a chair to the bedside and settling into it. Alice did not stir, so Neil tried again, this time gently shaking her shoulder. “Alice.” The woman responded with a groan and shifted her position slightly. Neil leaned over Alice and said, more loudly, in her ear, “Alice Henderson.” Alice’s eyelids flew open, and she stared dazedly into Neil’s face, as if trying to comprehend his presence. “Good morning to you,” the Doctor said, taking out his stethoscope. “Did you have a good sleep finally?” He did not wait for a reply, but placed his stethoscope on Alice’s chest. “Breathe deeply.” After a moment, Neil removed the stethoscope from his ears and looked up at Alice. “Your lungs sound much better. Those poultices Christy made for you last night really did the trick.” Alice seemed somewhat coherent, though she said nothing, so he continued in more technical terms. “The fluid in your lungs is not so consolidated. In fact, it’s quite loose, and though you’ll have a cough for a few days, you’re through the worst of the pneumonia. Open, please,” he ordered, holding up a thermometer.” While he waited for Alice’s temperature to register, Neil got up and went over to the dresser, where he pulled some medicine bottles out of his bag. Alice watched him tamp some powder into a glass of water. “Margaret asked about you last night,” Neil commented casually as he stirred the mixture. He glanced up to gauge his mother-in-law’s reaction, but her face remained expressionless, statuesque. Focusing intently on the glass of swirling, foggy-looking water, stirring deliberately, he added, “I don’t think she wanted you to know that she asked after you, but she asked all the same.” Neil went over to Alice and took the thermometer out of her mouth. He held it up to the light and scrutinized it for a moment. “One-hundred-and-one-point-two,” he said. “So, it’s gone down, but not enough. Drink this.” He handed her the glass. “And get some rest. I’ll send Christy up with some soup for you.” The Doctor picked up his bags and started out the door, when Alice called out testily, “I dislike soup.” Neil turned back to her and stared at her for a minute. “Too bad. You’re eating it.” Scene Eleven Something about the woods did not seem right to Dr. MacNeill as he rode along the mountain path to his cabin a fortnight later. The frosty air was weighted with an eerie silence, and a thickness seemed to lurk behind each leafless tree and skeleton bush. And though a normally tractable animal, Charlie answered the clucking of the reigns with tentative steps. Neil felt himself gripped with the same odd apprehension his horse was showing. Charlie’s black ears were perked, twitching ceaselessly, listening for the least noise. The Doctor glanced about furtively, deadly certain that he was not alone in the forest. Cautiously the Doctor urged his steed forward, but Charlie let out a neigh of disapproval and reared, stomping nervously. Dead leaves rustled and crunched beneath what were assuredly footsteps, just to the left of him. Neil quickly dropped from his horse, who wandered off the trail a little way, as if understanding that it was necessary to hide. Neil crouched behind a large bush, thick with branches, and though it was bare, he felt somewhat protected from whomever was skulking in the woods. His light brown coat and sweater would not be too noticeable amid his surroundings. As he squatted behind the bush, Neil listened carefully to the approaching footsteps. For a moment, he chided himself about being so skittish and hiding simply because he heard someone in the woods. Probably it was just one of the Cove men hunting. But something about the crunching of the leaves sounded uncertain, panicky. Sometimes the steps would be fast, close together, but other times they would be slow, in long intervals---not at all sure and strategic like a hunter’s. A twig snapped, and Neil heard Charlie’s frightened snorting and stomping. Then, the Doctor heard the small click of a rifle cocking. His heart began to beat faster. The woods grew silent once more, and Neil strained his ears. For several long moments, he heard nothing save the occasional melancholy call of a bird, the fluttering of wings, or the scurrying of a rodent. The Doctor remained crouched, trying to decide whether he should make a run for it or wait a while longer behind the bush. He let out a low whistle for Charlie, and suddenly a crackle of leaves erupted as someone broke into a run on the other side of trail. Neil saw a patch of blue coat and a grey hat pulled low over the person’s head. Instantly, the Doctor was on his feet. “Dan!” The black man wheeled around, swinging his rifle in front of him, carelessly aiming