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diff --git a/34829-h/34829-h.htm b/34829-h/34829-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fd03584 --- /dev/null +++ b/34829-h/34829-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,11721 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=ISO-8859-1" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Sick-a-Bed Lady, by Eleanor Hallowell Abbott</title> + <style type="text/css"> + + p {margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + text-indent: 1.25em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + img {border: 0;} + .tnote {border: dashed 1px; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; padding-bottom: .5em; padding-top: .5em; + padding-left: .5em; padding-right: .5em;} + ins {text-decoration:none; border-bottom: thin dotted gray;} + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; + } + hr { margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; + } + + table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;} + + body{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + + .pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + } /* page numbers */ + .copyright {text-align: center; font-size: 70%;} + .blockquot{margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 10%; text-align: justify;} + .small {font-size: 70%;} + .big {font-size: 110%;} + .author {font-size: 120%; text-align: center;} + .center {text-align: center;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + .caption {font-weight: bold; font-size: 90%;} + + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + + .figleft {float: left; clear: left; margin-left: 0; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: + 1em; margin-right: 0.5em; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .figright {float: right; clear: right; margin-left: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em; + margin-top: 1em; margin-right: 0; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .unindent {margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + .poem {margin-left: 30%; text-align: left;} + .poem2 {margin-left: 15%; text-align: left;} + + hr.full { width: 100%; + margin-top: 3em; + margin-bottom: 0em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + height: 4px; + border-width: 4px 0 0 0; /* remove all borders except the top one */ + border-style: solid; + border-color: #000000; + clear: both; } + pre {font-size: 85%;} + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h1>The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Sick-a-Bed Lady, by Eleanor Hallowell +Abbott</h1> +<pre> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at <a href = "http://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a></pre> +<p>Title: The Sick-a-Bed Lady</p> +<p> And Also Hickory Dock, The Very Tired Girl, The Happy-Day, Something That Happened in October, The Amateur Lover, Heart of The City, The Pink Sash, Woman's Only Business</p> +<p>Author: Eleanor Hallowell Abbott</p> +<p>Release Date: January 3, 2011 [eBook #34829]</p> +<p>Language: English</p> +<p>Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1</p> +<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SICK-A-BED LADY***</p> +<p> </p> +<h4>E-text prepared by Suzanne Shell<br /> + and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team<br /> + (<a href="http://www.pgdp.net">http://www.pgdp.net</a>)<br /> + from page images generously made available by<br /> + Internet Archive/American Libraries<br /> + (<a href="http://www.archive.org/details/americana">http://www.archive.org/details/americana</a>)</h4> +<p> </p> +<table border="0" style="background-color: #ccccff;margin: 0 auto;" cellpadding="10"> + <tr> + <td valign="top"> + Note: + </td> + <td> + Images of the original pages are available through + Internet Archive/American Libraries. See + <a href="http://www.archive.org/details/sickabedlady00abborich"> + http://www.archive.org/details/sickabedlady00abborich</a> + </td> + </tr> +</table> +<p> </p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h1>THE<br /> +SICK-A-BED LADY</h1> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 322px;"> +<img src="images/gs01.jpg" width="322" height="400" alt="Woman in bed with man standing beside her" title="" /> +<span class="caption">"That will help you remember where your mouth is"</span> +</div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h1>THE<br /> +SICK-A-BED LADY</h1> + +<div class='center'> +<span class='small'>AND ALSO</span><br /> + +HICKORY DOCK, THE VERY TIRED GIRL,<br /> +THE HAPPY-DAY, SOMETHING THAT<br /> +HAPPENED IN OCTOBER, THE<br /> +AMATEUR LOVER, HEART OF<br /> +THE CITY, THE PINK SASH,<br /> +WOMAN'S ONLY BUSINESS<br /> +</div> + +<div class='center'><br /><br /> +<span class='small'>By</span><br /> + +<span class='author'>ELEANOR HALLOWELL ABBOTT</span> + +<br /> +<span class='small'>Author of "Molly Make-Believe"</span><br /> +<br /><br /> +<b>Illustrated</b><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 150px;"> +<img src="images/emblem.png" width="150" height="147" alt="Emblem" title="" /> +</div> + + +<div class='center'> +<br /><br /><br /> +NEW YORK<br /> +THE CENTURY CO.<br /> +1911<br /> +</div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<div class='copyright'> +Copyright, 1911, by<br /> +<span class="smcap">The Century Co.</span><br /> +<br /> +Copyright, 1905, 1907, by P. F. Collier & Son<br /> +Copyright, 1905, by J. B. Lippincott Company<br /> +Copyright, 1906, 1907, 1908, 1909, 1910, by The Ridgway Company<br /> +Copyright, 1910, by The Success Company<br /> +<br /> +<i>Published, October, 1911</i><br /> +</div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div class='center'> +TO<br /> +THE MEMORY OF<br /> +TWO FATHERS<br /> +</div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + + + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="Contents"> +<tr><td align='left'> </td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">page</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Sick-a-Bed Lady</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_3">3</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Hickory Dock</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_33">33</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Very Tired Girl</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_57">57</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Happy-Day</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_89">89</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Runaway Road</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_127">127</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Something that Happened in October</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_161">161</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Amateur Lover</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_195">195</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Heart of the City</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_253">253</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Pink Sash</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_291">291</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Woman's Only Business</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_331">331</a></td></tr> +</table></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS</h2> + + + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="List of Illustrations"> +<tr><td align='left'>"<i>That</i> will help you remember where your mouth is"</td><td align='left'><i>Frontispiece</i></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'> </td><td align='right'><span class="smcap">facing<br />page</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>With no other object, except to get home</td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_58">58</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>The blue ocean was the most wonderful thing of all</td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_96">96</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Instinctively she clasped it to her</td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_146">146</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>The four of us who remained huddled very close around the fire</td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_164">164</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>"Hello, all you animals!" she cried</td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_244">244</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>The lone, accentuated figure of a boy violinist</td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_256">256</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>"Is—a—pink—sash—exactly a—a—passion?"</td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_298">298</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>"Oh, I wish I had a sister," fretted the boy</td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_364">364</a></td></tr> +</table></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span></p> + +<h2>THE SICK-A-BED LADY</h2> + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 162px;"> +<img src="images/drop_t.png" width="162" height="164" alt="T" title="" /> +</div><div class='unindent'><br />HE Sick-A-Bed Lady lived in a +huge old-fashioned mahogany bedstead, +with solid silk sheets, and +three great squashy silk pillows +edged with fluffy ruffles. On a +table beside the Sick-A-Bed Lady +was a tiny little, shiny little bell that tinkled exactly +like silver raindrops on a golden roof, and all +around this Lady and this Bedstead and this Bell +was a big, square, shadowy room with a smutty +fireplace, four small paned windows, and a chintzy +wall-paper showered profusely with high-handled +baskets of lavender flowers over which strange +green birds hovered languidly.</div> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The Sick-A-Bed Lady, herself, was as old as +twenty, but she did not look more than fifteen with +her little wistful white face against the creamy pillows +and her soft brown hair braided in two thick +pigtails and tied with great pink bows behind each +ear.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span></p> + +<p>When the Sick-A-Bed Lady felt like sitting up +high against her pillows, she could look out across +the footboard through her opposite window. Now +through that opposite window was a marvelous vista—an +old-fashioned garden, millions of miles of +ocean, and then—France! And when the wind +was in just the right direction there was a perfectly +wonderful smell to be smelled—part of it was Cinnamon +Pink and part of it was Salt-Sea-Weed, but +most of it, of course, was—France. There were +days and days, too, when any one with sense could +feel that the waves beat perkily against the shore +with a very strong French accent, and that all one's +French verbs, particularly "<i>J'aime</i>, <i>Tu aimes</i>, <i>Il +aime</i>," were coming home to rest. What else was +there to think about in bed but funny things like +that?</p> + +<p>It was the Old Doctor who had brought the Sick-A-Bed +Lady to the big white house at the edge of +the Ocean, and placed her in the cool, quaint room +with its front windows quizzing dreamily out to sea, +and its side windows cuddled close to the curving +village street. It was a long, tiresome, dangerous +journey, and the Sick-A-Bed Lady in feverish fancy +had moaned: "I shall die, I shall die, I shall <i>die</i>," +every step of the way, but, after all, it was the Old +Doctor who did the dying! Just like a snap of the +finger he went at the end of two weeks, and the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span> +Sick-A-Bed Lady rallied to the shock with a plaintive: +"Seems to me he was in an <i>awful</i> hurry," +and fell back on her soft bed into days of unconsciousness +that were broken only by riotous visions +day and night of an old man rushing frantically up +to a great white throne yelling: "One, two, three, +for Myself!"</p> + +<p>Out of this trouble the Sick-A-Bed Lady woke +one day to find herself quite alone and quite alive. +She had often felt alone before, but it was a long +time since she had felt alive. The world seemed +very pleasant. The flowers on the wall-paper were +still unwilted, and the green paper birds hung airily +without fatigue. The room was full of the most +enticing odor of cinnamon pinks, and by raising herself +up in bed the merest trifle she could get a smell +of good salt, a smell which somehow you couldn't +get unless you actually <i>saw</i> the Ocean, but just as +she was laboriously tugging herself up an atom +higher, trying to find the teeniest, weeniest sniff of +France, everything went suddenly black and silver +before her eyes, and she fell down, down, down, +as much as forty miles into Nothing At All.</p> + +<p>When she woke up again all limp and wappsy +there was a Young Man's Face on the Footboard +of the bed; just an isolated, unconnected sort of +face that might have blossomed from the footboard, +or might have been merely a mirage on the horizon.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span> +Whatever it was, though, it kept staring at her fixedly, +balancing itself all the while most perfectly +on its chin. It was a funny sight, and while the +Sick-A-Bed Lady was puckering her forehead trying +to think out what it all meant the Young Man's +Face smiled at her and said "<i>Boo!</i>" and the Sick-A-Bed Lady +tiptilted her chin weakly and said—"Boo +<i>yourself!</i>" Then the Sick-A-Bed Lady +fell into her fearful stupor again, and the Young +Man's Face ran home as fast as it could to +tell its Best Friend that the Sick-A-Bed Lady had +spoken her first sane word for five weeks. He +thought it was a splendid victory, but when he tried +to explain it to his friend, he found that "Boo +<i>yourself!</i>" seemed a fatuous proof of so startling +a truth, and was obliged to compromise with considerable +dignity on the statement: "Well, of +course, it wasn't so much what she said as the <i>way</i> +she said it."</p> + +<p>For days and days that followed, the Sick-A-Bed +Lady was conscious of nothing except the Young +Man's Face on the footboard of the bed. It never +seemed to wabble, it never seemed to waver, but just +stayed there perfectly balanced on the point of its +chin, watching her gravely with its blue, blue eyes. +There was a cleft in its chin, too, that you could +have stroked with your finger if—you could have. +Of course, there were some times when she went to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span> +sleep, and some times when she just seemed to go +<i>out</i> like a candle, but whenever she came back from +<i>anything</i> there was always the Young Man's Face +for comfort.</p> + +<p>The Sick-A-Bed Lady was so sick that she +thought all over her body instead of in her head, +so that it was very hard to concentrate any particular +thought in her mouth, but at last one afternoon +with a mighty struggle she opened her half-closed +eyes, looked right in the Young Man's Face and +said: "Got any arms?"</p> + +<p>The Young Man's Face nodded perfectly politely, +and smiled as he raised two strong, lean hands to +the edge of the footboard, and hunched his shoulders +obligingly across the sky line.</p> + +<p>"How do you feel?" he asked very gently.</p> + +<p>Then the Sick-A-Bed Lady knew at once that it +was the Young Doctor, and wondered why she +hadn't thought of it before.</p> + +<p>"Am I pretty sick?" she whispered deferentially.</p> + +<p>"Yes—I think you are <i>very pretty</i>—sick," said +the Young Doctor, and he towered up to a terrible, +leggy height and laughed joyously, though there was +almost no sound to his laugh. Then he went over +to the window and began to jingle small bottles, and +the Sick-A-Bed Lady lay and watched him furtively +and thought about his compliment, and wondered +why when she wanted to smile and say "Thank<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span> +you" her mouth should shut tight and her left foot +wiggle, instead.</p> + +<p>When the Young Doctor had finished jingling +bottles, he came and sat down beside her and fed her +something wet out of a cool spoon, which she swallowed +and swallowed and swallowed, feeling all the +while like a very sick brown-eyed dog that couldn't +wag anything but the far-away tip of its tail. When +she got through swallowing she wanted very much +to stand up and make a low bow, but instead she +touched the warm little end of her tongue to the +Young Doctor's hand. After that, though, for +quite a few minutes her brain felt clean and tidy, +and she talked quite pleasantly to the Young Doctor: +"Have you got any bones in your arms?" she +asked wistfully.</p> + +<p>"Why, yes, indeed," said the Young Doctor, +"rather more than the usual number of bones. +Why?"</p> + +<p>"I'd give my life," said the Sick-A-Bed Lady, +"if there were bones in my silky pillows." She +faltered a moment and then continued bravely: +"Would you mind—holding me up stiff and strong +for a second? There's no bottom to my bed, +there's no top to my brain, and if I can't find a hard +edge to something I shall topple right off the earth. +So would you mind holding me like an <i>edge</i> for a +moment—that is—if there's no lady to care?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span> +I'm not a little girl," she added conscientiously—"I'm +twenty years old."</p> + +<p>So the Young Doctor slipped over gently behind +her and lifted her limp form up into the lean, solid +curve of his arm and shoulder. It wasn't exactly +a sumptuous corner like silken pillows, but it felt as +glad as the first rock you strike on a life-swim for +shore, and the Sick-A-Bed Lady dropped right off +to sleep sitting bolt upright, wondering vaguely how +she happened to have two hearts, one that fluttered +in the usual place, and one that pounded rather +noisily in her back somewhere between her shoulder-blades.</p> + +<p>On his way home that day the Young Doctor +stopped for a long while at his Best Friend's house +to discuss some curious features of the Case.</p> + +<p>"Anything new turned up?" asked the Best +Friend.</p> + +<p>"Nothing," said the Young Doctor, pulling moodily +at his cigar.</p> + +<p>"Well, it certainly beats <i>me</i>," exclaimed the Best +Friend, "how any long-headed, shrewd old fellow +like the Old Doctor could have brought a raving +fever patient here and installed her in his own house +under that clumsy Old Housekeeper without once +mentioning to any one who the girl was, or where +to communicate with her people. Great Heavens, +the Old Doctor knew what a poor 'risk' he was.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span> +He knew absolutely that that heart of his would +burst some day like a firecracker."</p> + +<p>"The Old Doctor never was very communicative," +mused the Young Doctor, with a slight +grimace that might have suggested professional +memories not strictly pleasant. "But I'll surely +never forget him as long as ether exists," he added +whimsically. "Why, you'd have thought the old +chap invented ether—you'd have thought he ate it, +drank it, bathed in it. I hope the <i>smell</i> of my profession +will never be the only part of it I'm willing +to share."</p> + +<p>"That's all right," said the Best Friend, "that's +all right. If he wanted to go off every Winter to +the States and work in the Hospitals, and come back +every Spring smelling like a Surgical Ward, with a +lot of wonderful information which he kept to himself, +why, that was his own business. He was a +plucky old fellow anyway to go at all. But what +I'm kicking at is his wicked carelessness in bringing +this young girl here in a critical illness without +taking a single soul into his confidence. Here he's +dead and buried for weeks, and the Girl's people are +probably worrying themselves crazy about not hearing +from her. But why don't they write? Why in +thunder don't they write?"</p> + +<p>"Don't ask me!" cried the Young Doctor nervously. +"I don't know! I don't know anything<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span> +about it. Why, I don't even know whether the +Girl is going to live. I don't even know whether +she'll ever be sane again. How can I stop to quiz +about her name and her home, when, perhaps, her +whole life and reason rests in my foolish hands that +have never done anything yet much more vital than +usher a perfectly willing baby into life, or tinker +with croup in some chunky throat? There's only +one thing in the case that I'm sure of, and that is +that she doesn't know herself who she is, and the +effort to remember might snap her utterly. She's +just a thread.</p> + +<p>"I have an idea—" the Young Doctor shook his +shoulders as though to shake off his more somber +thoughts—"I have an idea that the Old Doctor +rather counted on building up a sort of informal +sanitarium here. He was daft, you know, about +the climate on this particular stretch of coast. You +remember that he brought home some athlete last +Summer—pretty bad case of breakdown, too, but +the Old Doctor cured him like a magician; and the +Spring before that there was a little lad with epilepsy, +wasn't there? The Old Doctor let me look +at him once just to tease me. And before that—I +can count up half-a-dozen people of that sort, people +whom you would have said were 'gone-ers,' too. +Oh, the Old Doctor would have brought home a +dead man to cure if any one had 'stumped' him.