``Listen, Mrs.Temple.'' I could not bring myself to call her otherwise.
``You are keeping him away from me,'' she cried.
``Why are you keeping him away? Have I not suffered enough? David, I cannot live long.I do not dare to die --until he has forgiven me.''
I forced her, gently as I might, to sit on the bench, and I seated myself beside her.
``Listen,'' I said, with a sternness that hid my feelings, and perforce her expression changed again to a sad yearning, ``you must hear me.And you must trust me, for Ihave never pretended.You shall see him if it is in my power.''
She looked at me so piteously that I was near to being unmanned.
``I will trust you,'' she whispered.
``I have seen him,'' I said.She started violently, but Ilaid my hand on hers, and by some self-mastery that was still in her she was silent.``I saw him in Louisville a month ago, when I returned from a year's visit to Philadelphia.''
I could not equivocate with this woman, I could no more lie to her sorrow than to the Judgment.Why had I not foreseen her question?
``And he hates me?'' She spoke with a calmness now that frightened me more than her agitation had done.
``I do not know,'' I answered; ``when I would have spoken to him he was gone.''
``He was drunk,'' she said.I stared at her in frightened wonderment.``He was drunk--it is better than if he had cursed me.He did not mention me? Or any one?''
``He did not,'' I answered.
She turned her face away.
``Go on, I will listen to you,'' she said, and sat immovable through the whole of my story, though her hand trembled in mine.And while I live I hope never to have such a thing to go through with again.Truth held me to the full, ludicrous tragedy of the tale, to the cheap character of my old Colonel's undertaking, to the incident of the drum, to the conversation in my room.Likewise, truth forbade me to rekindle her hope.I did not tell her that Nick had come with St.Gre to New Orleans, for of this my own knowledge was as yet not positive.For a long time after I had finished she was silent.
``And you think the expedition will not get here?'' she asked finally, in a dead voice.
``I am positive of it,'' I answered, ``and for the sake of those who are engaged in it, it is mercifully best that it should not.The day may come,'' I added, for the sake of leading her away, ``when Kentucky will be strong enough to overrun Louisiana.But not now.''
She turned to me with a trace of her former fierceness.
``Why are you in New Orleans?'' she demanded.
A sudden resolution came to me then.
``To bring you back with me to Kentucky,'' I answered.
She shook her head sadly, but I continued: ``I have more to say.I am convinced that neither Nick nor you will be happy until you are mother and son again.You have both been wanderers long enough.''
Once more she turned away and fell into a revery.
Over the housetop, from across the street, came the gay music of the fiddler.Mrs.Temple laid her hand gently on my shoulder.
``My dear,'' she said, smiling, ``I could not live for the journey.''
``You must live for it,'' I answered.``You have the will.You must live for it, for his sake.''
She shook her head, and smiled at me with a courage which was the crown of her sufferings.