at whoever might have called his name. “Don’t you come near---” Dan stopped short. “Dr. MacNeill!” he cried in surprise, lowering his rifle. “Mr. Scott,” Neil replied tersely with a nod of his head, stepping from behind the bush. He saw that the man was shaking, obviously rattled. “What are you doing, man?” he asked. “I---I’m sorry,” Dan panted, wiping away the beads of perspiration which had formed on his forehead. “I---I thought you were one---one of them.” “One of who?” Dan shook his head gravely. “I don’t know. But they’re after me---out to kill me.” Dr. MacNeill stood silently, waiting for the young man to explain himself. As if on cue, Dan began, walking over to a stump and sitting down, his rifle laid across his knees, “I reckon you’re wonderin’ where I’ve been the past month.” Neil gave a slow nod. “Christy said you only stayed at the mission a few days after the fire.” “I went back to work on my cabin, and I was campin’ out, like before. It took me nearly a week just to get the burnt logs cleared out.” Dan’s black eyes stared vacantly at the ground. “One mornin’ I woke up and was goin’ to come see if you needed any help with anything, but my horse was gone. There were corn husk dolls strung up in the trees and dead birds where I’d marked off the four corners of my cabin.” The man lifted his head and looked Neil in the eye. “Well, after that, I got scared. I knew it was either Bird’s-Eye or one of his kin, out to get me for accusin’ him of burnin’ down my place.” The Doctor’s face registered his agreement. False accusations were not taken lightly by anyone in the Cove, much less Bird’s-Eye Taylor. “I had to get away from that place---had to hide,” Dan continued. “I didn’t have a chance holdin’ my own against Bird’s-Eye or any other mountain men seekin’ revenge. I thought about goin’ back to the mission, but I knew Miss Alice was gone, and I didn’t want my presence to put Miss Christy in any danger. So, I’ve been hidin’ out in the woods, layin’ low till I decide what I’m goin’ to do...” “And have you decided?” the Doctor probed. Dan rose to his feet and shoved one hand into his pocket. “I’m goin’ home--- back to Kentucky.” Then he added, his gaze sweeping the winter mountain landscape, “Where I belong.” * * * * * “Hello, Bird’s-Eye,” Hattie McHabe called out at the sound of footfalls on her front porch. “Miz Hattie,” the grizzly mountain man replied, tipping his ragged hat in a courtly fashion to his blind friend. “I’ve got some cornbread fixin’ t’ come out o’ th’ oven if you’d like t’ stay a spell,” Hattie offered. “I reckon I’d lak that,” Bird’s-Eye said kindly, stepping inside the cabin. “It’s a might chilly in here, Miz Hattie,” he said. “Ye wont me t’ build up yer fire somewhat?” “That’d be nice, Bird’s-Eye. Has th’ first snow come yet?” “No’m,” the man answered, picking up the poker. “Hit ain’t snowed one flake yit.” He paused and drank in the aroma of baking cornbread. “That thar cornbread shorely does smell fine, Miz Hattie.” Hattie smiled and went over to the oven. She opened the door and withdrew the iron skillet containg the cornbread. Bird’s-Eye stood behind the elderly woman and looked hungrily at the cornbread. “Hit looks as good as hit smells! Yer some hand at makin’ cornbread---best in th’ Cove!” Hattie’s face was lit with a smile of pleasure as she began to cut thick wedges of cornbread and place them on a plate. “Will ye git th’ butter an’ th’ honey, Bird’s-Eye?” “Yes, ma’am!” Bird’s-Eye replied enthusiastically as he fulfilled the task and also got out two plates and two cups, which he filled with fresh milk. He set the table, and pulled something out of his inner coat pocket. “Why, Bird’s-Eye!” Hattie cried, giving a laugh of delight. “Ye brought wintergreens!” She went to him and took the springs of pine from him and inhaled the aroma. “Ye always lak t’ have flowers on yer table, and sinct thar warn’t none, I thought ye mought lak these jest as well,” Bird’s-Eye said, a look of pleasure on his face at Hattie’s reaction. “Mmmm...they smell lak cold an’ green, don’t they?” she sighed. “They do, ma’am.” Bird’s-Eye gently took Hattie’s arm and seated her. He reverently took her hands as she offered the blessing, and buttered her a slice of cornbread afterward. “I’m glad ye finally came t’ visit,” Hattie commented, between bites. “It’s been a long while since ye last came. Ye know how lonesome I git for comp’ny...” Bird’s-Eye did not reply, too involved with his meal. “Word’s goin’ ‘round, that you’ve been huntin’ down Daniel Scott,” Hattie said suddenly. The mountain man stopped chewing and stared at his friend. “That ain’t true, is it?” Swallowing, Bird’s-Eye shook his head. “No’m. Hit ain’t. Lord