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span> +And I guess this present case was a 'stump' fast +enough. Why, she was raging like a prairie fire +when they brought her here. No other man would +have dared to travel. And they put her down in a +great silk bed like a fairy-story, and the Old Doctor +sat and watched her night and day studying her +like a fiend, and she got better after a while: not +keen, you know, but funny like a child, cooing and +crooning over her pretty room, and tickled to pieces +with the ocean, and vain as a kitten over her pink +ribbons—the Old Doctor wouldn't let them cut +her hair—and everything went on like that, till in +a horrid flash the Old Doctor dropped dead that +morning at the breakfast table, the little girl went +loony again, and every possible clew to her identity +was wiped off the earth!"</p> + +<p>"No baggage?" suggested the Best Friend.</p> + +<p>"Why, of course, there was baggage!" the +Young Doctor exclaimed, "a great trunk. Haven't +the Housekeeper and I rummaged and rummaged it +till I can feel the tickle of lace across my wrists even +in my sleep? Why, man alive! she's a <i>rich</i> girl. +There never were such clothes in our town before. +She's no free hospital pauper whom the Old Doctor +obligingly took off their hands. That is, I don't +see how she can be!</p> + +<p>"Oh, well," he continued bitterly, "everybody in +town calls her just the Sick-A-Bed Lady, and pretty<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span> +soon it will be the Death-Bed Lady, and then it will +be the Dead-and-Buried Lady—and that's all we'll +ever know about it." He shivered clammily as he +finished and reached for a scorching glass of whisky +on the table.</p> + +<p>But the Young Doctor did not feel so lugubrious +the next day and the next and the next, when he +found the Sick-A-Bed Lady rallying slowly but +surely to the skill of his head and hands. To be +frank, she still lay for hours at a time in a sort of +gentle daze watching the world go by without her, +but little by little her body strengthened as a wilted +flower freshens in water, and little by little she +struggled harder for words that even then did not +always match her thoughts.</p> + +<p>The village continued to speculate about her lost +identity, but the Young Doctor seemed to worry +less and less about it as time went on. If the sweetest +little girl you ever saw knew perfectly whom +you meant when you said "Dear," what was the use +of hunting up such prosy names as May or Alice? +And as to her funny speeches, was there anything +in the world more piquant than to be called a +"beautiful horse," when she meant a "kind doctor"? +Was there anything dearer than her absurd +wrath over her blunders, or the way she shook her +head like an angry little heifer, when she occasionally +forgot altogether how to talk? It was at one<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span> +of these latter times that the Young Doctor, watching +her desperate struggle to focus her speech, forgot +all about her twenty years and stooped down +suddenly and kissed her square on her mouth.</p> + +<p>"There," he laughed, "<i>that</i> will help you remember +where your mouth is!" But it was astonishing +after that how many times he had to remind her.</p> + +<p>He couldn't help loving her. No man could +have helped loving her. She was so little and dear +and gentle and—lost.</p> + +<p>The Sick-A-Bed Lady herself didn't know who +she was, but she would have perished with fright if +she had realized that no one in the village, and not +even the Young Doctor himself, could guess her +identity.</p> + +<p>The Young Doctor knew everything else in the +world; why shouldn't he know who she was? He +knew all about France being directly opposite the +house; he had known it ever since he was a boy, and +had been glad about it. He stopped her trying to +count the green birds on the wall-paper because he +"knew positively" that there were four hundred +and seventeen whole birds, and nineteen half birds +cut off by the wainscoting. He never laughed at +her when she slid down the side of her bed by the +village street window, and went to sleep with her +curly head pillowed on the hard, white sill. He +never laughed, because he understood perfectly that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span> +if you hung one white arm down over the sidewalk +when you went to sleep, sometimes little children +would come and put flowers in your hand, or, more +wonderful still, perhaps, a yellow collie dog would +come and lick your fingers.</p> + +<p>Nothing could surprise the Young Doctor. +Sometimes the Sick-A-Bed Lady took thoughts she +did have and mixed them up with thoughts she +didn't have, and <i>sprung</i> them on the poor Young +Doctor, but he always said, "Why, of <i>course</i>," as +simply as possible.</p> + +<p>But more than all the other wise things he knew +was the wise one about smelly things. He knew +that when you were very, very, <i>very</i> sick, nothing +pleased you so much as nice, smelly things. He +brought wild strawberries, for instance, not so much +to eat as to smell, but when he wasn't looking she +gobbled them down as fast as she could. And he +brought her all kinds of flowers, one or two at a +time, and seemed so disappointed when she just +sniffed them and smiled; but one day he brought her +a spray of yellow jasmine, and she snatched it up +and kissed it and cried "<i>Home</i>," and the Young Doctor +was so pleased that he wrote it right down in a +little book and ran away to study up something. +He let her smell the fresh green bank-notes in his +pocketbook. Oh, they were good to smell, and +after a while she said "Shops." He brought her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span> +a tiny phial of gasoline from his neighbor's automobile, +and she crinkled up her nose in disgust and +called it "gloves" and slapped it playfully out of +his hand. But when he brought her his riding-coat +she rubbed her cheek against it and whispered some +funny chirruppy things. His pipe, though, was the +most confusing symbol of all. It was his best pipe, +too, and she snuggled it up to her nose and cried +"<i>You, y-o-u!</i>" and hid it under her pillow and +wouldn't give it back to him, and though he tried +her a dozen times about it, she never acknowledged +any association except that joyous, "<i>Y-o-u!</i>"</p> + +<p>So day by day she gained in consecutive thought +till at last she grew so reasonable as to ask: "Why +do you call me <i>Dear?</i>"</p> + +<p>And the Young Doctor forgot all about his earliest +reason and answered perfectly simply: "Because +I love you."</p> + +<p>Then some of the evenings grew to be almost +sweetheart evenings, though the Sick-A-Bed Lady's +fragile childishness keyed the Young Doctor into an +almost uncanny tenderness and restraint.</p> + +<p>Those were wonderful evenings, though, after the +Sick-A-Bed Lady began to get better and better. +A good deal of the Young Doctor's practice was +scattered up and down the coast, and after the dust +and sweat and glare and rumble of his long day he +would come back to the sleepy village in the early<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span> +evening, plunge for a freshening swim into the salt +water, don his white clothes and saunter round to +the quaint old house at the edge of the ocean. Here +in the breezy kitchen he often sat for as long as an +hour, talking with the Old Housekeeper, till the +Sick-A-Bed Lady's tiny silver bell rang out with +absurd peremptoriness. Then for as much time as +seemed wise he went and sat with the Sick-A-Bed +Lady.</p> + +<p>One night, one full-moon night, he came back +from his day's work extraordinarily tired and fretted +after a series of strident experiences, and hurried +to the old house as to a veritable Haven of +Refuge. The Housekeeper was busy with village +company, so he postponed her report and went at +once to the Sick-A-Bed Lady's room.</p> + +<p>Only fools lit lights on such a night as that, and +he threw himself down in the big chair by the bedside, +and fairly basked in peacefulness and moonlight +and content, while the Sick-A-Bed Lady leaned +over and stroked his hair with her little white fingers, +crooning some pleasant, childish thing about +"nice, smoky Boy." There was no fret or fuss +or even sound in the room, except the drowsy murmur +of voices in the Garden, and the churky splash +of little waves against the shore.</p> + +<p>"Hear the French Verbs," said the Sick-A-Bed +Lady, at last, with deliberate mischief. Then she<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span> +shut her lips tight and waved her hands distractedly +after a manner she had when she wished to imply +that she was suddenly stricken dumb. The Young +Doctor laughed and reached over and kissed her.</p> + +<p>"<i>J'aime</i>," he said.</p> + +<p>"<i>J'aime</i>," the Sick-A-Bed Lady repeated.</p> + +<p>"<i>Tu aimes</i>," he persisted.</p> + +<p>"<i>Tu aimes</i>," she echoed on his lips.</p> + +<p>—Then—"There'll be no '<i>he</i> loves' to our +story," he cried suddenly, and caught her so fiercely +to his breast that she gave a little quick gasp of pain +and struggled back on her pillows, and the Young +Doctor jumped up in bitter, stinging contrition and +strode out of the room. Just across the threshold +he met the Old Housekeeper with a clattering tray +of dishes.</p> + +<p>"I'm going down to the Library to smoke," he +said huskily to her. "Come there when you've +finished. I want to talk with you."</p> + +<p>His thoughts of himself were not kind as he wandered +into the library and settled down in the first +big chair that struck his fancy.</p> + +<p>Then he fell to wondering whether there was anything +gross about his love, because it took no heed +of mental qualifications. He thought of at least +three houses in the village where that very night he +would have found lights and laughter and clever +talk, and the prodding sympathy of earnest women<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span> +who made the sternest happening of the day seem +nothing more than a dress rehearsal for the evening's +narration of it. Then he thought again of +the big, quiet room upstairs, with its unquestioning +peace and love and restfulness and content. What +was the best thing after all that a woman could +bring to a man? Yet a year ago he had bragged of +the blatant braininess of his best woman friend! +He began to laugh at himself.</p> + +<p>Slowly the incongruities of the whole situation +bore in upon him, and he sat and smoked and smiled +in moody silence, staring with skeptical interest at +the dimly lighted room around him. It was certainly +the Old Doctor's private study, and realization +of just what that meant came over him ironically.</p> + +<p>The Old Doctor had been very stingy with his +house and his books and his knowledge and his patients. +It was natural perhaps under the professional +circumstances of waning Age and waxing +Youth. Yet the fact remained. Never before in +five years of village association had the Young Doctor +crossed the threshold of the Old Doctor's home, +yet now he came and went like the Man of the +House. Here he sat at this instant in the Old Doctor's +private study, in the Old Doctor's chair, his +feet upon the Old Doctor's table, and the whole +great room with its tier after tier of bookcases, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span> +its drawer after drawer of probable memoranda +<i>free</i> before him. He could imagine the Old Doctor's +impotent wrath over such a contingency, yet +he felt no sentimental mawkishness over his own +position. As far as he knew the Dead were dead.</p> + +<p>Sitting there in the Old Doctor's study, he conjured +up scene after scene of the Old Doctor's irascibility +and exclusiveness. Even as late as the Sick-A-Bed +Lady's arrival, the Old Doctor had snubbed +him unmercifully before a crowd of people. It was +at the station when the little sick stranger was being +taken off the car and put into a carriage, and the +Old Doctor had hailed the Younger with unwonted +friendliness.</p> + +<p>"I've got a case in there that would make you +famous if you could master it," he said.</p> + +<p>The Young Doctor remembered perfectly how he +had walked into the trap.</p> + +<p>"What is it?" he had cried eagerly.</p> + +<p>"That's none of your business," chuckled the +Old Doctor, and drove away with all the platform +loafers shouting with delight.</p> + +<p>Well, it seemed to be the Young Doctor's business +<i>now</i>, and he got up, turned the lamp higher and began +to hunt through the Old Doctor's rarest books +for some light on certain curious developments in +the Sick-A-Bed Lady's case.</p> + +<p>He was just in the midst of this hunt when the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span> +Old Housekeeper glided in like a ghost and startled +him.</p> + +<p>"Sit down," he said absent-mindedly, and went +on with his reading. He had almost forgotten her +presence when she coughed and said: "Excuse me, +sir, but I've something very special to say to you."</p> + +<p>The Young Doctor looked up in surprise and saw +that the Woman's face was ashy white.</p> + +<p>"I—don't—think—you quite—understand +the case," she stammered. "I think the little lady +upstairs is going to be a Mother!"</p> + +<p>The Young Doctor put his hand up to his face, +and his face felt like parchment. He put his hand +down to the book again, and the book cover quivered +like flesh.</p> + +<p>"What do you m-e-a-n?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"I'll tell you what I mean," said the Old Housekeeper, +and led him back to the sick room.</p> + +<p>Two hours later the Young Doctor staggered into +his Best Friend's house clutching a sheet of letter +paper in his hand. His shoulders dragged as though +under a pack, and every trace of boyishness was +wrung like a rag out of his face.</p> + +<p>"For Heaven's sake, what's the matter?" cried +his friend, starting up.</p> + +<p>"Nothing," muttered the Young Doctor, "except +the Sick-A-Bed Lady."</p> + +<p>"When did she die? What happened?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span></p> + +<p>The Young Doctor made a gesture of dissent and +crawled into a chair and began to fumble with the +paper in his hand. Then he shivered and stared his +Best Friend straight in the face.</p> + +<p>"You might say," he stammered, "that I have +just heard from the Sick-A-Bed Lady's Husband—" +he choked at the word, and his Friend sat +up with astonishment: "You heard me <i>say</i> I had +heard from the Sick-A-Bed Lady's Husband?" he +persisted. "<i>You</i> heard me say it, mind you. You +heard me say that her Husband is sick in Japan—detained +indefinitely—so we are afraid he won't +get here in time for her confinement—"</p> + +<p>The sweat broke out in great drops on his forehead, +and his hand that held the sheet of paper +shook like a hand that has strained its muscles with +heavy weights.</p> + +<p>The Best Friend took a scathing glance at the +scribbled words on the paper and laughed mirthlessly.</p> + +<p>"You're a good fool," he said, "a good fool, +and I'll publish your blessed lie to the whole stupid +village, if that's what you want."</p> + +<p>But the Young Doctor sat oblivious with his head +in his hands, muttering: "Blind fool, blind fool, +how could I have been such a blind fool?"</p> + +<p>"What is it to <i>you?</i>" asked his Best Friend abruptly.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span></p> + +<p>The Young Doctor jumped to his feet and squared +his shoulders.</p> + +<p>"It's <i>this</i> to me," he cried, "that I wanted her +for my own! I could have cured her. I tell you +I could have cured her. I wanted her for my +own!"</p> + +<p>"She's only a waif," said the Best Friend +tersely.</p> + +<p>"Waif?" cried the Young Doctor, "<i>waif?</i> No +woman whom I love is a <i>waif!</i>" His face blazed +furiously. "The woman I <i>love</i>—that little gentle +girl—a waif?—without a home?—I would +make a cool home for her out of Hell itself, if it +was necessary! Damn, damn, <i>damn</i> the brute that +deserted her, but <i>home is all around her</i> <span class="smcap">now</span>! Do +I think the Old Doctor guessed about it? <i>N-o!</i> +Nobody could have guessed about it. Nobody could +have known about it much before this. You say +<i>again</i> she isn't <i>anybody's?</i> I'll prove to you as +soon as it's decent that she's <i>mine</i>."</p> + +<p>His Best Friend took him by the shoulder and +shook him roughly.</p> + +<p>"It is no time," he said, "for you to be courting +a woman."</p> + +<p>"I'll court my Sweetheart when and where I +choose!" the Young Doctor answered defiantly, and +left the house.</p> + +<p>The night seemed a thousand miles long to him,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span> +but when he slept at last and woke again, the air +was fresh and hopeful with a new day. He dressed +quickly and hurried off to the scene of last night's +tragedy, where he found the Old Housekeeper arguing +in the doorway with a small boy. She turned to +the Doctor complacently. "He's begging for the +postage stamp off the Japanese letter," she exclaimed, +"and I'm just telling him I sent it to my +Sister's boy in Montreal."</p> + +<p>There was no slightest trace of self-consciousness +in her manner, and the Young Doctor could not +help but smile as he beckoned her into the house and +shut the door.</p> + +<p>Then, "Have you told her?" he asked eagerly.</p> + +<p>The Old Housekeeper humped her shoulders +against the door and folded her arms sumptuously. +"No, I haven't told her," she said, "and I'm not +going to. I don't dar'st! I help you out about +your business same as I helped the Old Doctor out +about his business. That's all right. That's as it +should be. And I'll go skipping up those stairs to +tell the little lady any highfaluting, pleasant yarn +that you can invent, but I don't budge one single +step to tell that poor, innocent, loony Lamb—the +<i>truth</i>. It isn't ugliness, Doctor. I haven't got the +strength, that's all!"</p> + +<p>Just then the little silver bell tinkled, and the Doctor +went heavily up the few steps that swung the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span> +Sick-A-Bed Lady's room just out of line of real upstairs +or downstairs.</p> + +<p>The Sick-A-Bed Lady was lying in glorious state, +arrayed in a wonderful pale green kimono with +shimmering silver birds on it.</p> + +<p>"You stayed too long downstairs," she asserted +and went on trying to cut out pictures from a magazine.</p> + +<p>The Young Doctor stood at the window looking +out to sea as long as his legs would hold him, and +then he came back and sat down on the edge of the +bed.</p> + +<p>"What's your name, Honey?" he asked with a +forced smile.</p> + +<p>"Why, 'Dear,' of course," she answered and +dropped her scissors in surprise.</p> + +<p>"What's my name?" he continued, fencing for +time.</p> + +<p>"Just '<i>Boy</i>,'" she said with sweet, contented positiveness.</p> + +<p>The Young Doctor shivered and got up and +started to leave the room, but at the threshold he +stopped resolutely and came back and sat down +again.</p> + +<p>This time he took his Mother's wedding ring from +his little finger and twirled it with apparent aimlessness +in his hands.</p> + +<p>Its glint caught the Sick-A-Bed Lady's eye, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span> +she took it daintily in her fingers and examined it +carefully. Then, as though it recalled some vague +memory, she crinkled up her forehead and started +to get out of bed. The Young Doctor watched her +with agonized interest. She went direct to her bureau +and began to search diligently through all the +drawers, but when she reached the lower drawer +and found some bright-colored ribbons she forgot +her original quest, whatever it was, and brought all +the ribbons back to bed with her.</p> + +<p>The Young Doctor started to leave her again, this +time with a little gesture which she took to be anger, +but he had not gone further than the head of the +stairs before she called him back in a voice that was +startlingly mature and reasonable.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Boy, come back," she cried. "I'll be good. +What do you want?"</p> + +<p>The Young Doctor came doubtfully.</p> + +<p>"Do you understand me to-day?" he asked in a +voice that sent an ominous chill to her heart. "Can +you think pretty clearly to-day?"</p> + +<p>She nodded her head. "Yes," she answered; +"it's a good day."</p> + +<p>"Do you know what marriage is?" he asked abruptly.</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes," she said, but her face clouded perceptibly.</p> + +<p>Then he took her in his arms and told her plainly,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span> +brutally, clumsily, without preface, without comment: +"Honey, you are going to have a child."</p> + +<p>For a second her mind wavered before him. He +could actually see the totter in her eyes, and braced +himself for the final hopeless crash, but suddenly +all her being focused to the realization of his words, +and she pushed at him with her hands and cried: +"No—No—Oh, my God—<i>n-o!</i>" and fainted +in his arms.</p> + +<p>When she woke up again the little-girl look was +all gone from her face, and though the Young Doctor +smiled and smiled and smiled, he could not smile +it back again. She just lay and watched him questioningly.</p> + +<p>"Sweetheart," he whispered at last, "do you remember +what I told you?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," she answered gravely, "I remember that, +but I don't remember what it means. Is it all right? +Is it all right to <i>you?</i>"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said the Young Doctor, "it's—all—right +to—me."</p> + +<p>Then the Sick-A-Bed Lady turned her little face +wearily away on her pillow and went back to those +dreams of hers which no one could fathom.