The man turned and stared at her with sharp blue eyes
under red brows frost-white between his cap and twice-wound
red tippet. “Hey?” he said, in a
muffled voice.
“Can you tell me where Mr. Otis lives?”
“Otis?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Which Otis d’ye mean? There’s
two Otises. D’ye mean Calvin Otis or Jim
Otis?”
“He has a son that plays the fiddle,”
answered Madelon, faintly.
“Then it’s Jim ye mean. He died last
year. He had a son Jim that plays the fiddle.
Lives down the road on the left-hand side, five houses
below the meeting-house. House with three popple-trees
in front—sets close to the road.”
Madelon started, but the man’s voice arrested
her. “You look most froze,” said
he. “Hadn’t ye better go in there
an’ warm up?” He pointed towards the
store-windows with a rosy glow of light and warmth
transfusing their thick layers of frost. “It’s
pipin’ hot in there—warm ye all through
in a minute. It’s a terrible cold night.
Old man in there, lived ‘round these parts risin’
eighty years, says he never knew sech a night.
Better just step in there.”
Madelon shook her head and started on.
“Where did ye come from?” called the man.
“Ware Centre,” Madelon gasped out, as
the freezing wind struck her.
“Good Lord! you don’t mean to say you’ve
walked risin’ ten mile from Ware Centre a day
like this!”
Madelon was gone, bending before the wind, without
another word.
“Good Lord!” said the man, “a woman
walkin’ from Ware Centre this weather!”
He stood staring after the girls’ retreating
figure; then he started to unblanket his horse.
But he stopped and stared again, and finally went
into the store to tell the news.
Madelon kept on as fast as she was able, but she was
nearly spent. Her exultation of spirit might
indeed survive fleshly exhaustion and perhaps in a
measure overcome it, but it could not prevent it altogether.
When she reached the fifth house below the white meeting-house,
the house set close to the road, with three poplar-trees
in front, she had just strength enough to stagger to
the door and raise the knocker. Then she leaned
against the door-post, and it was only with a fierce
effort that she kept her grasp upon her consciousness.
She did not seem to feel her body at all.
Presently a bolt was shot and the door pushed open
with an effort. It was little used, and there
was ice against it. Then a man’s face peered
out irresolutely into the dusk. A knock upon the
front door, upon a night like this, seemed so unlikely
that he doubted if he had heard rightly.
“Anybody here?” he said. Then he
saw the woman’s figure propped stiffly against
the door-post. “Who is it?” he asked,
in a startled voice. “Is it you, Mrs. Lane?”
Madelon aroused herself. “I want to see
Mr. Otis’s son a minute if I can,” she
said, with a great effort. Then she raised her
piteous eyes to the face before her, and realized
dimly that it was the face of the young man who had
taken her place at the ball, and sent her homeward
to work all this misery on that dreadful night.