knows I got reason t’ be after ‘im, what with ‘im nearly killin’ me fer burnin’ down ‘is place, but I done thought on it, an’ I reckoned I moughta done th’ same thang as he done... But I sware, Miz Hattie, I ain’t done nothin’ sinct then, an’ I ain’t a-goin’ to, an’ that’s th’ plain truth.” Hattie just nodded and smiled her soft, knowing smile. “I know it’s th’ truth, Bird’s-Eye.” She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “I believe ye.” Scene Twelve None the worse from her bout with pneumonia, Alice Henderson was back on her feet in only two weeks. A light snow, the first of the year, was falling, and she and Christy were in the schoolhouse, discussing curriculum plans for the winter term. “You have certainly planned a broad range of subjects to cover, Miss Huddleston,” said Alice, perusing the neat outline the young schoolteacher had made. “Grimm’s Fairy Tales, basic arithmetic and grammar...Advanced Latin, trigonometry, health and hygiene, English literature, European folklore...Does thee think thee can manage?” Christy nodded, her eyes gleaming with enthusiasm. “I’m sure I can. It will be a lot of work, but I think they need to be exposed to all of those subjects---especially the folklore.” Alice smiled and patted Christy’s shoulder. “Thou art ambitious. I have said it before, and I say it again. It is indeed an admirable quality, Miss Huddleston, for thee never fails to carry out thy ambition.” The Quaker lady rose from her chair and went over to the window. Christy watched her mentor and noticed that her eyes gazed beyond the frosty windowpane or even the mountain scenery, seeing some unknown realm visible only to her. Alice’s expression, which had a moment before shown tranquility and offered praise to Christy, was now clouded with preoccupication, as it had been more often. “Miss Alice,” Christy asked, “are you all right?” “Hmm? Oh, I’m fine.” “Well,” said Christy, getting up from her desk, “you’ve seemed troubled lately, and I was just wondering...” Alice turned to Christy. “Yes?” “Oh, it’s none of my business...” Christy mumbled. She examined her shoes for a moment, deliberation on her face. “Child,” said Alice gently. “Thee can ask me anything. If it is important to you, thee need not hesitate.” Christy summoned up all her courage and very timidly inquired, “Miss Alice, have---have you seen Margaret?” This was not the sort of question Alice expected at the moment, and she could not have been more stunned if Christy had slapped her. She felt a pit in her stomach, a physical ache from this intangible blow. “No,” Alice replied, turning back to the window. “No, I have not seen Margaret.” Christy was about to reply, when she saw Dan Scott riding into the yard---atop Dr. MacNeill’s horse. She bolted from the schoolhouse, down the steps to the man. “Dan!” Christy cried. She felt panicky and wondered why Dan was riding Charlie, but she asked, “It’s been so long---where have you been?” “Oh, around,” Dan answered evasively, dismounting. “Mr. Scott,” said Alice, joining them, a cordial half-smile veiling her troubled countenance. Dr. MacNeill suddenly appeared, Dan’s rifle slung over his shoulder. Wordlessly, giving only a brief nod to Alice and Christy, handed the gun to the black man, mounted his horse, and galloped away. Alice watched curiously as the Doctor disappear into the woods. “I met the Doctor in the woods while I was walkin’ here,” Dan explained. “Someone had been followin’ me, and Dr. MacNeill let me ride his horse, while he followed on foot---with my gun---to be sure I made it here all right.” “Someone’s been following you?” Christy asked, her eyes growing wide. “Has this been going on long?” inquired Alice. Eyes downcast, the brim of his hat hiding his face, Dan kicked at a few pebbles on the round. “Ever since I came here.” Alice shifted slightly and cleared her thoat. “Has thee been working on thy cabin?” she asked, producing a smile. She reverted to small talk as if none of the previous conversation had taken place. “Well,” Dan said, his deep, earthy eyes darting about hesitantly, “I need to talk to you about that, Miss Alice.” “Yes?” Alice’s eyebrows arched warily, and her smile waned. The black man took off his hat and toyed nervously with it. “I hate to bring this up right off. Maybe we could talk about it later...” “No, Daniel,” said Alice. “Now is as good a time as any.” “Well---I’m not---I don’t need a cabin,” Dan explained. “I think it’s time I went back home.” Christy’s mouth fell open. “To Kentucky?” Dan nodded and softly answered, “Yes, ma’am, to Kentucky.” “Why?” Christy was distraught. “What about your medical training? Dr. MacNeill has been so helpful, and there is so much