</p> + +<p>For all the dragging weeks and months that followed +she lay in her bed or groped her way round +her room in a sort of timid stupor. Whenever the +Young Doctor was there she clung to him desperately<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span> +and seemed to find her only comfort in his +presence, but when she talked to him it was babbling +talk of things and places he could not understand. +All the village feared for the imminent tragedy in +the great white house, and mourned the pathetic absence +of the young husband, and the Young Doctor +went his sorrowful way cursing that other "boy" +who had wrought this final disaster on a girl's life.</p> + +<p>But when the Sick-A-Bed Lady's hour of trial +came and some one held the merciful cone of ether +to her face, the Sick-A-Bed Lady took one deep, +heedless breath, then gave suddenly a great gasp, +snatched the cone from her face, struggled up and +stretched out her arms and cried, "Boy—Boy!"</p> + +<p>The Young Doctor came running to her and saw +that her eyes were big and startled and sharp with +terror:</p> + +<p>"Oh, Boy—<i>Boy</i>," she cried, "the Ether!—I +remember <i>everything</i> now—I—was his wife—the +Old Doctor's Wife!"</p> + +<p>The Young Doctor tried to replace the cone, but +she beat at him furiously with her hands, crying:</p> + +<p>"No, No, No!—If you give me Ether I shall die +thinking of him!—Oh, no!—<i>n-o!</i>"</p> + +<p>The Young Doctor's face was like chalk. His +knees shook under him.</p> + +<p>"My God!" he said, "what <i>can</i> I give you!"</p> + +<p>The Sick-A-Bed Lady looked up at him and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span> +smiled a tortured, gallant smile. "Give me something +to keep me here," she gasped! "Give me a +token of you! Give me your little briarwood pipe +to smell—and give it to me—quickly!"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span></p> +<h2>HICKORY DOCK</h2> + +<div class='copyright'>Used by permission of <i>Lippincott's Magazine</i>.</div> + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 162px;"> +<img src="images/drop_t.png" width="162" height="164" alt="T" title="" /> +</div><div class='unindent'><br />HIS is the story of Hickory Dock, +and of a Man and a Girl who +trifled with Time.</div> + +<p>Hickory Dock was a clock, and, +of course, the Man, being a man, +called it a clock, but the Girl, +being a girl, called it a Hickory Dock for no more +legitimate reason than that once upon a time</p> + +<div class='poem'> +"Hickory, Dickory, Dock,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">A Mouse ran up the Clock."</span><br /> +</div> + +<div class='unindent'>—Girls are funny things.</div> + +<p>The Man and the Girl were very busy collecting +a Home—in one room. They were just as poor as +Art and Music could make them, but poverty does +not matter much to lovers. The Man had collected +the Girl, a wee diamond ring, a big Morris chair, +two or three green and rose rugs, a shiny chafing-dish, +and various incidentals. The Girl was no less +discriminating. She had accumulated the Man, a +Bagdad couch-cover, half-a-dozen pictures, a huge +gilt mirror, three or four bits of fine china and silver,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span> +and a fair-sized boxful of lace and ruffles that +idled under the couch until the Wedding-Day. The +room was strikingly homelike, masculinely homelike, +in all its features, but it was by no means home—yet. +No place is home until <i>two</i> people have latch-keys. +The Girl wore <i>her</i> key ostentatiously on a +long, fine chain round her neck, but its mate hung +high and dusty on a brass hook over the fireplace, +and the sight of it teased the Man more than anything +else that had ever happened to him in his life. +The Girl was easily mistress of the situation, but +the Man, you see, was not yet Master.</p> + +<p>It was tacitly understood that if the Wedding-Day +<i>ever</i> arrived, the Girl should slip the extra key +into her husband's hand the very first second that +the Minister closed his eyes for the blessing. She +would have chosen to do this openly in exchange +for her ring, but the Man contended that it might +not be legal to be married with a latch-key—some +ministers are so particular. It was a joke, anyway—everything +except the Wedding-Day itself. +Meanwhile Hickory Dock kept track of the passing +hours.</p> + +<p>When the Man first brought Hickory Dock to the +Girl, in a mysteriously pulsating tissue-paper package, +the Girl pretended at once that she thought it +was a dynamite bomb, and dropped it precipitously +on the table and sought immediate refuge in the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span> +Man's arms, from which propitious haven she ventured +forth at last and picked up the package gingerly, +and rubbed her cheek against it—after the +manner of girls with bombs. Then she began to tug +at the string and tear at the paper.</p> + +<p>"Why, it's a Hickory Dock!" she exclaimed +with delight,—"a real, live Hickory Dock!" and +brandished the gift on high to the imminent peril of +time and chance, and then fled back to the Man's +arms with no excuse whatsoever. She was a bold +little lover.</p> + +<p>"But it's a <i>c-l-o-c-k</i>," remonstrated the Man with +whimsical impatience. He had spent half his +month's earnings on the gift. "Why can't you call +it a clock? Why can't you <i>ever</i> call things by their +right names?"</p> + +<p>Then the Girl dimpled and blushed and burrowed +her head in his shoulder, and whispered humbly, +"Right name? Right names? Call things by their +right names? Would you rather I called <i>you</i> by +your right name—Mr. James Herbert Humphrey +Jason?"</p> + +<p><i>That</i> settled the matter—settled it so hard that +the Girl had to whisper the Man's wrong name +seven times in his ear before he was satisfied. No +man is practical about everything.</p> + +<p>There are a good many things to do when you are +in love, but the Girl did not mean that the <i>Art of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span> +Conversation</i> should be altogether lost, so she +plunged for a topic.</p> + +<p>"I think it was beautiful of you to give me a +Hickory Dock," she ventured at last.</p> + +<p>The Man shifted a trifle uneasily and laughed. +"I thought perhaps it would please you," he stammered. +"You see, now I have given you <i>all my +time</i>."</p> + +<p>The Girl chuckled with amused delight. "Yes—all +your time. And it's nice to have a Hickory +Dock that says 'Till he comes! Till he comes! +Till he comes!'"</p> + +<p>"Till he comes to—<i>stay</i>," persisted the Man. +There was no sparkle in his sentiment. He said +things very plainly, but his words drove the Girl +across the room to the window with her face flaming. +He jumped and followed her, and caught her +almost roughly by the shoulder and turned her +round.</p> + +<p>"Rosalie, Rosalie," he demanded, "will you love +me till the <i>end of time?</i>" There was no gallantry +in his face but a great, dogged persistency that +frightened the Girl into a flippant answer. She +brushed her fluff of hair across his face and struggled +away from him.</p> + +<p>"I will love you," she teased, "until—the clock +stops."</p> + +<p>Then the Man burst out laughing, suddenly and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span> +unexpectedly, like a boy, and romped her back again +across the room, and snatched up the clock and stole +away the key.</p> + +<p>"Hickory Dock shall <i>never</i> stop!" he cried triumphantly. +"I will wind it till I die. And no one +else must ever meddle with it."</p> + +<p>"But suppose you forget?" the Girl suggested +half wistfully.</p> + +<p>"I shall <i>never</i> forget," said the Man. "I will +wind Hickory Dock every week as long as I live. I +<i>p-r-o-m-i-s-e!</i>" His lips shut almost defiantly.</p> + +<p>"But it isn't fair," the Girl insisted. "It isn't +fair for me to let you make such a long promise. +You—might—stop—loving me." Her eyes +filled quickly with tears. "Promise me just for +one year,"—she stamped her foot,—"I won't take +any other promise."</p> + +<p>So, half provoked and half amused, the Man +bound himself then and there for the paltry term of +a year. But to fulfil his own sincerity and seriousness +he took the clock and stopped it for a moment +that he might start it up again with the Girl close in +his arms. A half-frightened, half-willing captive, +she stood in her prison and looked with furtive eyes +into the little, potential face of Hickory Dock.</p> + +<p>"You—and I—for—<i>all time</i>," whispered the +Man solemnly as he started the little mechanism +throbbing once more on its way, and he stooped<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span> +down to seal the pledge with a kiss, but once more +the significance of his word and act startled the +Girl, and she clutched at the clock and ran across the +room with it, and set it down very hard on her desk +beside the Man's picture. Then, half ashamed of +her flight, she stooped down suddenly and patted +the little, ticking surface of ebony and glass and +silver.</p> + +<p>"It's a wonderful little Hickory Dock," she +mused softly. "I never saw one just like it before."</p> + +<p>The Man hesitated for a second and drew his +mouth into a funny twist. "I don't believe there <i>is</i> +another one like it in all the world," he acknowledged, +half laughingly,—"that is, not <i>just</i> like it. +I've had it fixed so that it won't strike <i>eleven</i>. +I'm utterly tired of having you say 'There! it's +eleven o'clock and you've <i>got</i> to go home.' <i>Now</i>, +after ten o'clock nothing can strike till twelve, and +that gives me two whole hours to use my own judgment +in."</p> + +<p>The Girl took one eager step towards him, when +suddenly over the city roofs and across the square +came the hateful, strident chime of midnight. Midnight? +<i>Midnight?</i> The Girl rushed frantically to +her closet and pulled the Man's coat out from among +her fluffy dresses and thrust it into his hands, and +he fled distractedly for his train without "Good-by."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span></p> + +<p>That was the trouble with having a lover who +lived so far away and was so busy that he could +come only one evening a week. Long as you could +make that one evening, something always got +crowded out. If you made love, there was no time +to talk. If you talked, there was no time to make +love. If you spent a great time in greetings, it curtailed +your good-by. If you began your good-by +any earlier, why, it cut your evening right in two. +So the Girl sat and sulked a sad little while over +the general misery of the situation, until at last, to +comfort herself with the only means at hand, she +went over to the closet and opened the door just +wide enough to stick her nose in and sniff ecstatically.</p> + +<p>"Oh! O—h!" she crooned. "O—h! What +a nice, smoky smell."</p> + +<p>Then she took Hickory Dock and went to bed. +This method of bunking was nice for her, but it +played sad havoc with Hickory Dock, who lay on +his back and whizzed and whirred and spun around +at such a rate that when morning came he was minutes +and hours, not to say days, ahead of time.</p> + +<p>This gain in time seemed rather an advantage to +the Girl. She felt that it was a good omen and +must in some manner hasten the Wedding-Day, but +when she confided the same to the Man at his next +visit he viewed the fact with righteous scorn, though<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span> +the fancy itself pleased him mightily. The Girl +learned that night, however, to eschew Hickory +Dock as a rag doll. She did not learn this, though, +through any particular solicitude for Hickory Dock, +but rather because she had to stand by respectfully +a whole precious hour and watch the Man's lean, +clever fingers tinker with the little, jeweled mechanism. +It was a fearful waste of time. "You are +so kind to <i>little</i> things," she whispered at last, with +a catch in her voice that made the Man drop his +work suddenly and give all his attention to <i>big</i> +things. And another evening went, while Hickory +Dock stood up like a hero and refused to strike +eleven.</p> + +<p>So every Sunday night throughout the Winter +and the Spring and the Summer, the Man came +joyously climbing up the long stairs to the Girl's +room, and every Sunday night Hickory Dock was +started off on a fresh round of Time and Love.</p> + +<p>Hickory Dock, indeed, became a very precious +object, for both Man and Girl had reached that particular +stage of love where they craved the wonderful +sensation of owning some vital thing together. +But they were so busy loving that they did not recognize +the instinct. The man looked upon Hickory +Dock as an exceedingly blessed toy. The Girl grew +gradually to cherish the little clock with a certain +tender superstition and tingling reverence that sent<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span> +her heart pounding every time the Man's fingers +turned to any casual tinkering.</p> + +<p>And the Girl grew so exquisitely dear that the +Man thought all women were like her. And the +Man grew so sturdily precious that the Girl knew +positively there was no person on earth to be compared +with him. Over this happiness Hickory +Dock presided throbbingly, and though he balked +sometimes and bolted or lagged, he never stopped, +and he never struck eleven.</p> + +<p>Thus things went on in the customary way that +things do go on with men and girls—until the +Chronic Quarrel happened. The Chronic Quarrel +was a trouble quite distinct from any ordinary +lovers' disturbance, and it was a very silly little +thing like this: The Girl had a nature that was +emotionally apprehensive. She was always looking, +as it were, for "dead men in the woods." +She was always saying, "Suppose you get tired of +me?" "Suppose I died?" "Suppose I found +out that you had a wife living?" "Suppose you +lost all your legs and arms in a railroad accident +when you were coming here some Sunday night?"</p> + +<p>And one day the Man had snapped her short +with "Suppose? Suppose? What arrant nonsense! +Suppose?—Suppose I fall in love with +the Girl in the Office?"</p> + +<p>It seemed to him the most extravagant supposition<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span> +that he could possibly imagine, and he was +perfectly delighted with its effect on his Sweetheart. +She grew silent at once and very wistful.</p> + +<p>After that he met all her apprehensions with +"Suppose?—Suppose I fall in love with the Girl +in the Office!"</p> + +<p>And one day the Girl looked up at him with hot +tears in her eyes and said tersely, "Well, why don't +you fall in love with her if you <i>want</i> to?"</p> + +<p>That, of course, made a little trouble, but it was +delicious fun making up, and the "Girl in the +Office" became gradually one of those irresistibly +dangerous jokes that always begin with laughter +and end just as invariably with tears. When the +Girl was sad or blue the Man was clumsy enough +to try and cheer her with facetious allusions to the +"Girl in the Office," and when the Girl was supremely, +radiantly happy she used to boast, "Why, +I'm so happy I don't care a <i>rap</i> about your old +'Girl in the Office.'" But whatever way the joke +began, it always ended disastrously, with bitterness +and tears, yet neither Man nor Girl could bear +to formally taboo the subject lest it should look +like the first shirking of their perfect intimacy and +freedom of speech. The Man felt that in love like +theirs he ought to be able to say anything he wanted +to, so he kept on saying it, while the Girl claimed +an equal if more caustic liberty of expression, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span> +the Chronic Quarrel began to fester a little round +its edges.</p> + +<p>One night in November, when Hickory Dock +was nearly a year old in love, the Chronic Quarrel +came to a climax. The Man was very listless that +evening, and absent-minded, and altogether inadequate. +The Girl accused him of indifference. He +accused her in return of a shrewish temper. She +suggested that perhaps he regretted his visit. He +failed to contradict her. Then the Girl drew herself +up to an absurd height for so small a creature +and said stiffly,—</p> + +<p>"You don't have to come next Sunday night if +you don't want to."</p> + +<p>At her scathing words the Man straightened up +very suddenly in his chair and gazed over at the +little clock in a startled sort of way.</p> + +<p>"Why, of course I shall come," he retorted impulsively, +"Hickory Dock needs me, if you don't."</p> + +<p>"Oh, come and wind the clock by all means," +flared the Girl. "I'm glad <i>something</i> needs +you!"</p> + +<p>Then the Man followed his own judgment and +went home, though it was only ten o'clock.</p> + +<p>"I'm not going to write to him this week," +sobbed poor Rosalie. "I think he's very disagreeable."</p> + +<p>But when the next Sunday came and the Man<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span> +was <i>late</i>, it seemed as though an Eternity had been +tacked onto a hundred years. It was fully quarter-past +eight before he came climbing up the +stairs.</p> + +<p>The Girl looked scornfully at the clock. Her +throat ached like a bruise. "You didn't hurry +yourself much, did you?" she asked spitefully.</p> + +<p>The Man looked up quickly and bit his lip. +"The train was late," he replied briefly. He did +not stop to take off his coat, but walked over to +the table and wound Hickory Dock. Then he hesitated +the smallest possible fraction of a moment, +but the Girl made no move, so he picked up his hat +and started for the door.</p> + +<p>The Girl's heart sank, but her pride rose proportionally. +"Is that all you came for?" she +flushed. "Good! I am very tired to-night."</p> + +<p>Then the Man went away. She counted every +footfall on the stairs. In the little hush at the street +doorway she felt that he must surely turn and come +running back again, breathless and eager, with outstretched +arms and all the kisses she was starving +for. But when she heard the front door slam with +a vicious finality she went and threw herself, sobbing +on the couch. "Fifty miles just to wind a +clock!" she raged in grief and chagrin. "I'll +punish him for it if that's all he comes for."</p> + +<p>So the next Sunday night she took Hickory Dock<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span> +with a cruel jerk, and put him on the floor just +outside her door, and left a candle burning so that +the Man could not possibly fail to see what was +intended. "If all he comes for is to wind the +clock, just because he <i>promised</i>, there's no earthly +use of his coming in," she reasoned, and went into +her room and shut and locked her door, waiting +nervously with clutched hands for the footfall on +the stairs. "He loves some one else! He loves +some one else!" she kept prodding herself.</p> + +<p>Just at eight o'clock the Man came. She heard +him very distinctly on the creaky board at the +head of the stairs, and her heart beat to suffocation. +Then she heard him come close to the door, +as though he stooped down, and then he—laughed.</p> + +<p>"Oh, very well," thought the Girl. "So he +thinks it's funny, does he? He has no business +to laugh while I am crying, even if he does love +some one else.—I <i>hate him!</i>"</p> + +<p>The Man knocked on the door very softly, and +the Girl gripped tight hold of her chair for fear +she should jump up and let him in. He knocked +again, and she heard him give a strange little gasp +of surprise. Then he tried the door-handle. It +turned fatuously, but the door would not open. +He pushed his weight against it,—she could almost +feel the soft whirr of his coat on the wood,—but<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span> +the door would not yield.—Then he turned +very suddenly and went away.</p> + +<p>The Girl got up with a sort of gloating look, as +though she liked her pain. "Next Sunday night +is the last Sunday night of his year's promise," she +brooded; "then everything will be over. He will +see how wise I was not to let him promise forever +and ever. I will send Hickory Dock to him by +express to save his coming for the final ceremony." +Then she went out and got Hickory Dock and +brought him in and shook him, but Hickory Dock +continued to tick, "Till he comes! Till he comes! +Till he comes!"</p> + +<p>It was a very tedious week. It is perfectly absurd +to measure a week by the fact that seven days +make it—some days are longer than others. By +Wednesday the Girl's proud little heart had capitulated +utterly, and she decided not to send Hickory +Dock away by express, but to let things take their +natural course. And every time she thought of the +"natural course" her heart began to pound with expectation. +Of course, she would not acknowledge +that she really expected the Man to come after her +cruel treatment of him the previous week. "Everything +is over. Everything is over," she kept +preaching to herself with many gestures and illustrations; +but next to God she put her faith in promises, +and hadn't the Man promised a great, sacred<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span> +lover's promise that he would come every Sunday +for a year? So when the final Sunday actually +came she went to her wedding-box and took out her +"second best" of everything, silk and ruffles and +laces, and dressed herself up for sheer pride and +joy, with tingling thoughts of the night when +she should wear her "first best" things. She +put on a soft, little, white Summer dress that +the Man liked better than anything else, and stuck +a pink bow in her hair, and big rosettes on her +slippers, and drew the big Morris chair towards +the fire, and brought the Man's pipe and tobacco-box +from behind the gilt mirror. Then she took +Hickory Dock very tenderly and put him outside +the door, with two pink candles flaming beside +him, and a huge pink rose over his left ear. She +thought the Man could smell the rose the second +he opened the street door. Then she went back to +her room, and left her door a wee crack open, and +crouched down on the floor close to it, like a happy, +wounded thing, and <i>waited</i>—</p> + +<p>But the Man did not come. Eight o'clock, nine +o'clock, ten o'clock, eleven o'clock, twelve o'clock, +she waited, cramped and cold, hoping against hope, +fearing against fear. Every creak on the stairs +thrilled her. Every fresh disappointment chilled +her right through to her heart. She sat and +rocked herself in a huddled heap of pain, she taunted<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span> +herself with lack of spirit, she goaded herself with +intricate remorse—but she never left her bitter +vigil until half-past two. Then some clatter of +milkmen in the street roused her to the realization +of a new day, and she got up dazed and icy, like +one in a dream, and limped over to her couch and +threw herself down to sleep like a drunken person.</p> + +<p>Late the next morning she woke heavily with a +vague, dull sense of loss which she could not immediately +explain. She lay and looked with astonishment +at the wrinkled folds of the white mull +dress that bound her limbs like a shroud. She +clutched at the tightness of her collar, and fingered +with surprise the pink bow in her hair. Then +slowly, one by one, the events of the previous night +came back to her in all their significance, and with +a muffled scream of heartbreak she buried her face +in the pillow. She cried till her heart felt like a +clenched fist within her, and then, with her passion +exhausted, she got up like a little, cold, rumpled +ghost and pattered out to the hall in her silk-stockinged +feet, and picked up Hickory Dock with his +wilted pink rose and brought him in and put him +back on her desk. Then she brought in the mussy, +pink-smooched candlesticks and stowed them far +away in her closet behind everything else. The +faintest possible scent of tobacco-smoke came to +her from the closet depths, and as she reached instinctively<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span> +to take a sad little whiff she became suddenly +conscious that there was a strange, uncanny +<i>hush</i> in the room, as though a soul had left its +body. She turned back quickly and cried out with +a smothered cry. Hickory Dock had stopped!</p> + +<p>"Until—the—end—of—Time," she gasped, +and staggered hard against the closet-door. Then +in a flash she burst out laughing stridently, and +rushed for Hickory Dock and grabbed him by his +little silver handle, opened the window with a bang, +and threw him with all her might and main down +into the brick alley four stories below, where he +fell with a sickening crash among a wee handful +of scattered rose petals.</p> + +<p>—The days that followed were like horrid +dreams, the nights, like hideous realities. The fire +would not burn. The sun and moon would not +shine, and life itself settled down like a pall. +Every detail of that Sunday night stamped and re stamped +itself upon her mind. Back of her outraged +love was the crueller pain of her outraged +faith. The Man of his own free will had made a +sacred promise and broken it! She realized now +for the first time in her life why men went to the +devil because women had failed them—not disappointed +them, but <i>failed</i> them! She could even +imagine how poor mothers felt when fathers +shirked their fatherhood. She tasted in one<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span> +week's imagination all possible woman sorrows of +the world.</p> + +<p>At the end of the second week she began to realize +the depth of isolation into which her engagement +had thrown her. For a year and a half she +had thought nothing, dreamed nothing, cared for +nothing except the Man. Now, with the Man +swept away, there was no place to turn either for +comfort or amusement.</p> + +<p>At the end of the third week, when no word +came, she began to gather together all the Man's +little personal effects, and consigned them to a box +out of sight—the pipe and tobacco, a favorite +book, his soft Turkish slippers, his best gloves, and +even a little poem which he had written for her +to set to music. It was a pretty little love-song +that they had made together, but as she hummed it +over now for the last time she wondered if, after +all, <i>woman's music</i> did not do more than man's +words to make love Singable.</p> + +<p>When a month was up she began to strip the +room of everything that the Man had brought towards +the making of their Home. It was like stripping +tendons. She had never realized before how +thoroughly the Man's personality had dominated +her room as well as her life. When she had +crowded his books, his pictures, his college trophies, +his Morris chair, his rugs, into one corner of her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span> +room and covered them with two big sheets, her +little, paltry, feminine possessions looked like chiffon +in a desert.</p> + +<p>While she was pondering what to do next her +rent fell due. The month's idling had completely +emptied her pewter savings-bank that she had been +keeping as a sort of precious joke for the Honeymoon. +The rent-bill startled her into spasmodic +efforts at composition. She had been quite busy +for a year writing songs for some Educational +people, but how could one make harmony with a +heart full of discord and all life off the key. A +single week convinced her of the utter futility of +these efforts. In one high-strung, wakeful night +she decided all at once to give up the whole struggle +and go back to her little country village, where +at least she would find free food and shelter until +she could get her grip again.</p> + +<p>For three days she struggled heroically with +burlap and packing-boxes. She felt as though +every nail she pounded was hurting the Man as well +as herself, and she pounded just as hard as she +possibly could.</p> + +<p>When the room was stripped of every atom of +personality except her couch, and the duplicate +latch-key, which still hung high and dusty, a deliciously +cruel thought came to the Girl, and the +irony of it set her eyes flashing. On the night before<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span> +her intended departure she took the key and +put it into a pretty little box and sent it to the +Man.</p> + +<p>"He'll know by that token," she said, "that +there's no more 'Home' for him and me. He +will get his furniture a few days later, and then +he will see that everything is scattered and shattered. +Even if he's married by this time, the +key will hurt him, for his wife will want to know +what it means, and he never can tell her."</p> + +<p>Then she cried so hard that her overwrought, +half-starved little body collapsed, and she crept +into her bed and was sick all night and all the next +day, so that there was no possible thought or chance +of packing or traveling. But towards the second +evening she struggled up to get herself a taste of +food and wine from her cupboard, and, wrapping +herself in her pink kimono, huddled over the fire +to try and find a little blaze and cheer.</p> + +<p>Just as the flames commenced to flush her cheeks +the lock clicked. She started up in alarm. The +door opened abruptly, and the Man strode in with +a very determined, husbandly look on his haggard +face. For the fraction of a second he stood and +looked at her pitifully frightened and disheveled +little figure.</p> + +<p>"Forgive me," he cried, "but I <i>had</i> to come +like this." Then he took one mighty stride and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span> +caught her up in his arms and carried her back +to her open bed and tucked her in like a child +while she clung to his neck laughing and sobbing +and crying as though her brain was turned. He +smoothed her hair, he kissed her eyes, he rubbed +his rough cheek confidently against her soft one, +and finally, when her convulsive tremors quieted a +little, he reached down into his great overcoat +pocket and took out poor, battered, mutilated Hickory +Dock.</p> + +<p>"I found him down in the Janitor's office just +now," he explained, and his mouth twitched just +the merest trifle at the corners.</p> + +<p>"Don't smile," said the Girl, sitting up suddenly +very straight and stiff. "Don't smile till you +know the whole truth. <i>I</i> broke Hickory Dock. +I threw him <i>purposely</i> four stories down into the +brick alley!"</p> + +<p>The Man began to examine Hickory Dock very +carefully.</p> + +<p>"I should judge that it was a <i>brick</i> alley," he +remarked with an odd twist of his lips, as he tossed +the shattered little clock over to the burlap-covered +armchair.</p> + +<p>Then he took the Girl very quietly and tenderly +in his arms again, and gazed down into her eyes +with a look that was new to him.</p> + +<p>"Rosalie," he whispered, "I will mend Hickory<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span> +Dock for you if it takes a thousand years,"—his +voice choked,—"but I wish to God I could mend +my broken promise as easily!"</p> + +<p>And Rosalie smiled through her tears and +said,—</p> + +<p>"Sweetheart-Man, you do love me?"</p> + +<p>"With all my heart and soul and body and +breath, and past and present and future I <i>love +you!</i>" said the Man.</p> + +<p>Then Rosalie kissed a little path to his ear, and +whispered, oh, so softly,—</p> + +<p>"Sweetheart-Man, I love <i>you</i> just that same +way."</p> + +<p>And Hickory Dock, the Angel, never ticked the +passing of a single second, but lay on his back +looking straight up to Heaven with his two little +battered hands clasped eternally at Love's <i>high +noon</i>.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE VERY TIRED GIRL</h2> + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 165px;"> +<img src="images/drop_o.png" width="165" height="164" alt="O" title="" /> +</div><div class='unindent'><br />N one of those wet, warm, slushy +February nights when the vapid +air sags like sodden wool in your +lungs, and your cheek-bones bore +through your flesh, and your +leaden feet seem strung directly +from the roots of your eyes, three girls stampeded +their way through the jostling, peevish street +crowds with no other object in Heaven or Earth +except just to get—HOME.</div> + +<p>It was supper time, too, somewhere between six +and seven, the caved-in hour of the day when the +ruddy ghost of Other People's dinners flaunts itself +rather grossly in the pallid nostrils of Her Who +Lives by the Chafing-Dish.</p> + +<p>One of the girls was a Medical Masseuse, trained +brain and brawn in the German Hospitals. One +was a Public School Teacher with a tickle of chalk +dust in her lungs. One was a Cartoon Artist with +a heart like chiffon and a wit as accidentally malicious +as the jab of a pin in a flirt's belt.</p> + +<p>All three of them were silly with fatigue. The<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span> +writhing city cavorted before them like a sick clown. +A lame cab horse went strutting like a mechanical +toy. Crape on a door would have plunged them +into hysterics. Were you ever as tired as that?</p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 418px;"> +<img src="images/gs02.jpg" width="418" height="400" alt="With no other object, except to get home" title="" /> +<span class="caption">With no other object, except to get home</span> +</div> +<p>It was, in short, the kind of night that rips out +every one according to his stitch. Rhoda Hanlan +the Masseuse was ostentatiously sewed with double +thread and backstitched at that. Even the little +Teacher, Ruth MacLaurin, had a physique that was +embroidered if not darned across its raveled places. +But Noreen Gaudette, the Cartoon Drawer, with +her spangled brain and her tissue-paper body, was +merely basted together with a single silken thread. +It was the knowledge of being only basted that +gave Noreen the droll, puckered terror in her eyes +whenever Life tugged at her with any specially inordinate +strain.</p> + +<p>Yet it was Noreen who was popularly supposed +to be built with an electric battery instead of a +heart.</p> + +<p>The boarding-house that welcomed the three was +rather tall for beauty, narrow-shouldered, flat-chested, +hunched together in the block like a prudish, +dour old spinster overcrowded in a street car. +To call such a house "Home" was like calling such +a spinster "Mother." But the three girls called it +"Home" and rather liked the saucy taste of the +word in their mouths.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span></p> + +<p>Across the threshold in a final spurt of energy +the jaded girls pushed with the joyous realization +that there were now only five flights of stairs between +themselves and their own attic studio.</p> + +<p>On the first floor the usual dreary vision greeted +them of a hall table strewn with stale letters—most +evidently bills, which no one seemed in a hurry +to appropriate.</p> + +<p>It was twenty-two stumbling, bundle-dropping +steps to the next floor, where the strictly Bachelor +Quarters with half-swung doors emitted a pleasant +gritty sound of masculine voices, and a sumptuous +cloud of cigarette smoke which led the way frowardly +up twenty-two more toiling steps to the Old +Maid's Floor, buffeted itself naughtily against the +sternly shut doors, and then mounted triumphantly +like sweet incense to the Romance Floor, where +with door alluringly open the Much-Loved Girl and +her Mother were frankly and ingenuously preparing +for the Monday-Night-Lover's visit.</p> + +<p>The vision of the Much-Loved Girl smote like a +brutal flashlight upon the three girls in the hall.</p> + +<p>Out of curl, out of breath, jaded of face, bedraggled +of clothes, they stopped abruptly and stared +into the vista.</p> + +<p>Before their fretted eyes the room stretched fresh +and clean as a newly returned laundry package. +The green rugs lay like velvet grass across the floor.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span> +The chintz-covered furniture crisped like the crust +of a cake. Facing the gilt-bound mirror, the +Much-Loved Girl sat joyously in all her lingerie-waisted, +lace-paper freshness, while her Mother +hovered over her to give one last maternal touch to +a particularly rampageous blond curl.</p> + + + +<p>The Much-Loved Girl was a cordial person. +Her liquid, mirrored reflection nodded gaily out +into the hall. There was no fatigue in the sparkling +face. There was no rain or fog. There was +no street-corner insult. There was no harried +stress of wherewithal. There was just Youth, and +Girl, and Cherishing.</p> + +<p>She made the Masseuse and the little School +Teacher think of a pale-pink rose in a cut-glass +vase. But she made Noreen Gaudette <i>feel</i> like a +vegetable in a boiled dinner.</p> + +<p>With one despairing gasp—half-chuckle and +half-sob—the three girls pulled themselves together +and dashed up the last flight of stairs to +the Trunk-Room Floor, and their own attic studio, +where bumping through the darkness they turned +a sulky stream of light upon a room more tired-looking +than themselves, and then, with almost +fierce abandon, collapsed into the nearest resting-places +that they could reach.</p> + +<p>It was a long time before any one spoke.</p> + +<p>Between the treacherous breeze of the open window<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span> +and a withering blast of furnace heat the +wilted muslin curtain swayed back and forth with +languid rhythm. Across the damp night air came +faintly the yearning, lovery smell of violets, and +the far-off, mournful whine of a sick hand-organ.</p> + +<p>On the black fur hearth-rug Rhoda, the red-haired, +lay prostrated like a broken tiger lily with +her long, lithe hands clutched desperately at her +temples.</p> + +<p>"I am so tired," she said. "I am so tired that +I can actually feel my hair fade."</p> + +<p>Ruth, the little Public School Teacher, laughed +derisively from her pillowed couch where she struggled +intermittently with her suffocating collar and +the pinchy buckles on her overshoes.</p> + +<p>"That's nothing," she asserted wanly. "I am +so tired that I would like to build me a pink-wadded +silk house, just the shape of a slipper, where +I could snuggle down in the toe and go to sleep for +a—million years. It isn't to-morrow's early +morning that racks me, it's the thought of all the +early mornings between now and the Judgment +Day. Oh, any sentimental person can cry at night, +but when you begin to cry in the morning—to lie +awake and cry in the morning—" Her face sickened +suddenly. "Did you see that Mother downstairs?" +she gasped, "fixing that curl? Think of +having a Mother!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span></p> + +<p>Then Noreen Gaudette opened her great gray +eyes and grinned diabolically. She had a funny +little manner of cartooning her emotions.</p> + +<p>"Think of having a Mother?" she scoffed. +"What nonsense!—<i>Think of having a c-u-r-l!</i></p> + +<p>"You talk like Sunday-Paper débutantes," she +drawled. "You don't know anything about being +tired. Why, I am so tired—I am so tired—that +I wish—I wish that the first man who ever proposed +to me would come back and ask me—<i>again!</i>"</p> + +<p>It was then that the Landlady, knocking at the +door, presented a card, "Mr. Ernest T. Dextwood," +for Miss Gaudette, and the innocent-looking +conversation exploded suddenly like a short-fused +firecracker.</p> + +<p>Rhoda in an instant was sitting bolt upright with +her arms around her knees rocking to and fro in +convulsive delight. Ruth much more thoughtfully +jumped for Noreen's bureau drawer. But Noreen +herself, after one long, hyphenated "Oh, my +<i>H-e-a-v-e-n-s!</i>" threw off her damp, wrinkled coat, +stalked over to the open window, and knelt down +quiveringly where she could smother her blazing +face in the inconsequent darkness.</p> + +<p>For miles and miles the teasing lights of Other +Women's homes stretched out before her. From +the window-sill below her rose the persistent purple<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span> +smell of violets, and the cooing, gauzy laughter of +the Much-Loved Girl. Fatigue was in the damp +air, surely, but Spring was also there, and Lonesomeness, +and worst of all, that desolating sense of +patient, dying snow wasting away before one's eyes +like Life itself.</p> + +<p>When Noreen turned again to her friends her +eyelids drooped defiantly across her eyes. Her lips +were like a scarlet petal under the bite of her teeth. +There in the jetty black and scathing white of her +dress she loomed up suddenly like one of her own +best drawings—pulseless ink and stale white paper +vitalized all in an instant by some miraculous emotional +power. A living Cartoon of "<i>Fatigue</i>" she +stood there—"<i>Fatigue</i>," as she herself would have +drawn it—no flaccid failure of wilted bone and +sagging flesh, but <i>Verve</i>—the taut Brain's pitiless +rally of the Body that can not afford to rest—the +verve of Factory Lights blazing overtime, the verve +of the Runner who drops at his goal.</p> + +<p>"All the time I am gone," she grinned, "pray +over and over, 'Lead Noreen not into temptation.'" +Her voice broke suddenly into wistful laughter: +"Why to meet again a man who used to love +you—it's like offering store-credit to a pauper."</p> + +<p>Then she slammed the door behind her and started +downstairs for the bleak, plush parlor, with a +chaotic sense of absurdity and bravado.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span></p> + +<p>But when she reached the middle of the bachelor +stairway and looked down casually and spied her +clumsy arctics butting out from her wet-edged skirt +all her nervousness focused instantly in her shaking +knees, and she collapsed abruptly on the friendly +dark stair and clutching hold of the banister, began +to whimper.</p> + +<p>In the midst of her stifled tears a door banged +hard above her, the floor creaked under a sturdy +step, and the tall, narrow form of the Political +Economist silhouetted itself against the feeble light +of the upper landing.</p> + +<p>One step down he came into the darkness—two +steps, three steps, four, until at last in choking miserable +embarrassment, Noreen cried out hysterically:</p> + +<p>"Don't step on me—I'm <i>crying!</i>"</p> + +<p>With a gasp of astonishment the young man +struck a sputtering match and bent down waving it +before him.</p> + +<p>"Why, it's <i>you</i>, Miss Gaudette," he exclaimed +with relief. "What's the matter? Are you ill? +What are you crying about?" and he dropped down +beside her and commenced to fan her frantically +with his hat.</p> + +<p>"What <i>are</i> you crying about?" he persisted helplessly, +drugged man-like, by the same embarrassment +that mounted like wine to the woman's brain.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span></p> + +<p>Noreen began to laugh snuffingly.</p> + +<p>"I'm not crying about anything special," she +acknowledged. "I'm just crying. I'm crying +partly because I'm tired—and partly because I've +got my overshoes on—but <i>mostly</i>"—her voice began +to catch again—"but mostly—because there's +a <i>man</i> waiting to see me in the parlor."</p> + +<p>The Political Economist shifted uneasily in his +rain coat and stared into Noreen's eyes.</p> + +<p>"Great Heavens!" he stammered. "Do you always +cry when men come to see you? Is that why +you never invited <i>me</i> to call?"</p> + +<p>Noreen shook her head. "I never have men +come to see me," she answered quite simply. "I +go to see <i>them</i>. I study in their studios. I work +on their newspapers. I caricature their enemies. +Oh, it isn't <i>men</i> that I'm afraid of," she added +blithely, "but <i>this</i> is something particular. <i>This</i> +is something really very funny. Did you ever make +a wish that something perfectly preposterous would +happen?