more he can teach you! And he needs your help, and...Don’t leave, Dan!” Giving Christy a sad smile, Dan replied, “I really appreciate that, Miss Christy, really, I do. But Cutter Gap has never been home to me, never can be. Freedom is where I belong, with Mama...and Cecile...” Christy was persistent. “But Dan, you can belong here! I know it’s been hard, but the people are coming around...the Spencers, Miss Hattie...You have friends, Dan...” “Miss Christy, you just don’t understand,” Dan sighed. “But what about your dream of being a doctor?” “Dreams don’t always come true,” said Dan. “And besides, I’ve got to think realistically. I can’t ever really be a doctor unless I go to medical school.” Adamantly, the teacher protested, “No, but you can get a head start---” “Stop, Miss Huddleston,” Alice said crisply, her eyes fixed on Dan. “What is the real reason thee is leaving Cutter Gap, Mr. Scott?” The young man met Alice’s gaze unflinchingly. “This mission isn’t about fulfilling my dreams. My bein’ here isn’t helping your mission any. There’s been nothin’ but trouble since I arrived, and it’s all my fault. It’d be the best thing for me to leave, to go back among my own.” Christy looked to Miss Alice. Surely the Quaker woman would not accept that answer from Dan; she had never accepted any such thing from her. But Alice only said, “Do what you will, Mr. Scott; go or stay. However, you may not leave until thee has reconciled thyself to Bird’s-Eye Taylor.” Dan was silent for a moment, the muscles in his face twitching, contorting his normally easy features. He put on his hat, gripped his rifle, took a few steps backward and said, though clenched teeth, “I guess I’d better get to work rebuilding my cabin, then, ‘cause Bird’s-Eye will never listen to me.” Scene Thirteen Next morning, David Grantland had just come out of his bunkhouse and was headed to the big house for breakfast. The winter air was brisk and invigorating, and David breathed deeply. A searing feeling cut into his lungs, but the young minister liked the cleanness also in the air. “Good morning, David!” David looked up to see Christy exiting the mission house, heading to school early again. “Morning,” the tall man replied dully as he continued toward the mission. Why did he have to see Christy first thing in the morning? Why did she have to be so cheerful and eager to begin the day’s work? Why did she have to be so beautiful, her smile so bright, her eyes so big and lively? Why...why... Fairlight was washing dishes in the kitchen when David entered the back door. “Thar’s some grits on th’ stove yan,” she said with a nod to her left. “An’ biscuits warmin’, too.” “Thanks, Fairlight,” David replied, taking a bowl from the cabinet and spooning the sticky grits into it. “Preacher,” Fairlight said as David sat down at the table. “I hope ye don’t think me too forward in sayin’ sech a thang, but---” She turned to face him. “When’r ye goin’ t’ quit being so down in th’ pits about Miz Christy not marryin’ ye?” David was tempted to be defensive, but he saw genuine concern in Fairlight’s face. “I love her, Fairlight. I always will.” He blinked hard, feeling he might cry. Fairlight wiped her hands on her apron and sat down next to David at the table. “There’s an emptiness inside,” said the Reverend, shaking his head, propping his elbows on the table. “I never knew how much emptiness could hurt...” For a moment, Fairlight said nothing; she simply stared at David. At last she inquired, “Are ye lonesome, Preacher?” “Very.” David stared vacantly at his clasped hands. Fairlight’s straight-backed chair scraped across the floor as she scooted back from the table and stood up. “Lemme give ye sompthin’ t’ think on.” “And what is that?” David asked. “Who’s yer best friend, Preacher?” Fairlight’s face was a study as she repeated the question in a low voice. “Who’s yer best friend?” * * * * * Alice was saddling Goldie when Christy returned to the mission house for lunch that day. Several large bags, such as Alice used when she was traveling for long amounts of time, were on the ground. “Where are you going?” Christy asked. “I am heading out to Cataleechie as soon as I finish saddling my horse,” Alice replied. For about five minutes, Christy watched the brown-haired woman deftly prepare her animal for her journey. The young woman was troubled, for she saw in her mentor’s face deep grief. “I trust thee will manage here while I am gone?” asked Alice, mounting the sorrel mare. “Yes,” Christy answered. “But will you?” Alice stared questioningly at the teacher. Christy boldly stepped forward, grabbed Goldie’s bridle, rose up on her toes and said, looking Alice Henderson squarely in the eye, “I