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes," said the Political Economist reassuringly. +"This very day I said that I wished my +Stenographer would swallow the telephone."</p> + +<p>"But she didn't swallow it, did she?" persisted +Noreen triumphantly. "Now I said that I wished +some one would swallow the telephone and she <i>did</i> +swallow it!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span></p> + +<p>Then her face in the dusky light flared piteously +with harlequined emotions. Her eyes blazed bright +with toy excitement. Her lips curved impishly with +exaggerated drollery. But when for a second her +head drooped back against the banister her jaded +small face looked for all the world like a death-mask +of a Jester.</p> + +<p>The Political Economist's heart crinkled uncomfortably +within him.</p> + +<p>"Why, you poor little girl," he said. "I didn't +know that women got as tired as that. Let me take +off your overshoes."</p> + +<p>Noreen stood up like a well-trained pony and shed +her clumsy footgear.</p> + +<p>The Man's voice grew peremptory. "Your skirt +is sopping wet. Are you crazy? Didn't have time +to get into dry things? Nonsense! Have you had +any supper? What? <i>N-o?</i> Wait a minute."</p> + +<p>In an instant he was flying up the stairs, and when +he came back there was a big glass of cool milk in +his hand.</p> + +<p>Noreen drank it ravenously, and then started +downstairs with abrupt, quick courage.</p> + +<p>When she reached the ground floor the Political +Economist leaned over the banisters and shouted in +a piercing whisper:</p> + +<p>"I'll leave your overshoes outside my door +where you can get them on your way up later."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span></p> + +<p>Then he laughed teasingly and added: "I—hope—you'll—have—a—good—time."</p> + +<p>And Noreen, cleaving for one last second to the +outer edge of the banisters, smiled up at him, so +strainingly <i>up</i>, that her face, to the man above her, +looked like a little flat white plate with a crimson-lipped +rose wilting on it.</p> + +<p>Then she disappeared into the parlor.</p> + +<p>With equal abruptness the Political Economist +changed his mind about going out, and went back +instead to his own room and plunged himself down +in his chair, and smoked and thought, until his +friend, the Poet at the big writing-desk, slapped +down his manuscript and stared at him inquisitively.</p> + +<p>"Lord Almighty! I wish I could draw!" said +the Political Economist. It was not so much an +exclamation as a reverent entreaty. His eyes narrowed +sketchily across the vision that haunted him. +"If I could draw," he persisted, "I'd make a picture +that would hit the world like a knuckled fist +straight between its selfish old eyes. And I'd call +that picture 'Talent.' I'd make an ocean chopping +white and squally, with <i>black</i> clouds scudding like +fury across the sky, and no land in sight except +rocks. And I'd fill that ocean full of sharks and +things—not showing too much, you know, but just +an occasional shimmer of fins through the foam.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span> +And I'd make a sailboat scooting along, tipped 'way +over on her side toward you, with just a slip of an +eager-faced girl in it. And I'd wedge her in there, +wind-blown, spray-dashed, foot and back braced to +the death, with the tiller in one hand and the sheet +in the other, and weather-almighty roaring all +around her. And I'd make the riskiest little leak +in the bottom of that boat rammed desperately with +a box of chocolates, and a bunch of violets, and a +large paper compliment in a man's handwriting +reading: 'Oh, how <i>clever</i> you are.' And I'd have +that girl's face haggard with hunger, starved for +sleep, tense with fear, ravished with excitement. +But I'd have her chin <i>up</i>, and her eyes <i>open</i>, and +the tiniest tilt of a quizzical smile hounding you like +mad across the snug, gilt frame. Maybe, too, I'd +have a woman's magazine blowing around telling in +chaste language how to keep the hair 'smooth' and +the hands 'velvety,' and admonishing girls above all +things not to be eaten by sharks! Good Heavens, +Man!" he finished disjointedly, "a girl doesn't +know how to sail a boat anyway!"</p> + +<p>"<i>W-h-a-t</i> are you talking about?" moaned the +Poet.</p> + +<p>The Political Economist began to knock the ashes +furiously out of his pipe.</p> + +<p>"What am I talking about?" he cried; "I'm +talking about <i>girls</i>. I've always said that I'd<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span> +gladly fall in love if I only could decide what kind +of a girl I wanted to fall in love with. Well, I've +decided!"</p> + +<p>The Poet's face furrowed. "Is it the Much-Loved +Girl?" he stammered.</p> + +<p>The Political Economist's smoldering temper began +to blaze.</p> + +<p>"No, it isn't," ejaculated the Political Economist. +"The Much-Loved Girl is a sweet enough, +airy, fairy sort of girl, but I'm not going to fall in +love with just a pretty valentine."</p> + +<p>"Going to try a 'Comic'?" the Poet suggested +pleasantly.</p> + +<p>The Political Economist ignored the impertinence. +"I am reasonably well off," he continued meditatively, +"and I'm reasonably good-looking, and +I've contributed eleven articles on 'Men and +Women' to modern economic literature, but it's +dawned on me all of a sudden that in spite of all +my beauteous theories regarding life in general, I +am just one big shirk when it comes to life in particular."</p> + +<p>The Poet put down his pen and pushed aside his +bottle of rhyming fluid, and began to take notice.</p> + +<p>"Whom are you going to fall in love with?" he +demanded.</p> + +<p>The Political Economist sank back into his chair.</p> + +<p>"I don't quite know," he added simply, "but<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span> +she's going to be some tired girl. Whatever else +she may or may not be, she's got to be a tired +girl."</p> + +<p>"A tired girl?" scoffed the Poet. "That's no +kind of a girl to marry. Choose somebody who's +all pink and white freshness. That's the kind of a +girl to make a man happy."</p> + +<p>The Political Economist smiled a bit viciously behind +his cigar.</p> + +<p>"Half an hour ago," he affirmed, "I was a beast +just like you. Good Heavens! Man," he cried out +suddenly, "did you ever see a girl cry? Really cry, +I mean. Not because her manicure scissors jabbed +her thumb, but because her great, strong, tyrant, +sexless brain had goaded her poor little woman-body +to the very cruelest, last vestige of its strength and +spirit. Did you ever see a girl like that Miss Gaudette +upstairs—she's the Artist, you know, who +did those cartoons last year that played the devil +itself with 'Congress Assembled'—did you ever +see a girl like <i>that</i> just plain thrown down, tripped +in her tracks, sobbing like a hurt, tired child? Your +pink and white prettiness can cry like a rampant +tragedy-queen all she wants to over a misfitted collar, +but my hand is going here and now to the big-brained +girl who cries like a child!"</p> + +<p>"In short," interrupted the Poet, "you are going +to help—Miss Gaudette sail her boat?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Y-e-s," said the Political Economist.</p> + +<p>"And so," mocked the Poet, "you are going to +jump aboard and steer the young lady adroitly to +some port of your own choosing?"</p> + +<p>The older man's jaws tightened ominously. +"No, by the Lord Almighty, that's just what I am +not going to do!" he promised. "I'm going to +help her sail to the port of her own choosing!"</p> + +<p>The Poet began to rummage in his mind for adequate +arguments. "Oh, allegorically," he conceded, +"your scheme is utterly charming, but from any material, +matrimonial point of view I should want to +remind myself pretty hard that overwrought brains +do not focus very easily on domestic interests, nor +do arms which have tugged as you say at 'sheets' +and 'tillers' curve very dimplingly around youngsters' +shoulders."</p> + +<p>The Political Economist blew seven mighty +smoke-puffs from his pipe.</p> + +<p>"That would be the economic price I deserve to +pay for not having arrived earlier on the scene," he +said quietly.</p> + +<p>The Poet began to chuckle. "You certainly are +hard hit," he scoffed.</p> + +<div class='poem'> +"Political Economy<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Gone to rhyme with Hominy!</span><br /> +</div> + +<div class='unindent'>It's an exquisite scheme!"</div><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span></p> + +<p>"It's a rotten rhyme," attested the Political +Economist, and strode over to the mantelpiece, +where he began to hunt for a long piece of +twine.</p> + +<p>"Miss Gaudette," he continued, "is downstairs +in the parlor now entertaining a caller—some resurrected +beau, I believe. Anyway, she left her +overshoes outside my door to get when she comes +up again, and I'm going to tie one end of this string +to them and the other end to my wrist, so that when +she picks up her shoes a few hours later it will wake +me from my nap, and I can make one grand rush +for the hall and—"</p> + +<p>"Propose then and there?" quizzed the Poet.</p> + +<p>"No, not exactly. But I'm going to ask her if +she'll let me fall in love with her."</p> + +<p>The Poet sniffed palpably and left the room.</p> + +<p>But the Political Economist lay back in his chair +and went to sleep with a great, pleasant expectancy +in his heart.</p> + +<p>When he woke at last with a sharp, tugging pain +at his wrist the room was utterly dark, and the little +French clock had stopped aghast and clasped its +hands at eleven.</p> + +<p>For a second he rubbed his eyes in perplexity. +Then he jumped to his feet, fumbled across the +room and opened the door to find Noreen staring +with astonishment at the tied overshoes.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Oh, I wanted to speak to you," he began. Then +his eyes focused in amazement on a perfectly huge +bunch of violets which Noreen was clasping desperately +in her arms.</p> + +<p>"Good Heavens!" he cried. "Is anybody +dead?"</p> + +<p>But Noreen held the violets up like a bulwark +and commenced to laugh across them.</p> + +<p>"He did propose," she said, "and I accepted him! +Does it look as though I had chosen to be engaged +with violets instead of a ring?" she suggested +blithely. "It's only that I asked him if he would +be apt to send me violets, and when he said: +'Yes, every week,' I just asked if I please couldn't +have them all at once. There must be a Billion dollars' +worth here. I'm going to have a tea-party to-morrow +and invite the Much-Loved Girl." The +conscious, childish malice of her words twisted her +lips into an elfish smile. "It's Mr. Ernest Dextwood," +she rattled on: "Ernest Dextwood, the Coffee +Merchant. He's a widower now—with three +children. Do—you—think—that—I—will—make—a—good—stepmother?"</p> + +<p>The violets began to quiver against her breast, +but her chin went higher in rank defiance of the +perplexing <i>something</i> which she saw in the Political +Economist's narrowing eyes. She began to quote +with playful recklessness Byron's pert parody:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span></p> + +<div class='poem'> +"There is a tide in the affairs of women<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Which taken at its flood leads—God Knows Where."</span><br /> +</div> + +<p>But when the Political Economist did not answer +her, but only stared with brooding, troubled +eyes, she caught her breath with a sudden terrifying +illumination. "Ouch!" she said. "O-u-c-h!" +and wilted instantly like a frost-bitten rose under +heat. All the bravado, all the stamina, all the glint +of her, vanished utterly.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Political Economist," she stammered, "Life—is—too—hard—for—me. +I am not Rhoda +Hanlan with her sturdy German peasant stock. I +am not Ruth MacLaurin with her Scotch-plaited +New Englandism. Nationality doesn't count with +me. My Father was a Violinist. My Mother was +an Actress. In order to marry, my Father +swapped his music for discordant factory noises, +and my Mother shirked a dozen successful rôles to +give one life-long, very poor imitation of Happiness. +My Father died of too much to drink. My +Mother died of too little to eat. And I was bred, +I guess, of very bitter love, of conscious sacrifice—of +thwarted genius—of defeated vanity. Life—is—too—hard—for—me—<i>alone</i>. +I can not +finance it. I can not safeguard it. I can not weather +it. <i>I am not seaworthy!</i> You might be willing to +risk your <i>own</i> self-consciousness, but when the dead +begin to come back and clamor in you—when you<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span> +laugh unexpectedly with your Father's restive voice—when +you quicken unexplainably to the Lure of +gilt and tinsel—" A whimper of pain went scudding +across her face, and she put back her head and +grinned—"You can keep my overshoes for a +souvenir," she finished abruptly. "I'm not allowed +any more to go out when it storms!" Then she +turned like a flash and ran swiftly up the stairs.</p> + +<p>When he heard the door slam hard behind her, +the Political Economist fumbled his way back +through the darkened room to his Morris chair, and +threw himself down again. Ernest Dextwood? +He knew him well, a prosperous, kindly, yet domestically +tyrannical man, bright in the office, stupid +at home. Ernest Dextwood! So much less of a +girl would have done for him.</p> + +<p>A widower with three children? The eager, unspent +emotionalism of Noreen's face flaunted itself +across his smoky vision. All that hunger for Life, +for Love, for Beauty, for Sympathy, to be blunted +once for all in a stale, misfitting, ready-made home? +A widower with three children! God in Heaven, +was she as tired as that!</p> + +<p>It was a whole long week before he saw Noreen +again. When he met her at last she had just come +in from automobiling, all rosy-faced and out of +breath, with her thin little face peering almost +plumply from its heavy swathings of light-blue veiling,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span> +and her slender figure deeply wrapped in a +wondrous covert coat.</p> + +<p>Rhoda Hanlan and Ruth MacLaurin were close +behind her, much more prosaically garnished in golf +capes and brown-colored mufflers. The Political +Economist stood by on the stairs to let them pass, +and Noreen looked back at him and called out +gaily:</p> + +<p>"It's lots of fun to be engaged. We're all enjoying +it very much. It's bully!"</p> + +<p>The next time he saw her she was on her way +downstairs to the parlor, in a long-tailed, soft, black +evening gown that bothered her a bit about managing. +Her dark hair was piled up high on her head, +and she had the same mischievous, amateur-theatrical +charm that the blue chiffon veil and covert coat +had given her.</p> + +<p>Quite frankly she demanded the Political Economist's +appreciation of her appearance.</p> + +<p>"Just see how nice I can look when I really try?" +she challenged him, "but it took me all day to do +it, and my work went to smash—and my dress cost +seventy dollars," she finished wryly.</p> + +<p>But the Political Economist was surly about his +compliment.</p> + +<p>"No, I like you better in your little business +suit," he attested gruffly. And he lied, and he knew +that he lied, for never before had he seen the shrewd<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span> +piquancy of her eyes so utterly swamped by just the +wild, sweet lure of girlhood.</p> + +<p>Some time in May, however, when the shop windows +were gay with women's luxuries, he caught a +hurried glimpse of her face gazing rather tragically +at a splurge of lilac-trimmed hats.</p> + +<p>Later in the month he passed her in the Park, +cuddled up on a bench, with her shabby business suit +scrunched tight around her, her elbows on her knees, +her chin burrowed in her hands, and her fiercely +narrowed eyes quaffing like some outlawed thing at +the lusty new green grass, the splashing fountain, +the pinky flush of flowering quince. But when he +stopped to speak to her she jumped up quickly and +pleaded the haste of an errand.</p> + +<p>It was two weeks later in scorching June that the +biggest warehouses on the river caught fire in the +early part of the evening. The day had been as +harsh as a shining, splintery plank. The night was +like a gray silk pillow. In blissful, soothing consciousness +of perfect comfort every one in the +boarding-house climbed up on the roof to watch the +gorgeous, fearful conflagration across the city. The +Landlady's voice piped high and shrill discussing the +value of insurance. The Old Maids scuttled together +under their knitted shawls. The Much-Loved +Girl sat amiably enthroned among the bachelors +with one man's coat across her shoulders, another<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span> +man's cap on her yellow head, and two deliciously +timid hands clutched at the coat-sleeves +of the two men nearest her. Whenever she bent +her head she trailed the fluff of her hair across the +enraptured eyelids of the Poet.</p> + +<p>Only Noreen Gaudette was missing.</p> + +<p>"Where is Miss Gaudette?" probed the Political +Economist.</p> + +<p>The Masseuse answered vehemently: "Why, +Noreen's getting ready to go to the fire. Her paper +sent for her just as we came up. There's an awful +row on, you know, about the inefficiency of the Fire +Department, and there's no other person in all the +city who can make people look as silly as Noreen +can. If this thing appeals to her to-night, and she +gets good and mad enough, and keeps her nerve, +there'll be the biggest overhauling of the Fire Department +that <i>you</i> ever saw! But I'm sorry it +happened. It will be an all-night job, and Noreen +is almost dead enough as it is."</p> + +<p>"An 'all-night job'?" The Much-Loved Girl +gasped out her startled sense of propriety, and snuggled +back against the shoulder of the man who sat +nearest to her. She was very genuinely sorry for +any one who had to be improper.</p> + +<p>The Political Economist, noting the incident in +its entirety, turned abruptly on his heel, climbed +down the tremulous ladder to the trunk-room<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span> +floor and knocked peremptorily at Noreen's +door.</p> + +<p>In reply to the answer which he thought he heard, +he turned the handle of the door and entered. The +gas jet sizzled blatantly across the room, and a tiny +blue flame toiled laboriously in a cooking lamp beneath +a pot of water. The room was reeking strong +with the smell of coffee, the rank brew that wafted +him back in nervous terror to his college days and +the ghastly eve of his final examinations. A coat, +a hat, a mouse-gray sweater, a sketch-book, and a +bunch of pencils were thrown together on the edge +of the divan. Crouched on the floor with head and +shoulders prostrate across her easel chair and thin +hands straining at the woodwork was Noreen +Gaudette. The startled face that lifted to his was +haggard with the energy of a year rallied to the +needs of an hour.</p> + +<p>"I thought you told me to come in," said the Political +Economist. "I came down to go to the fire +with you."</p> + +<p>Noreen was on her feet in an instant, hurrying +into her hat and coat, and quaffing greedily at the +reeking coffee.</p> + +<p>"You ought to have some one to look after you," +persisted the man. "Where's Mr. Dextwood?"</p> + +<p>Noreen stood still in the middle of the floor and +stared at him.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Why, I've broken my engagement," she exclaimed, +trying hard to speak tamely and reserve +every possible fraction of her artificial energy.</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes," she smiled wanly, "I couldn't afford +to be engaged! I couldn't afford the time. I +couldn't afford the money. I couldn't afford the +mental distraction. I'm working again now, but +it's horribly hard to get back into the mood. My +drawing has all gone to smash. But I'll get the +hang of it again pretty soon."</p> + +<p>"You look in mighty poor shape to work to-night," +said the Political Economist. "What +makes you go?"</p> + +<p>"What makes me go?" cried Noreen, with an +extravagant burst of vehemence. "What makes +me go?—Why, if I make good to-night on those +Fire-Department Pictures I get a Hundred Dollars, +as well as the assurance of all the Republican cartooning +for the next city election. It's worth a lot +of money to me!"</p> + +<p>"Enough to kill yourself for?" probed the Man.</p> + +<p>Noreen's mouth began to twist. "Yes—if you +still owe for your automobile coat, and your black +evening gown, and your room rent and a few other +trifles of that sort. But come on, if you'll promise +not to talk to me till it's all over." Like a pair of +youngsters they scurried down the stairs, jumped<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span> +into the waiting cab, and galloped off toward the +river edge of the city.</p> + +<p>True to his promise, the Political Economist did +not speak to her, but he certainly had not promised +to keep his eyes shut as well as his mouth. From +the very first she sat far forward on the seat where +the passing street-lights blazed upon her unconscious +face. The Man, the cab, love-making, debt-paying, +all were forgotten in her desperate effort to keep +keyed up to the working-point. Her brain was +hurriedly sketching in her backgrounds. Her suddenly +narrowed eyes foretold the tingling pride in +some particular imagining. The flashing twist of +her smile predicted the touch of malice that was to +make her pictures the sensation of—a day.</p> + +<p>The finish of the three-mile drive found her jubilant, +prescient, pulsing with power. The glow from +the flames lit up the cab like a room. The engine +bells clanged around them. Sparks glittered. +Steam hissed. When the cabman's horse refused to +scorch his nose any nearer the conflagration, Noreen +turned to the Political Economist with some embarrassment. +"If you really want to help me," she +pleaded, "you'll stay here in the cab and wait for +me."</p> + +<p>Then, before the Political Economist could offer +his angry protest, she had opened the door, jumped<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span> +from the step, and disappeared into the surging, +rowdy throng of spectators. A tedious hour later +the cab door opened abruptly, and Noreen reappeared.</p> + +<p>Her hat was slouched down over her heat-scorched +eyes. Her shoulders were limp. Her +face was dull, dumb, gray, like a Japanese lantern +robbed of its candle. Bluntly she thrust her sketch-book +into his hands and threw herself down on the +seat beside him.</p> + +<p>"Oh, take me home," she begged. "Oh, take +me home <i>quick</i>. It's no use," she added with a +shrug, "I've seen the whole performance. I've +been everywhere—inside the ropes—up on the +roofs—out on the waterfront. The Fire Department +Men are not 'inefficient.' They're simply +<i>bully!</i> <i>And I make no caricatures of heroes!</i>"</p> + +<p>The lurch of the cab wheel against a curbstone +jerked a faint smile into her face. "Isn't it horrid," +she complained, "to have a Talent and a Living +that depend altogether upon your <i>getting +mad?</i>" Then her eyes flooded with worry. +"What <i>shall</i> I do?"</p> + +<p>"You'll marry me," said the Political Economist.</p> + +<p>"Oh, no!" gasped Noreen. "I shall never, +never marry any one! I told you that I couldn't +afford to be engaged. It takes too much time, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span> +besides," her color flamed piteously, "I didn't like +being engaged."</p> + +<p>"I didn't ask you to be engaged," persisted the +Political Economist. "I didn't ask you to serve +any underpaid, ill-fed, half-hearted apprenticeship +to Happiness. I asked you to be married."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no!" sighed Noreen. "I shall never +marry any one."</p> + +<p>The Political Economist began to laugh. "Going +to be an old maid?" he teased.</p> + +<p>The high lights flamed into Noreen's eyes. She +braced herself into the corner of the carriage and +fairly hurled her defiance at him. Indomitable purpose +raged in her heart, unutterable pathos drooped +around her lips. Every atom of blood in her body +was working instantly in her brain. No single drop +of it loafed in her cheeks under the flimsy guise of +embarrassment.</p> + +<p>"I am not an 'Old Maid!' I am not! No one +who creates anything is an 'Old Maid'!"</p> + +<p>The passion of her mood broke suddenly into +wilful laughter. She shook her head at him +threateningly.</p> + +<p>"Don't you ever dare to call me an 'Old Maid' +again.—But I'll tell you just what you can call +me—Women are supposed to be the Poetry of +Life, aren't they—the Sonnet, the Lyric, the +Limerick? Well—I am blank verse. <i>That</i> is<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span> +the trouble with me. I simply <i>do not rhyme</i>.—That +is all!"</p> + +<p>"Will you marry me?" persisted the Political +Economist.</p> + +<p>Noreen shook her head. "No!" she repeated. +"You don't seem to understand. Marriage is not +for me. I tell you that I am Blank Verse. I am +<i>Talent</i>, and I do not <i>rhyme</i> with Love. I am <i>Talent</i> +and I do not rhyme with <i>Man</i>. There is no place +in my life for you. You can not come into my +verse and rhyme with me!"</p> + +<p>"Aren't you a little bit exclusive?" goaded the +Political Economist.</p> + +<p>Noreen nodded gravely. "Yes," she said, "I +am brutally exclusive. But everybody isn't. Life +is so easy for some women. Now, the Much-Loved +Girl is nothing in the world except 'Miss.' She +rhymes inevitably with almost anybody's kiss.—<i>I</i> +am not just '<i>Miss</i>.' The Much-Loved Girl is nothing +in the world except 'Girl.'—She rhymes inevitably +with 'Curl.' <i>I</i> am not just '<i>Girl</i>.' She +is 'Coy' and rhymes with 'Boy.' She is 'Simple' +and rhymes with 'Dimple.' <i>I am none of those +things!</i> I haven't the Lure of the Sonnet. I +haven't the Charm of the Lyric. I haven't the +Bait of the Limerick. At the very best I am +'Brain' and rhyme with 'Pain.' And I wish I +was <i>dead!</i>"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span></p> + +<p>The Political Economist's heart was pounding +like a gong smothered in velvet. But he stooped +over very quietly and pushed the floor cushion under +her feet and snuggled the mouse-gray sweater into +a pillowed roll behind her aching neck. Then from +his own remotest corner he reached out casually and +rallied her limp, cold hand into the firm, warm clasp +of his vibrant fingers.</p> + +<p>"Of course, you never have rhymed," he said. +"How could you possibly have rhymed when—<i>I +am the missing lines of your verse?</i>" His clasp +tightened. "Never mind about Poetry to-night, +Dear, but <i>to-morrow</i> we'll take your little incomplete +lonesome verse and quicken it into a Love-Song +that will make the Oldest Angel in Heaven +sit up and carol!"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE HAPPY-DAY</h2> + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 163px;"> +<img src="images/drop_i.png" width="163" height="164" alt="I" title="" /> +</div><div class='unindent'><br />T was not you, yourself, who invented +your Happy-day. It was +your Father, long ago in little-lad +time, when a Happy-Day or +a Wooden Soldier or High Heaven +itself lay equally tame and giftable +in the cuddling, curving hollow of a Father's +hand.</div> + +<p>Your Father must have been a very great Genius. +How else could he have invented any happy +thing in the black-oak library?</p> + +<p>The black-oak library was a cross-looking room, +dingy, lowering, and altogether boggy. You could +not stamp your boot across the threshold without +joggling the heart-beats out of the gaunt old clock +that loomed in the darkermost corner of the alcove. +You could not tiptoe to the candy box without +plunging headlong into a stratum of creakiness that +puckered your spine as though an electric devil +were pulling the very last basting thread out of +your little soul. Oh, it must have been a very, +very aged room. The darkness was abhorrent to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span> +you. The dampness reeked with the stale, sad +breath of ancient storms. Worst of all, blood-red +curtains clotted at the windows; rusty swords and +daggers hung most imminently from the walls, and +along the smutted hearth a huge, moth-eaten tiger +skin humped up its head in really terrible ferocity.</p> + +<p>Through all the room there was no lively spot +except the fireplace itself.</p> + +<p>Usually, white birch logs flamed on the hearth +with pleasant, crackling cheerfulness, but on this +special day you noted with alarm that between the +gleaming andirons a soft, red-leather book writhed +and bubbled with little gray wisps of pain, while +out of a charry, smoochy mass of nothingness a +blue-flowered muslin sleeve stretched pleadingly toward +you for an instant, shuddered, blazed, and +was—gone.</p> + +<p>It was there that your Father caught you, with +that funny, strange sniff of havoc in your nostrils.</p> + +<p>It was there that your Father told you his news.</p> + +<p>When you are only a little, little boy and your +Father snatches you suddenly up in his arms and +tells you that he is going to be married again, it is +very astonishing. You had always supposed that +your Father was perfectly married! In the dazzling +sunshine of the village church was there not +a thrilly blue window that said quite distinctly, +"Clarice Val Dere" (that was your Mother)<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span> +"Lived" (<i>Lived</i>, it said!) "June, 1860—December, +1880"? All the other windows said "Died" +on them. Why should your Father marry again?</p> + +<p>In your Dear Father's arms you gasped, "Going +to be <i>married?</i>" and your two eyes must have +popped right out of your head, for your Father +stooped down very suddenly and kissed them hard—whack, +whack, back into place.</p> + +<p>"N—o, not going to be married," he corrected, +"but going to be married—again."</p> + +<p>He spoke as though there were a great difference; +but it was man-talk and you did not understand +it.</p> + +<p>Then he gathered you into the big, dark chair +and pushed you way out on his knees and scrunched +your cheeks in his hands and ate your face all up +with his big eyes. When he spoke at last, his voice +was way down deep like a bass drum.</p> + +<p>"Little Boy Jack," he said, "you must never, +never, never forget your Dear Mother!"</p> + +<p>His words and the bir-r-r of them shook you like +a leaf.</p> + +<p>"But what was my Dear Mother like?" you +whimpered. You had never seen your Mother.</p> + +<p>Then your Father jumped up and walked hard +on the creaky floor. When he turned round again, +his eyes were all wet and shiny like a brown stained-glass +window.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span></p> + +<p>"What was your Dear Mother like?" he repeated. +"Your Dear Mother was like—was like—the +flash of a white wing across a stormy sea. +And your Dear Mother's name was 'Clarice.' I +give it to you for a Memorial. What better Memorial +could a little boy have than his Dear Mother's +name? And there is a date—" His voice +grew suddenly harsh and hard like iron, and his +lips puckered on his words as with a taste of rust—"there +is a date—the 26th of April—No, +that is too hard a date for a little boy's memory! +It was a Thursday. I give you Thursday for your—Happy-Day. +'Clarice' for a Memorial, and +Thursday for your Happy-Day." His words began +to beat on you like blows. "As—long—as—you—live," +he cried, "be very kind to any one +who is named 'Clarice.' And no matter what Time +brings you—weeks, months, years, centuries—<i>keep +Thursday for your Happy-Day</i>. No cruelty +must ever defame it, no malice, no gross bitterness."</p> + +<p>Then he crushed you close to him for the millionth, +billionth fraction of a second, and went +away, while you stayed behind in the scary black-oak +library, feeling as big and achy and responsible +as you used to feel when you and your Dear +Father were carrying a heavy suit-case together +and your Dear Father let go his share just a moment<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span> +to light his brown cigar. It gave you a beautiful +feeling in your head, but way off in your stomach +it tugged some.</p> + +<p>So you crept away to bed at last, and dreamed +that on a shining path leading straight from your +front door to Heaven you had to carry all alone two +perfectly huge suit-cases packed tight with love, +and one of the suit-cases was marked "Clarice" +and one was marked "Thursday." Tug, tug, tug, +you went, and stumble, stumble, stumble, but your +Dear Father could not help you at all because he +was perfectly busy carrying a fat leather bag, some +golf sticks, and a bull-terrier for a strange lady.</p> + +<p>It was not a pleasant dream, and you screamed +out so loud in the night that the Housekeeper-Woman +had to come and comfort you. It was +the Housekeeper-Woman who told you that on the +morrow your Father was going far off across the +salt seas. It was the Housekeeper-Woman who +told you that you, yourself, were to be given away +to a Grandmother-Lady in Massachusetts. It was +also the Housekeeper-Woman who told you that +your puppy dog Bruno—Bruno the big, the black, +the curly, the waggy, was not to be included in the +family gift to the Grandmother-Lady. Everybody +reasoned, it seemed, that you would not need Bruno +because there would be so many other dogs in Massachusetts. +That was just the trouble. They <i>would</i><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span> +all be "other dogs." It was Bruno that you +wanted, for he was the only <i>dog</i>, just as <i>you</i> were +the only <i>boy</i> in the world. All the rest were only +"other boys." You could have explained the matter +perfectly to your Father if the Housekeeper-Woman +had not made you cry so that you broke +your explainer. But later in the night the most +beautiful thought came to you. At first perhaps +it tasted a little bit sly in your mouth, but after a +second it spread like ginger, warm and sweet over +your whole body except your toes, and you crept +out of bed like a flannel ghost and fumbled your +way down the black hall to your Dear Father's +room and woke him shamelessly from his sleep. +His eyes in the moonlight gleamed like two frightened +dreams.</p> + +<p>"Dear Father," you cried—you could hardly +get the words fast enough out of your mouth—"Dear—Father—I—do—not—think—Bruno—is—a—very—good—name—for—a—big—black—dog—I—am—going—to—name—him—Clarice—instead!"</p> + +<p>That was how you and Bruno-Clarice happened +to celebrate together your first Happy-Day with a +long, magic, joggling train journey to Massachusetts—the +only original <i>boy</i> and the only original +<i>dog</i> in all the world.</p> + +<p>The Grandmother-Lady proved to be a very<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span> +pleasant purple sort of person. Exactly whose +Grandmother she was, you never found out. She +was not your Father's mother. She was not your +Mother's mother. With these links missing, whose +Grandmother could she be? You could hardly +press the matter further without subjecting her to +the possible mortification of confessing that she was +only adopted. Maybe, crudest of all, she was just +a Paid-Grandmother.</p> + +<p>The Grandmother-Lady lived in a perfectly +brown house in a perfectly green garden on the +edge of a perfectly blue ocean. That was the +Sight of it. Salted mignonette was the Smell of +it. And a fresh wind flapping through tall poplar +trees was always and forever the Sound of it.</p> + +<p>The brown house itself was the living image of +a prim, old-fashioned bureau backed up bleakly to +the street, with its piazza side yanked out boldly +into the garden like a riotous bureau drawer, +through which the Rising Sun rummaged every +morning for some particular new shade of scarlet +or yellow nasturtiums. As though quite shocked +by such bizarre untidiness, the green garden ran +tattling like mad down to the ocean and was most +frantically shooed back again, so that its little trees +and shrubs and flowers fluttered in a perpetual nervous +panic of not knowing which way to blow.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/gs03.jpg" width="400" height="352" alt="The blue ocean was the most wonderful thing of all" title="" /> +<span class="caption">The blue ocean was the most wonderful thing of all</span> +</div> + +<p>But the blue ocean was the most wonderful thing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span> +of all. Never was there such an ocean! Right +from the far-away edge of the sky it came, roaring, +ranting, rumpling, till it broke against the beach +all white and frilly like the Grandmother-Lady's +best ruching. It was morning when you saw the +ocean first, and its pleasant waters gleamed like +a gorgeous, bright-blue looking-glass covered with +paper ships all filled with Other Boys' fathers. It +was not till the first night came down—black and +mournful and moany—it was not till the first +night came down that you saw that the ocean was +Much Too Large. There in your chill linen bed, +with the fear of Sea and Night and Strangers upon +you, you discovered a very strange droll thing—that +your Father was a Person and might therefore +leave you, but that your Mother was a <i>feeling</i> +and would never, never, never forsake you. Bruno-Clarice, +slapping his fat, black tail against your +bedroom floor, was something of a <i>feeling</i> too.</p> + +<p>Most fortunately for your well-being, the Grandmother-Lady's +house was not too isolated from its +neighbors. To be sure, a tall, stiff hedge separated +the green garden from the lavender-and-pink +garden next door, but a great scraggly hole in the +hedge gave a beautiful prickly zest to friendly communication.</p> + +<p>More than this, two children lived on the other<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span> +side of the hedge. You had never had any playmates +before in all your life!</p> + +<p>One of the children was just Another Boy—a +duplicate of you. But the other one was—<i>the +only original girl</i>. Next to the big ocean, she was +the surprise of your life. She wore skirts instead +of clothes. She wore curls instead of hair. She +wore stockings instead of legs. She cried when +you laughed. She laughed when you cried. She +was funny from the very first second, even when +the Boy asked you if your big dog would bite. +The Boy stood off and kept right on asking: +"Will he bite? Will he bite? <i>W-i-l-l</i> he <i>bite?</i>" +But the Girl took a great rough stick and pried +open Bruno-Clarice's tusky mouth <i>to see if he +would</i>, and when he <i>g-r-o-w-l-e-d</i>, she just kissed +him smack on his black nose and called him "A +Precious," and said, "Why, of course he'll bite."</p> + +<p>The Boy was ten years old—a year older, and +much fatter than you. His name was Sam. The +Girl was only eight years old, and you could not +tell at first whether she was thin or fat, she was +so ruffledy. She had a horrid dressy name, +"Sophia." But everybody called her Ladykin.</p> + +<p>Oh, it is fun to make a boat that will flop sideways +through the waves. It is fun to make a windmill +that will whirl and whirl in the grass. It is<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span> +fun to make an education. It is fun to make a +fortune. But most of anything in the world it is +fun to make a <i>friend!</i></p> + +<p>You had never made a <i>friend</i> before. First of +all you asked, "How old are you?" "Can you +do fractions?" "Can you name the capes on the +west coast of Africa?" "What is your favorite +color? Green? Blue? Pink? Red? Or yellow?" +Sam voted for green. Ladykin chose +green <i>and</i> blue <i>and</i> pink <i>and</i> red <i>and</i> yellow, <i>also</i> +purple. Then you asked, "Which are you most +afraid of, the Judgment Day or a Submarine +Boat?" Sam chose the Submarine Boat right off, +so you had to take the Judgment Day, which was +not a very pleasant fear to have for a pet. Ladykin +declared that she wasn't afraid of anything in +the world except of Being Homely. Wasn't that +a silly fear? Then you got a little more intimate +and asked, "What is your Father's business?" +Sam and Ladykin's Father kept a huge candy store. +It was mortifying to have to confess that your Father +was only an Artist, but you laid great stress on +his large eyes and his long fingers.</p> + +<p>Then you three went off to the sandy beach and +climbed up on a great huddly gray rock to watch +the huge yellow sun go down all shiny and important, +like a twenty-dollar gold piece in a wad +of pink cotton batting. The tide was going out,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span> +too, the mean old "injun-giver," taking back all +the pretty, chuckling pebbles, the shining ropes of +seaweed, the dear salt secrets it had brought so +teasingly to your feet a few hours earlier. You +were very lonesome. But not till the gold and pink +was almost gone from the sky did you screw your +courage up to its supreme point. First you threw +four stones very far out into the surf, then—</p> + +<p>"What—is—your—Mother—like?" you +whispered.</p> + +<p>Ladykin went to her answer with impetuous certainty:</p> + +<p>"Our Mother," she announced, "is fat and short +and wears skin-tight dresses, and is President of +the Woman's Club, and is sometimes cross."</p> + +<p>A great glory came upon you and you clutched +for wonder at the choking neck of your little blouse.</p> + +<p>"M-y Mother," you said, "m-y Mother is like +the Flash of a White Wing across a Stormy +Sea!"</p> + +<p>You started to say more, but with a wild war-whoop +of amusement, Sam lost his balance and fell +sprawling into the sand. "Oh, what a funny +Mother!" he shouted, but Ladykin jumped down +on him furiously and began to kick him with her +scarlet sandals. "Hush! hush!" she cried, "Jack's +Mother is dead!" and then in an instant she had +clambered back to your side again and snuggled<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span> +her little soft girl-cheek close against yours, while +with one tremulous hand she pointed way out beyond +the surf line where a solitary, snow-white gull +swooped down into the Blue. "Look!" she gasped, +"L-o-o-k!" and when you turned to her with a +sudden gulping sob, she kissed you warm and sweet +upon your lips.</p> + +<p>It was not a Father kiss with two tight arms and +a scrunching pain. It was not a Grandmother-Lady +kiss complimenting your clean face. It was +not a Bruno-Clarice kiss, mute and wistful and +lappy. There was no pain in it. There was no +compliment. There was no doggish fealty. There +was just <i>sweetness</i>.