know you’re hurting. And though I don’t know what happened, I know you’re hurting because something happened between you and Margaret.” Alice snorted and clucked the reins, but Christy held fast to the bridle, and the horse did not move. “I know you are in a hurry to get to Cataleechie, but don’t let your work blind you---don’t let it be an escape. Margaret needs you, whether she says so or not. You cannot shut her out, Miss Alice.” “Good bye, Miss Huddleston,” said Alice in a choked voice. Christy let go of Goldie’s bridle, and Alice turned her horse northward. “Miss Alice,” said Christy so firmly that the Quaker lady wheeled around again. “You told Dan Scott he could not leave Cutter Gap until he was reconciled to Bird’s-Eye.” Her gaze was level, penetrating. “Well, I’m saying the same thing to you---don’t leave until you are reconciled to Margaret.” Alice only dug her heels into Goldie’s flanks and galloped away towards Cataleechie. Scene Fourteen “Hal-lo! U-nited States Ma-il!” Margaret opened the cabin door and stuck out her head. She laughed aloud at the expression on Ben Pentland’s face as he ascended the hill and saw that it was not the Doc who had heard his call. “Wal,” the mailman drawled, “If’n hit ain’t Missus Doc! I heared ye’d cum back from th’ daid, an ye’d took off agin an cum back agin.” With another laugh, Margaret stepped out on the porch and shut the door. “It’s good to see you, too, Mr. Pentland. I’ve just decided to come pay my husband a little visit.” Ben just stared at her, looking to Margaret as though he was not quite certain what to make of her statement. “Reckoned wives was s’posed t’ do more’n visitin’ with thar husbands.” Margaret attempted to laugh, but the small chuckle sounded nervous in her ears. She shifted her feet and leaned back against the door frame. “What brings you out here, Mr. Pentland?” Mr. Pentland reached into his bag. “Got a letter fer th’ Doc.” “He’s out right now,” Margaret answered, holding out her hand. “But I’ll be sure to give it to him.” Ben obligingly thrust the letter at Margaret. “Well, well, if it isn’t from St. Timothy’s hospital in Baltimore,” she murmured, noting the return address. The mailman grinned a wide, yellow-toothed grin. “Shorely! Been a heap lot o’ cor’spondence twixt Doc an’ that hospi-tal th’ past weeks. Ye know what he’s up to?” “Not a clue,” Margaret replied. “Mac doesn’t share his business matters with me.” “Jest as wal,” Ben said. “Wimmin ain’t need t’ be worryin’ thar ha-ids with no bizness.” How typical, Margaret thought. That mountain attitude I adore. Yet Margaret buried her annoyance and said nothing, for she had always liked Ben Pentland. The tall woman and the lanky mailman stared at one another for a moment, but finally Ben slapped his bag and said, “Wal, cain’t be keepin’ th’ rest o’ th’ ma-il waitin’.” He tipped his hat to Margaret and went on his way. Margaret continued to curiously examine the envelope as she went back inside the cabin. “Dr. Charles Kinnigan, St. Timothy’s Hospital, Baltimore...Kinnigan...” Why did that name sound so familiar? Kinnigan. “One of Mac’s old professors?” she mused, wandering over to the wall with the pictures. “Ben Pentland brought a letter for me?” Neil asked, coming into the cabin. Margaret gave a slight jump. “You startled me! I didn’t hear you on the porch.” She continued to look at the pictures. “Which one of these is Kinnigan?” Neil stood behind her and pointed to a yellowed picture on the second row. “The greatest ophthalmologist I’ve ever known.” His voice was distant, contemplative. Margaret turned around and handed him the letter. Then she said, with a hint of a question, “And he works at St. Timothy’s Hospital in Baltimore. Mr. Pentland said you’ve been corresponding with him quite frequently lately.” The Doctor did not answer immediately. His face was set in firm lines as he carefully read the letter. Finally, he looked up at his wife. “How does Baltimore sound to you?” “What do you mean?” “Would you have any desire to---to live there?” Margaret’s jaw dropped, her eyes begging for an explanation. “Last autumn I wrote to Dr. Kinnigan about my eye research.” “Still dabbling in that, Mac?” Margaret asked. Neil nodded, and said, his tone slightly annoyed, “Aye. But Dr. Kinnigan and the hospital were very interested in my ‘dabbling’. They offered me a job and a research grant.” He walked over to an overstuffed chair and sat down. “But I’ve been reconsidering my decision. I wrote to Dr. Kinnigan about ten days ago and asked him if the job was still available. He wrote back to say that it was, and that a team of ophthalmologists has been reviewing my latest research with great interest. “Which