</p> + +<p>Then you looked straight at Ladykin, and Ladykin +looked straight at you, looked and <i>looked</i> and +LOOKED, and you both gasped right out loud +before the first miracle of your life, the Miracle of +the Mating of Thoughts. Without a word of suggestion, +without a word of explanation, you and +Ladykin clasped hands and tiptoed stealthily off to +the very edge of the water, and knelt down slushily +in the sand, and stooped way over, oh, way, way +over, with the cold waves squirting up your cuffs; +and kissed two perfectly round floaty kisses out to +the White Sea-Gull, and after a minute the White +Gull rose in the sky, swirled round and round and +round, stopped for a second, and then with a wild<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span> +cry swooped down again into the blue—Once! +Twice! and then with a great fountainy splash of +wings rose high in the air like a white silk kite and +went scudding off like mad into the Grayness, then +into the Blackness, then into the Nothingness of the +night. And you stayed behind on that pleasant, +safe, sandy edge of things with all the sweetness +gone from your lips, and nothing left you in all +the world but the thudding of your heart, and a +queer, sad, salty pucker on your tongue that gave +you a thirst not so much for water as for <i>life</i>.</p> + +<p>Oh, you learned a great deal about living in those +first few days and weeks and months at the Grandmother-Lady's +house.</p> + +<p>You learned, for instance, that if you wanted to +<i>do</i> things, Boys were best; but if you wanted to +<i>think</i> things, then Girls were infinitely superior. +You, yourself, were part Thinker and part Doer.</p> + +<p>Sam was a <i>doer</i> from start to finish, strong of +limb, long of wind, sturdy of purpose. But Sam +was certainly prosy in his head. Ladykin, on the +contrary, had "gray matter" that jumped like a +squirrel in its cage, and fled hither and yon, and +turned somersaults, and leaped through hoops, and +was altogether alert beyond description. But she +could not <i>do</i> things. She could not stay in the nice +ocean five minutes without turning blue. She +could not climb a tree without falling and bumping<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span> +her nose. She could not fight without getting mad. +Out of these proven facts you evolved a beautiful +theory that if Thinky-Girls could only be taught to +<i>do</i> things, they would make the most perfect playmates +in all the wide, wide world. Yet somehow +you never made a theory to improve Sam, though +Sam's inability to think invariably filled you with +a very cross, unholy contempt for him, while Ladykin's +inability to <i>do</i> only served to thrill you with the +most delicious, sweet, puffy pride in <i>yourself</i>.</p> + +<p>Sam was very evidently a Person. Ladykin was +a Feeling. You began almost at once to distinguish +between Persons and Feelings. Anything +that straightened out your head was a Person. +Anything that puckered up your heart was a Feeling. +Your Father, you had found out, was a Person. +The Grandmother-Lady was a Person. Sam +was a Person. Sunshine was a Person. A Horse +was a Person. A Chrysanthemum was a Person. +But your Mother was a Feeling. And Ladykin was +a Feeling. And Bruno-Clarice was a Feeling. +And the Ocean Blue was a Feeling. And a Church +Organ was a Feeling. And the Smell of a June +Rose was a Feeling. Perhaps your Happy-Day +was the biggest Feeling of All.</p> + +<p>Thursday, to be sure, came only once a week, but—<i>such +a Thursday!</i> Even now, if you shut your +eyes tight and gasp a quick breath, you can sense<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span> +once more the sweet, crisp joy of fresh, starched +clothes, and the pleasant, shiny jingle of new pennies +in your small white cotton pockets. White? +Yes; your Father had said that always on that +day you should go like a little white Flag of Truce +on an embassy to Fate. And Happiness? Could +anything in the world make more for happiness +than to be perfectly clean in the morning and perfectly +dirty at night, with something rather frisky +to eat for dinner, and Sam and Ladykin invariably +invited to supper? Your Happy-Day was your +Sacristy, too. Nobody ever punished you on +Thursday. Nobody was ever cross to you on +Thursday. Even if you were very black-bad the +last thing Wednesday night, you were perfectly, +blissfully, lusciously safe until Friday morning.</p> + +<p>Oh, a Happy-Day was a very simple thing to +manage compared with the terrible difficulties of +being kind to everybody named "Clarice." There +was <i>nobody</i> named Clarice! In all the town, in +all the directory, in all the telephone books, you +and Ladykin could not find a single person named +Clarice. Once in a New York newspaper you read +about a young Clarice-Lady of such and such a +street who fell and broke her hip; and you took +twenty shiny pennies of your money and bought a +beautiful, hand-painted celluloid brush-holder and +sent it to her; but you never, never heard that it did<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span> +her any good. You did not want your Father to be +mad at you, but Ladykin reasoned you out of your +possible worry by showing you how if you ever saw +your Father again you could at least plant your +feet firmly, fold your arms, puff out your chest, and +affirm distinctly: "Dear Father, I have <i>never</i> +been cruel to <i>any one</i> named 'Clarice.'" Ladykin +knew perfectly well how to manage it. Ladykin +knew perfectly well how to manage everything.</p> + +<p>Sam was the stupid one. Sam took a certain +pleasure in Bruno-Clarice, but he never realized +that Bruno-Clarice was a sacred dog. Sam thought +that it was very fine for you to have a Happy-Day, +with Clean Clothes, and Ice-Cream, and Pennies, +but he never almost <i>burst</i> with the wonder of the +day.</p> + +<p>Sam thought that it was pleasant enough for you +to have a dead Mother who was like "the flash of +a white wing across a stormy sea," but he did +not see any possible connection between that +fact and stoning all the white sea-gulls in sight. +Ladykin, on the contrary, told Sam distinctly that +she'd knock his head off if he ever hit a gull, but +fortunately—or unfortunately—Ladykin's aim +was not so sure as Sam's. It was you who had to +stay behind on the beach and pommel more than +half the life out of Sam while Ladykin, pink as a +posy in her best muslin, scared to death of wet and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span> +cold, plunged out to her little neck in the chopping +waves to rescue a quivering fluff of feathers that +struggled broken-winged against the cruel, drowning +water. "Gulls are gulls!" persisted Sam with +every blubbering breath. "Gulls are <i>Mothers!</i>" +gasped Ladykin, staggering from the surf all +drenched and dripping like a bursted water-pail. +"Well, boy-gulls are gulls!" Sam screamed in a +perfect explosion of outraged <i>truth</i>. But Ladykin +defied him to the last. Through chattering teeth +her vehement reassertion sounded like some horrid, +wicked blasphemy: "Nnnnnnnnnnnn-oo! Bbb-o-y +ggggg-ggulls are MMMMMM-Mothers too!" +Then with that pulsing drench of feathers cuddled +close to her breast, she struggled off alone to the +house to have the Croup, while you and Sam went +cheerily up the beach to find some shiners and some +seaweed for your new gull hospital. Not till you +were quite an old boy did you ever find out what +became of that gull. Sacred Bruno-Clarice ate +him. Ladykin, it seems, knew always what had +happened to him, but she never dreamed of telling +you till you were old enough to bear it. To Ladykin, +Truth out of season was sourer than strawberries +at Christmas time.</p> + +<p>Sam would have told you <i>anything</i> the very first +second that he found it out. Sam was perfectly +great for Truth. He could tell more Great Black<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span> +Truths in one day than there were thunder-clouds +in the whole hot summer sky. This quality made +Sam just a little bit dangerous in a crowd. He was +always and forever shooting people with Truths +that he didn't know were loaded. He was always +telling the Grandmother-Lady, for instance, that her +hair looked <i>exactly</i> like a wig. He was always telling +Ladykin that she smelled of raspberry jam. +He was always telling you that he didn't believe +your Father really loved you. Oh, everything that +Sam said was as straight and lank and honest as a +lady's hair when it's out of crimp. Nothing in the +world could be straighter than that.</p> + +<p>But sometimes, when you had played sturdily +with Sam for a good many hours, you used to coax +Ladykin off all alone to the puffy, scorchy-looking +smoke tree, where you could cuddle up on the rustic +seat and rest your Honesty. And when you were +thoroughly rested, you used to stretch your little +arms behind your yawning face and beg:</p> + +<p>"Oh, Ladykin, wouldn't you, couldn't you +<i>please</i> say something curly?"</p> + +<p>Ladykin's mind seemed to curl perfectly naturally. +The crimp of it never came out. Almost +any time you could take her words that looked so +little and tight, and unwind them and unwind them +into yards and yards and yards of pleasant, magic +meanings.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span></p> + +<p>There were no magic meanings in Sam's words. +Sam, for instance, could throw as many as a hundred +stones into the water, yet when he got through +he just lay down in the sand and groaned, "Oh, +how tired I am! Oh, how tired I am!" But Ladykin, +after she'd thrown only two stones—one that +hit the beach, and one that hit you—would stand +right up and declare that her arm was "<i>be</i>-witched." +Tired? No, not a bit of it, but "<i>be</i>-witched!" +Hadn't she seen, hadn't you seen, hadn't everybody +seen that <i>perfectly awful</i> sea-witch's head that +popped out of the wave just after she had thrown +her first stone? Oh, indeed, and it wasn't the first +time either that she had been so frightened! Once +when she was sitting on the sand counting sea-shells, +hadn't the Witch swooped right out of the water +and grabbed her legs? So, now if you wanted to +break the cruel spell, save Ladykin's life, marry +Ladykin, and live in a solid turquoise palace—where +all the walls were papered with foreign postage-stamps, +and no duplicates—you, not Sam, but +<i>you</i>, <i>you</i>, chosen of all the world, must go down to +the little harbor between the two highest, reariest +rocks and stick a spiked stick through every wave +that came in. There was no other way! Now +you, yourself, might possibly have invented the +witch, but you never, never would have thought of +harpooning the waves and falling in and drowning<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span> +your best suit, while Ladykin rested her +arms.</p> + +<p>Yet in the enforced punishment of an early bedtime +you were not bereaved, but lay in rapturous +delight untangling the minutest detail of Ladykin's +words, till turquoise cities blazed like a turquoise +flashlight across your startled senses, wonderful little +princes and princesses kowtowed perpetually to +royal Mother Ladykin and royal Father Yourself, +and life-sized postage-stamps loomed so lusciously +large that envelopes had to be pasted to the corners +of stamps instead of stamps to the corners of envelopes. +And before you had half straightened out +the whole thought, you were fast asleep, and then +fast awake, and it was suddenly morning! Oh, it +is very comforting to have a playmate who can say +curly things.</p> + +<p>Sometimes, too, when Sam's and Ladykin's +Mother had been rude to them about brushing +their teeth or tracking perfectly good mud into +the parlor, and Sam had gone off to ease his +sorrow, scating hens or stoning cats, you and +Ladykin would steal down to the gray rock on the +beach to watch the white, soft, pleasant sea-gulls. +There were times, you think, when Ladykin +wished that <i>her</i> Mother was a sea-gull. Then you +used to wonder and wonder about your own<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span> +Mother, and tell Ladykin all over again about +the creaky, black-oak library, and the smoky, +smelly hearth-fire with the hurt red book, and +the blue-flowered muslin sleeve beckoning and +beckoning to you; and Ladykin used to explain +to you how, very evidently, you were +the only souvenir that your Father did not burn. +With that thought in mind, you used to try and +guess what could possibly have happened long ago +on a Thursday to make a Happy-Day forever and +ever. Ladykin said that of course it was something +about "Love," but when you ran off to ask the +Grandmother-Lady just exactly what Love was, +the Grandmother-Lady only laughed and said +that Love was a fever that came along a few +years after chicken-pox and measles and scarlet +fever. Ladykin was saucy about it. "That may +be <i>true</i>," Ladykin acknowledged, "but <i>t'aint so!</i>" +Then you went and found Sam and asked him if +he knew what Love was. Sam knew at once. +Sam said that Love was the feeling that one +had for mathematics. Now that was all <i>bosh</i>, for +the feeling that you and Ladykin had for Mathematics +would not have made a Happy-Day for a +cow.</p> + +<p>But even if there were a great many things that +you could not find out, it was a good deal of fun<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span> +to grow up. Apart from a few stomach-aches and +two or three gnawing pains in the calves of your +legs, aging was a most alluring process.</p> + +<p>Springs, summers, autumns, winters, went hurtling +over one another, till all of a sudden, without +the slightest effort on your part, you were fifteen +years old, Bruno-Clarice had grown to be a sober, +industrious, middle-aged dog, Sam was idolatrously +addicted to geometry, and Ladykin subscribed to a +fashion magazine for the benefit of her paper dolls.</p> + +<p>Most astonishing of all, however, your Father +had invited you to go to Germany and visit him. +It was a glorious invitation. You were all athrill +with the geography and love of it. Already your +nostrils crinkled to the lure of tar and oakum. Already +your vision feasted on the parrot-colored +crowds of Come-igrants and Go-igrants that huddled +along the wharves with their eager, jabbering +faces and their soggy, wadded feet.</p> + +<p>Oh, the prospect of the journey was a most beautiful +experience, but when the actual Eve of Departure +came, the scissors of separation gleamed +rather hard and sharp in the air, and you hunched +your neck a little bit wincingly before the final +crunching snip. That last evening was a dreadful +evening. The Cook sat sobbing in the kitchen. +The Grandmother-Lady's eyes were red with sewing. +The air was all heavy with <i>goingawayness</i>.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span> +To escape the strangle of it, you fled to the beach +with Bruno-Clarice tagging in mournful excitement +at your heels, his smutty nose all a-sniff with +the foreboding leathery smell of trunks and bags. +There on the beach in a scoopy hollow of sand +backed up against the old gray rock were Sam and +Ladykin. Sam's round, fat face was fretted like +a pug-dog's, and Ladykin's eyes were blinky-wet +with tears.</p> + +<p>It was not a pleasant time to say good-by. It +had been a beautiful, smooth-skied day, crisp and +fresh and bright-colored as a "Sunday supplement"; +but now the clouds piled gray and crumpled +in the west like a poor stale, thrown-away +newspaper, with just a sputtering blaze in one corner +like the kindling of a half-hearted match.</p> + +<p>"<i>Please</i> be kind to Bruno-Clarice," you began; +"I shall miss you very much—very, very much. +But I will come back—"</p> + +<p>"N—o, I do not think you will come back," +said Ladykin. "You will go to Germany to live +with your Father and your Play-Mother, and you +will gargle all your words like a throat tonic till +you don't know how to be friends in English any +more; and even if you did come back Bruno-Clarice +would bark at you, and I shall be married, and Sam +will have a long, black beard."</p> + +<p>Now you could have borne Ladykin's marriage;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span> +you could even have borne Bruno-Clarice's barking +at you; but you could not, simply could not bear the +thought of Sam's growing a long black beard without +you. Even Ladykin with all her wonderfulness +sat utterly helpless before the terrible, unexpected +climax of her words. It was Sam who +leaped into the breach. The clutch of his hand +was like the grit of sand-paper. "Jack," he stammered, +"Jack, I promise you—anyhow I won't +<i>cut</i> my beard until you come!"</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>It was certainly only the thought of Sam's faithful +beard that sustained you on your rough, blue +voyage to Germany. It was certainly only the +thought of Sam's faithful beard that rallied your +smitten forces when you met your Father face to +face and saw him reel back white as chalk against +the silky shoulder of your Play-Mother, and hide +his eyes behind the crook of his elbow.</p> + +<p>It is not pleasant to make people turn white as +chalk, even in Germany. Worse yet, every day +your Father grew whiter and whiter and whiter, +and every day your pretty Play-Mother wrinkled +her forehead more and more in a strange, hurty +sort of trouble. Never once did you dare think of +Ladykin. Never once did you dare think of Bruno-Clarice. +You just named all your upper teeth +"Sam," and all your lower teeth "Sam," and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span> +ground them into each other all day long—"Sam! +Sam! Sam!" over and over and over. There were +also no Happy-Days in Germany, and nobody ever +spoke of Clarice.</p> + +<p>You were pretty glad at last after a month when +your Father came to you with his most beautiful +face and his most loving hands, and said:</p> + +<p>"Little Boy Jack, there is no use in it. You +have got to go away again. You are a wound that +will not heal. It is your Dear Mother's eyes. It +is your Dear Mother's mouth. It is your Dear +Mother's smile. God forgive me, but I cannot bear +it! I am going to send you away to school in England."</p> + +<p>You put your finger cautiously up to your eyes +and traced their round, firm contour. Your +Mother's eyes? They felt like two heaping teaspoonfuls +of tears. Your Mother's mouth? Desperately +you poked it into a smile. "Going to +send me away to school in England?" you stammered. +"Never mind. Sam will not cut his beard +until I come."</p> + +<p>"<i>What?</i>" cried your Father in a great voice. +"<i>W-h-a-t?</i>"</p> + +<p>But you pretended that you had not said anything, +because it was boy-talk and your Father +would not have understood it.</p> + +<p>Never, never, never had you seen your Father<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span> +so suffering; yet when he took you in his arms and +raised your face to his and quizzed you: "Little +Boy Jack, do you love me? Do you love me?" +you scanned him out of your Mother's made-over +eyes and answered him out of your Mother's made-over +mouth:</p> + +<p>"N—o! N—o! I <i>don't</i> love you!"</p> + +<p>And he jumped back as though you had knifed +him, and then laughed out loud as though he were +glad of the pain.</p> + +<p>"But I ask you this," he persisted, and the shine +in his eyes was like a sunset glow in the deep woods, +and the touch of his hands would have lured you +into the very heart of the flame. "It is not probable," +he said, "that your Dear Mother's child and +mine will go through Life without knowing Love. +When your Love-Time comes, if you understand +all Love's tragedies <i>then</i>, and forgive me, will you +send me a message?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes," you cried out suddenly. "Oh, yes! +Oh, yes! Oh, yes!" and clung to him frantically +with your own boyish hands, and kissed him with +your Mother's mouth. But you did not love him. +It was your Mother's mouth that loved him.</p> + +<p>So you went away to school in England and grew +up and up and up some more; but somehow this +latter growing up was a dull process without savor, +and the years went by as briefly and inconsequently<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span> +as a few dismissing sentences in a paragraph. +There were plenty of people to work with and play +with, but almost no one to think with, and your +hard-wrought book knowledge faded to nothingness +compared to the three paramount convictions +of your youthful experience, namely, that neither +coffee nor ocean nor Life tasted as good as it +smelled.</p> + +<p>And then when you were almost twenty-one you +met "Clarice"!</p> + +<p>It was a Christmas supper party in a café. +Some one looked up suddenly and called the name +"Clarice! Clarice!" and when your startled eyes +shot to the mark and saw her there in her easy, +dashing, gorgeous beauty, something in your brain +curdled, and all the lonesomeness, all the mystery, +all the elusiveness of Life pounded suddenly in +your heart like a captured Will-o'-the-Wisp. +"Clarice?" Here, then, was the end of your journey? +The eternal kindness? The flash of a white +wing across <i>your</i> stormy sea? "Clarice!" And +you looked across unbidden into her eyes and smiled +at her a gaspy, astonished smile that brought the +strangest light into her face.</p> + +<p>Oh, but Clarice was very beautiful! Never had +you seen such a type. Her hair was black and solemn +as crape. Her eyes were bright and noisy as +jet. Her heart was barren as a blot of ink. And<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span> +she took your dreamy, paper-white boy life and +scourged it like a tongue of flame across a field of +Easter lilies!