brings me to this letter,” Neil said, taking a deep breath, leaning forward in his chair. “Dr. Kinnigan outlined the details of the residency. I’d be working with him in the opthalmology department---you remember I was interned with him at Will’s Eye Hospital in Philadelphia---” Margaret gave a short nod, and Neil continued, “I’d have a bit lighter patient load to allow time for research, of course.” Neil’s voice faltered a bit as he added, “He named a starting salary, and it’s more than I could have imagined. And there’s a fully-furnished townhouse available just a few blocks from the hospital.” Margaret had been listening intently to her husband, intrigued by the prospects. She and Neil would move to Baltimore! Neil was going to give up Cutter Gap and take a real job in a hospital doing research! And they would be rich! A highbrow townhouse was practically theirs! Life suddenly seemed so livable! “When do we leave?” she cried. “I have to write to Dr. Kinnigan to confirm everything, but I---we---could be there in a fortnight,” Neil replied softly. “Two weeks?!” Margaret exclaimed. The news got better and better! Giddy with excitement, she threw her arms around her husband and kissed him repeatedly on the cheek. “I take it that will make you happy,” Neil commented, as he returned Margaret’s embrace. Margaret smiled up at him---a genuine, warm smile---then lay her head against his chest as he held her. Maybe things will work out, she thought hopefully. If only he can forget Cutter Gap... The future had never looked more promising to Margaret. Finally, she would get her way. She would be free in the city, away from her mother’s faith and incessant thees and thous. And she would have Neil---on her terms, on her grounds--- just as she had always wanted. * * * * * It was a weary Neil MacNeill who tumbled into the bed in the laboratory that night. He lay in the dark, running his hand over the stubble on his chin, reflecting. Fifteen minutes, a bit of ink, and two sheets of stationery had produced the letter that lay on his desk, neatly folded and sealed in a crisp envelope, addressed to Dr. Charles Kinnigan at St. Timothy’s Hospital. It was his letter of acceptance, signed and finalizing his decision. The letter was a good one---professionally written, without an error. And the decision was a good one, too. Moving to the city, where his wife would be happy, was the right choice for Neil. Why, then, did he feel so utterly defeated? Scene Fifteen The road to Cataleechie was as familiar to Alice Henderson as her own face. She had traveled that road more times than she could recall, always setting off with optimism and determination, in deep prayer for whatever she might encounter at the end of it. And the ride home was always spent in reflection---rejoicing for the good, turning over every ill to God. However, as the snow swirled around her, the Quaker missionary’s mind was not on the work ahead, but on her daughter. Alice had been thinking of Margaret ever since the last time she saw her, that dreadful night in the church. All had been stripped away and laid bare: Margaret was angry and bitter, selfish and rebellious, cruel, hateful, mocking... Now, after the agonizing weeks of constantly being reminded of her daughter by herself and others, Alice realized that she had not seen the soul that had been exposed to her that night. Yes, she had seen what lurked beneath Margaret’s hard exterior, but that, too, was only a curtain. Behind the curtain was the window of her daughter’s soul. The glass was dirty, but it was not so opaque as to hide the black night on the other side. Margaret was lost in that eternal night, alone in the dark... Yet Alice had within her the Light, the Light bright enough to shine through that all-encompassing darkness, and she had withheld it. Given up. She had hardened her heart, succumbed to the pain and her feelings of loss and failure, at her daughter’s great expense. “Dear Lord,” she whispered, brokenly, slumping over her horse’s neck. “Lord God in Heaven, forgive me. I have turned my heart from my daughter, the precious gift you have given me, and in doing so, I have turned my heart from Thee. Forgive me, Father; forgive me.” Alice remained with her head bowed, her spirit contrite, for a long time. When she was less than half a mile to Cataleechie, she lifted her face, directed Goldie to turn around, and spurred her horse back in the direction she had come. * * * * * As Alice walked up Neil’s front porch steps, she had a sudden thought that she might look as anxious and frazzled as she felt. She was a bit shocked with herself for thinking of something so frivolous as her appearance when such a task lay before her, but still she took a glimpse of herself in the mirror hanging on one of the posts and smoothed her disheveled hair. The front door swung open. “Alice.” Alice whirled around to see her son-in-law standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. She blushed, noting his teasing expression. “Did you come all the way out here to look in my mirror?” Neil asked. “Why, of course,” Alice returned. “Did thee not know? You have the finest mirror in Cutter Gap.” “Is that so?” Neil walked over to the mirror, pulled out his handkerchief, and wiped off the smudges off the mirror. He carefully buffed the slick, shiny surface until it gleamed silvery-white. The Doctor turned to Alice, but his gaze was intent upon his handkerchief as he refolded it. “Margaret’s inside, Alice.” His eyes glanced at her. “I’m glad you’ve finally decided to talk to her.” He winked and gave her a small, yet reassuring smile. Alice took a deep breath and stepped inside the cabin, bracing herself for whatever might come. The only sound in the cabin was the ticking of the London clock. It seemed fifty times louder to Alice than it ever had. She stood gazing at her daughter. Margaret was sprawled haphazardly on the sofa, reading a thick, worn, leather-bound book. It was a scene the Quaker woman had beheld a thousand times. Her beautiful daughter was reclining in an unladylike posture, yet looking so natural, so completely at ease, lost in the pages of her book. Alice, as she had done all those other times, went to Margaret, who, in her absolute submersion, was completely oblivious to the world around her, and gingerly stroked the glossy black curls which fell freely over her shoulders. “Les Miserables,” Alice murmured, glancing at the book her daughter held. “It’s my favorite,” Margaret replied, without looking up from her page. Alice smiled. “And how many times has thee read it?” “I lost count before I was fifteen,” Margaret answered. She procured a dried flower from where it had fallen between the sofa cushions and placed it in her book to mark the page. Then she sat up, turning so that she faced her mother. “I know you’re here to apologize, Mother,” said Margaret, with an unusual affability. “But you don’t have to say it.” Alice’s eyes clouded with tears as she sat down on the sofa with Margaret. “But I do, Margaret. I do. That night at the schoolhouse---” “Was just a bad dream,” Margaret interjected in a near-whisper. “It’s over, Mother, you awoke a long time ago.” “Margaret,” Alice said, slightly taken aback by her daughter’s enigmatic response, “I have come to ask thy forgiveness...” Alice faltered, feeling herself silenced by the steady gaze of Margaret’s green eyes. “Forget about your nightmares, Mother,” Margaret murmured. Perplexed, Alice decided not to pursue the topic of her falling out with Margaret or her plea for forgiveness. Something in Margaret’s tone and words said that those grounds were off-limits; something else conveyed that daughter had forgiven mother, at least to some extent. Neither case provided much satisfaction. Before Alice could say anything, Margaret had stood up and said, “Well, can I get you anything, Mother? A drink?” “I would not mind some water,” Alice admitted. She had not had anything to drink since leaving the mission that forenoon. Margaret poked her head out the door. “Mac, you can join us now---we’re through with our mother-daughter tete-a-tete.” Alice watched speechlessly as Margaret cheerfully bustled about the kitchen, humming lustily. Margaret looked much better than Alice expected her to look in her state of health; her cheeks were rosy, her eyes bright. In fact, she looked and acted much better than Alice had seen her daughter in her entire adult life. What could have caused this? Margaret filled a pewter mug with water and took it to her mother, then went back to the kitchen, where she rolled up the sleeves of her dress and finished washing up the supper dishes. “Look, Mother, I’m being a good wife!” she called over her shoulder. Alice flinched inwardly at the mocking lilt in her daughter’s voice. “I figured it might be nice if I performed a household chore while I still had the chance. I won’t be doing this when we’re in Baltimore, you know.” “Baltimore?” Alice asked, feeling more bewildered than she had in her visit. “Yes, Baltimore!” Margaret said, just as Neil entered the cabin. She skipped over to her husband and hung onto his arm. “It’s so grand, Mother---Mac and I are moving to Baltimore!” Scene Sixteen Neil could see Christy standing on her balcony as he came up the hill. For a moment, the Doctor considered calling out to her, but he did not. Instead, he watched the young teacher, taking in every detail: her long hair, bathed in morning sunlight as she brushed it; her pretty shirtwaist and skirt; her characteristic pensive expression as her big blue eyes were riveted to the mountains. He wondered what it was she was contemplating. Suddenly, Christy turned her head and saw the Doctor, then disappeared through the double-doors into her bedroom. Heaving a sigh of disappointment, Neil climbed down from Charlie’s back and led the animal to the barn, where the mission’s harvester wagon was kept. That was the real purpose for his presence at the mission, anyway---to borrow the wagon---not to stare at the schoolteacher. You cannot think of her, he told himself. You cannot. “Neil!” The Doctor immediately turned around at the sound of Christy calling his name. He could not help but smile at the sight of the teacher, loose hair flying about her face, jogging down the porch steps toward him. “Good morning, Miss Huddleston,” he said. “Alice said I could use the wagon to move some of my things to the mission for Dr. Ferrand to use while he’s here.” “So you’re really going to Baltimore,” Christy said softly, an expression Neil could not quite read on her face. “Aye,” answered the Doctor, eyes sweeping the mountains behind the mission. Christy stared at the ground. “Miss Alice told me.” “How’s she taking it?” Neil asked, concerned at the mention of his mother-in-law. Alice had said very little regarding her feelings about the move. “She’s upset that Margaret’s leaving,” Christy replied. “But she knows that it’s the best thing right now---for the two of you.” After a brief pause, Christy added, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders, “When she told me you were leaving, I could hardly believe it was true.” Neil swallowed hard, recalling the time the previous autumn when he had told Christy he was considering the medical residency in Baltimore. “Christy,” Neil inquired softly, “are you angry with me?” The petite young woman looked up at the Doctor, surprised. “Why would I be angry?” “Well,” said Neil, “the last time I considered the job, you acted as though I was abandoning my people. Do you feel that way now?” Christy shook her head and took a step backward, her great blue eyes, pooled with sadness, never leaving Neil’s. “You’re doing it for Margaret.” Instinctively, Neil stepped toward Christy, but she took another step away from him. Neil ran his hand through his hair, resenting the distance, yet at the same time knowing that was how they must be. He stood still, except for his fingers tugging at the curly ends, studying the snow-covered ground. “Margaret is my wife.” Neil’s voice was very low. “She can’t be happy here---I have to go...” He closed his eyes, feeling the mist form. “You’re doing the right thing, Neil,” Christy said. The Doctor looked up and saw that Christy was smiling, though tears ran down her cheeks. The right thing? Neil’s stomach tied itself in knots. How could he feel so wretched if he was doing the right thing? “You’re making a sacrifice---putting Margaret’s needs and desires above your own.” Christy’s tear-filled eyes glowed with a warm light. “You’re doing the right thing,” she said again. “God will honor that.” Neil turned his back to Christy. He could not bear it---her words, her confidence in him, the love in her eyes, her tears... “I know you don’t believe that God has anything to do with your life, Neil,” Christy said through a sob. “But you’re wrong.” Neil whirled around to see Christy’s entire face lit in a radiant smile. “He does, Neil. God has everything to do with your life.” No longer able to maintain the distance between himself and the young woman, Neil reached out and stroked Christy’s tear-stained cheek. She flinched at his touch but did not step back as she had done earlier. “I wish I could believe that, Christy,” he whispered. “I wish you could, too.” The laughter of children playing in the schoolyard caused both Doctor and Teacher to divert their gazes from one another. “It’s time for you to go,” Neil said reluctantly, his hand dropping to his side. He took several steps backward towards the barn. “Goodbye, Christy.” As the Doctor stepped into the shadowy barn, he heard Christy’s small voice: “You’re in my prayers.” Neil’s tears flowed freely. * * * * * The shrill whistle pierced through the quiet of the mountains as the train began to chug along the track. Margaret watched out the window in delight as they reached the outskirts of El Pano. But Neil, seated at his wife’s right, did not even glance in the direction of the window. He could not watch the little town of El Pano, his last link with his home and life, become a mere speck in the horizon. The End