</p> + +<p>And when the wonder of the flame was gone, +you sat aghast in your room among the charred, +scorched fragments of your Youth. The thirst for +death was very strong upon you, and the little, long, +narrow cup of your revolver gleamed very brimming +full of death's elixir. Even the June-time +could not save you. Your Mother's name was an +agony on your lips. The frenzied reiteration of +your thoughts scraped on your brain like a sledge +on gravel. You would drink very deep, you +thought, of your little slim cup of death. Yet the +thing that was tortured within you was scarcely +Love, and you had no message of understanding +for your Father. Just with wrecked life, wrecked +faith, wrecked courage, you huddled at your desk, +catching your breath for a second before you should +reach out your fretted fingers for the little cool +cunning, toy hand of Death.</p> + +<p>"Once again," you said to yourself, "once again +I will listen to the children's voices in the garden. +Once again I will lure the smell of June roses into +my heart." The children prattled and passed. +Your hand reached out and fumbled. Once more +you shut your scalding eyes, hunched up your shoulders, +and breathed in like an ultimate tide the ravishing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span> +sweetness of the June—one breath, another, +another—longer—longer. Oh, God in Heaven, +if one could only die of such an anesthetic—smothered +with sweetbrier, spiced with saffron, +buried in bride roses. <i>Die?</i> Your wild hand +leaped to the task and faltered stricken before the +strange, grim fact that blazed across your consciousness. +It was Thursday. It was your "Happy-Day!" +Your Father's words came pounding back +like blows into your sore brain! Your "Happy-Day!" +"No cruelty must ever defame it, no malice, +no gross bitterness!" Somewhere in air or +sky or sea there was a Mother-Woman who must +not be <i>hurt</i>. Your "Happy-Day?" HAPPY-DAY? +Rage and sorrow broke like a fearful +storm across your senses, and you put down your +head and cried like a child.</p> + +<p>Tears? Again you felt on your lips that queer, +sad, salty pucker, that taste of the sea that gave +you a thirst not so much for water as for Life. +<i>Life?</i> <i>Life?</i> The thought thrilled through you +like new nerves. Your ashy pulses burst into +flame. Your dull heart jumped. Your vision +woke. Your memory quickened. You saw the +ocean, blue, blue, blue before you. You saw a +small, rude boy lie sprawling in the sand. You +saw a little girl's face, wild with wonder, tremulous +with sweetness. You felt again the flutter of a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span> +kiss against your cheek. The little girl who—understood. +Your salt lips puckered into a smile, +and the smile ran back like a fuse into the inherent +happiness of your heart. Sam? Ladykin? +Home? You began to laugh! Haggard, harried, +wrecked, ruined, you began to laugh! Then, faltering +like a hysterical girl, you staggered down +the stairs, out of the house, along the streets to the +cable office, and sent a message to Sam.</p> + +<p>"How long is your beard?" the message said. +"How long is your beard?" Just that silly, +magic message across miles and miles and miles of +waves and seaweeds. How the great cable must +have simpered with the foolishness of it. How the +pink coral must have chuckled. How the big, tin-foiled +fishes must have wondered.</p> + +<p>You did not wait for an answer. What answer +was there? You could picture Sam standing in +stupefied awkwardness before the amazing nothingness +of such a message. But Ladykin would remember. +Oh, yes, Ladykin would remember. You +could see her peering past Sam's shoulder and +snatching out suddenly for the fluttering paper. +Ladykin would remember. What were six years?</p> + +<p>Joy sang in your heart like a purr of a sea-shell. +The blue blur of ocean, the dear green smell of +mignonette, the rush of wind through the poplar +trees were tonic memories to you. You did not<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span> +wait to pack your things. You did not wait to +notify your Father. You sped like a wild boy to +the first wharf, to the first steamer that you could +find.</p> + +<p>The week's ocean voyage went by like a year. +The silly waves dragged on the steamer like a tired +child on the skirts of its mother. Haste raged in +your veins like a fever. You wanted to throw all +the fat, heavy passengers overboard. You wanted +to swim ahead with a towing rope in your +teeth. You wanted to kill the Captain when he +stuttered. You wanted to flay the cook for serving +an extra course for dinner. Yet all the while the +huge machinery throbbed in rhythm, "Time <i>will</i> +pass. It <i>always does</i>. It <i>always does</i>. It <i>always +does</i>."</p> + +<p>And then at last you stood again on your Native +Land, <i>alive, well, vital, at home!</i></p> + +<p>With the sensation of an unbroken miracle, you +found your way again to the little Massachusetts +sea town, along the peaceful village walk to the big +brown house that turned so bleakly to the street. +There on the steps, wonder of wonders, you found +two elderly people, Bruno-Clarice and the Grandmother-Lady, +and your knees gave out very suddenly +and you sank down beside Bruno-Clarice and +smothered the bark right out of him.</p> + +<p>"Good lack!" cried the Grandmother-Lady,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span> +"Good <i>lack!</i>" and made so much noise that Sam +himself came running like mad from the next +house; and though he had no beard, you liked him +very much and shook and shook his hand until he +squealed.</p> + +<p>With the Grandmother-Lady plying you with +questions, and Sam feeling your muscle, and Bruno-Clarice +trying to crawl into your lap like a pug-dog +baby, it was almost half an hour before you had a +chance to ask,</p> + +<p>"Where is Ladykin?"</p> + +<p>"She's down on the beach," said Sam. "I'll +go and help you find her."</p> + +<p>You looked at Sam speculatively. "I'll give +you ten dollars if you won't," you said.</p> + +<p>Sam considered the matter gravely before he +began to grin. "I wouldn't think of charging you +more than five," he acquiesced.</p> + +<p>So you went off with Bruno-Clarice hobbling +close at your heels to find Ladykin for yourself. +When you saw her she was perched up on the very +top of the huddly gray rock playing tinkle tunes on +her mandolin, and you stole up so quietly behind +her that she did not see you till you were close beside +her.</p> + +<p>Then she turned very suddenly and looked down +upon you and pretended that she did not know +you, with her color coming and going all luminous<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span> +and intermittent like a pink and white flashlight. +In six years you had not seen such a wonderful +playmatey face.</p> + +<p>"Who are you?" she asked. "Who are you?"</p> + +<p>"I am 'Little Boy Jack' come back to marry +you," you began, but something in the wistful, shy +girl-tenderness of her face and eyes choked your +bantering words right off in your throat.</p> + +<p>"Yes, Ladykin," you said, "I have come home, +and I am very tired, and I am very sad, and I am +very lonesome, and I have not been a very good +boy. But please be good to me! I am so lonesome +I cannot wait to make love to you. Oh, +<i>please</i>, <i>please</i> love me <i>n-o-w</i>. I <i>need</i> you to love +me N-O-W!"</p> + +<p>Ladykin frowned. It was not a cross frown. +It was just a sort of a cosy corner for her thoughts. +Surprise cuddled there, and a sorry feeling, and a +great tenderness.</p> + +<p>"You have not been a very good boy?" she repeated +after you.</p> + +<p>The memory of a year crowded blackly upon +you. "No," you said, "I have not been a very +good boy, and I am very suffering-sad. But <i>please</i> +love me, and forgive me. No one has ever loved +me!"</p> + +<p>The surprise and the sorry feeling in Ladykin's +forehead crowded together to make room for something<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span> +that was just <i>womanliness</i>. She began to +smile. It was the smile of a hurt person when the +opiate first begins to overtake the pain.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I'm sure it was an accidental badness," +she volunteered softly. "If I were accidentally +bad, you would forgive <i>me</i>, wouldn't you?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes, yes, yes," you stammered, and reached +up your lonesome hands to her.</p> + +<p>"Then you don't have to make love," she whispered. +"It's all made," and slipped down into +your arms.</p> + +<p>But something troubled her, and after a minute +she pushed you away and tried to renounce you.</p> + +<p>"But it is not Thursday," she sobbed; "it is +Wednesday; and my name is not 'Clarice'; it is +Ladykin."</p> + +<p>Then all the boyishness died out of you—the +sweet, idle reveries, the mystic responsibilities. +You shook your Father's dream from your eyes, +and squared your shoulders for your own realities.</p> + +<p>"A Man must make his own Happy-Day," +you cried, "and a Man must choose his own +Mate!"</p> + +<p>Before your vehemence Ladykin winced back +against the rock and eyed you fearsomely.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I will love you and cherish you," you +pleaded.</p> + +<p>But Ladykin shook her head. "That is not<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span> +enough," she whispered. There was a kind of holy +scorn in her eyes.</p> + +<p>Then a White Gull flashed like an apparition before +your sight. Ladykin's whole figure drooped, +her cheek paled, her little mouth quivered, her +vision narrowed. There with her eyes on the White +Gull and your eyes fixed on hers, you saw her shy +thoughts journey into the Future. You saw her +eyes smile, sadden, brim with tears, smile again, +and come homing back to you with a timid, glad +surprise as she realized that your thoughts too had +gone all the long journey with her.</p> + +<p>She reached out one little hand to you. It was +very cold.</p> + +<p>"If I should pass like the flash of a white wing," +she questioned, "would you be true to me—and +<i>mine?</i>"</p> + +<p>The Past, the Present, the Future rushed over +you in tumult. Your lips could hardly crowd so +big a vow into so small a word. "Oh, YES, YES, +YES!" you cried.</p> + +<p>In reverent mastery you raised her face to yours. +"A Man must make his own Happy-Day," you repeated. +"A Man must make his own Happy-Day!"</p> + +<p>Timorously, yet assentingly, she came back to +your arms. The whisper of her lips against your +ear was like the flutter of a rose petal.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span></p> + +<p>"It will be Wednesday, then," she said, "for us +and—ours."</p> + +<p>Clanging a strident bell across the magic stillness +of the garden, Sam bore down upon you like a +steam-engine out of tune.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I say," he shouted, "for heaven's sake cut +it out and come to supper."</p> + +<p>The startled impulse of your refusal faded before +the mute appeal in Ladykin's eyes.</p> + +<p>"All right," you answered; "but first I must go +and cable 'love' to my Father."</p> + +<p>"Oh, hurry!" cried Ladykin. Her word was +crumpled and shy as a kiss.</p> + +<p>"Oh, hurry!" cried Sam. His thought was +straight and frank as a knife and fork.</p> + +<p>Joy sang in your heart like a prayer that rhymed. +Your eager heart was pounding like a race horse. +The clouds in the sky were scudding to sunset. +The surf on the beach seemed all out of breath. +The green meadow path to the village stretched like +the paltriest trifle before a man's fleet running +pace.</p> + +<p>"But I can't hurry," you said, for Bruno-Clarice +came poking his grizzled old nose into your hand. +"Oh, wait for me," he seemed to plead. "Oh, +please, <i>please</i> wait for me."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE RUNAWAY ROAD</h2> + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 162px;"> +<img src="images/drop_t.png" width="162" height="164" alt="T" title="" /> +</div><div class='unindent'><br />HE Road ran spitefully up a steep, +hot, rocky, utterly shadeless hill, +and then at the top turned suddenly +in a flirty little green loop, +and looked back, and called "Follow +me!"</div> + +<p>Wouldn't you have considered that a dare?</p> + +<p>The Girl and the White Pony certainly took it +as such, and proceeded at once to "follow," though +the White Pony stumbled clatteringly on the rolling +stones, and the Girl had to cling for dear life to the +rocking pommels of her saddle.</p> + +<p>It was a cruel climb, puff—pant—scramble—dust—glare—every +step of the way, but when +the two adventurers really reached the summit at +last, a great dark chestnut-tree loomed up for shade, +every sweet-smelling breeze in the world was there +to welcome them, and the whole green valley below +stretched out before them in the shining, woodsy +wonder of high noon and high June.</p> + +<p>You know, yourself, just how the world looks +and feels and smells at high noon of a high June!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span></p> + +<p>Even a pony stands majestically on the summit of +a high hill—neck arched, eyes rolling, mane blowing, +nostrils quivering. Even a girl feels a tug of +power at her heart.</p> + +<p>And still the Road cried "Follow me!" though +it never turned its head again in doubt or coquetry. +It was a kind-looking Road now, all gracious and +sweet and tender, with rustly green overhead, and +soft green underfoot, and the pleasant, buzzing +drone of bees along its clovered edges.</p> + +<p>"We might just as well follow it and see," argued +the Girl, and the White Pony took the suggestion +with a wild leap and cantered eagerly along +the desired way.</p> + +<p>It was such an extraordinarily lonesome Road +that you could scarcely blame it for picking up +companionship as best it might. There was stretch +after stretch of pasture, and stretch after stretch +of woodland, and stretch after stretch of black-stumped +clearing—with never a house to cheer it, +or a human echo to break its ghostly stillness. Yet +with all its isolation and remoteness the landscape +had that certain vibrant, vivid air of self-consciousness +that thrills you with an uncanny sense of an +invisible presence—somewhere. It's just a trick +of June!</p> + +<p>Tramps, pirates, even cannibals, seemed deliciously<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span> +imminent. The Girl remembered reading +once of a lonely woman bicyclist who met a runaway +circus elephant at the turn of a country road. +Twelve miles from home is a long way off to have +anything happen.</p> + +<p>Her heart began to quicken with the joyous sort +of fear that is one of the prime sweets of youth. +It's only when fear reaches your head that it hurts. +The loneliness, the mystery, the uncertainty, were +tonic to her. The color spotted in her cheeks. Her +eyes narrowed defensively to every startling detail +of woods or turf. Her ears rang with the sudden, +new acuteness of her hearing. She felt as though +she and the White Pony were stalking right across +the heartstrings of the earth. Once the White +Pony caught his foot and sent a scared sob into her +throat.</p> + +<p>Oh, everything was magic! A little brown rabbit +reared up in the Road as big as a kangaroo, and +beckoned her with his ears. A red-winged blackbird +bulky as an eagle trumpeted a swamp-secret +to her as he passed. A tiny chipmunk in the wall +loomed like a lion in his lair, and sent a huge rock +crashing like an avalanche into the field. The +whole green and blue world seemed tingling with +toy noises, made suddenly big.</p> + +<p>The White Pony's mouth was frothing with the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span> +curb. The White Pony's coat was reeking wet with +noon and nervousness, but the Girl sat tense and +smiling and important in her saddle, as though just +once for all time she was the only italicized word in +the Book of Life.</p> + +<p>"It's just the kind of a road that I like to travel +alone," she gasped, a little breathlessly, "but if I +were engaged and my man let me do it, I should +consider him—careless."</p> + +<p>That was exactly the sort of Road it was!</p> + +<p>Yet after three or four miles the White Pony +shook all the skittishness out of his feet, and settled +down to a zigzag, browsing-clover gait, and the +Girl relaxed at last, and sat loosely to ease her own +muscles, and slid the bridle trustingly across the +White Pony's neck.</p> + +<p>Then she began to sing. Never in all her life +had she sung outside the restricting cage of house +or church. A green and blue loneliness on a June +day is really the only place in the world that is big +enough for singing! In dainty ballad, in impassioned +hymn, in opera, in anthem, the Girl's voice, +high and sweet and wild as a boy's, rang out in fluttering +tremolo. Over and over again, as though +half unconscious of the words, but enraptured with +the melody, she dwelt at last on that dream-song of +every ecstatic young soul who tarries for a moment +on the edge of an unfocused exultation:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span></p> + +<div class='poem'> +The King of Love my Shepherd is<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Whose Goodness faileth never,</span><br /> +I nothing lack if I am <i>his</i><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And he is <i>mine f-o-r-e-v-e-r!</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Forever!—--Is <i>mine f-o-r-e-v-e-r!</i></span><br /> +</div> + +<p>Her pulsing, passionate crescendo came echoing +back to her from a gray granite hillside, and sent a +reverent thrill of power across her senses.</p> + +<p>Then—suddenly—into her rhapsody broke the +astonishing, harsh clash and clatter of a hay-rake. +The White Pony lurched, stood stock-still, gave a +hideous snort of terror, grabbed the bit in his teeth, +and bolted like mad on and on and on and on till +a quick curve in the Road dashed him into the +very lap of a tiny old gray farmhouse that completely +blocked the way.</p> + +<p>In another second he would have stumbled across +the threshold and hurled his rider precipitously into +the front hall if she had not at that very second recovered +her "yank-hold" on his churning mouth +and wrenched him back so hard that any animal but +a horse would have sat down.</p> + +<p>Then the girl straightened up very tremblingly +in her saddle and said "O—h!"</p> + +<p>Some one had to say something, for there in the +dooryard close beside her were an Artist, a Bossy, +and a White Bulldog, who all instantaneously, +without the slightest cordiality or greeting, stopped<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span> +whatever they were doing and began to stare at +her.</p> + +<p>Now it's all very well to go dashing like mad +into a person's front yard on a runaway horse. +Anybody could see that you didn't do it on purpose; +but when at last you have stopped dashing, +what are you going to do next, particularly when +the Road doesn't go any farther? Shall you say, +"Isn't this a pleasant summer?" or "What did +you really like best at the theater last winter?" If +you gallop out it looks as though you were frightened. +If you amble out, you might hear some one +laugh behind your back, which is infinitely worse +than being grabbed on the stairs.</p> + +<p>The situation was excessively awkward. And +the Artist evidently was not clever in conversational +emergencies.</p> + +<p>The Girl straightened her gray slouch hat. +Then she ran the cool metal butt of her riding-whip +back and forth under the White Pony's sweltering +mane. Then she swallowed very hard once +or twice and remarked inanely:</p> + +<p>"Did the Road go right into the house?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said the Artist, with a nervous blue dab at +his canvas.</p> + +<p>The Girl's ire rose at his churlishness. "If that +is so," she announced, "if the Road really went<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span> +right into the house, I'll just wait here a minute +till it comes out again."</p> + +<p>But the Artist never smiled an atom to make +things easier, though the Bossy began to tug most +joyously at his chain, and the White Bulldog rolled +over and over with delight.</p> + +<p>The Girl would have given anything now to escape +at full speed down the Road along which she +had come, but escape of that sort had suddenly assumed +the qualities of a panicky, ignominious retreat, +so she parried for time by riding right up +behind the Artist and watching him change a perfectly +blue canvas sky into a regular tornado.</p> + +<p>"Oh, do you think it's going to rain as hard +as that?" she teased. "Perhaps I'd better settle +down here until the storm is over."</p> + +<p>But the Artist never smiled or spoke. He just +painted and sniffed as though he worked by steam, +and when his ears had finally grown so crimson that +apoplexy seemed impending, she took pity on his +miserable embarrassment and backed even the +shadow of her pony out of his sight. Then with a +desperate effort at perfect ease she remarked:</p> + +<p>"Well—I guess I'll ride round to your back +door. Perhaps the Road came out that way and +went on without me."</p> + +<p>But though she and the White Pony hunted in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span> +every direction through white birch and swaying +alders, they found no possible path by which the +Road could have escaped, and were obliged at last +to return with some hauteur, and make as dignified +an exit as possible from the scene.</p> + +<p>The Artist bowed with stiff relief at their departure, +but the White Bulldog preceded them with +friendly romps and yells, and the Bossy pulled up +his iron hitching stake and chain and came clanking +after them with furious bounds and jingles.</p> + +<p>No one but the White Pony would have stood +the racket for a moment, and even the White Pony +began to feel a bit staccato in his feet. The Girl +kept her saddle like a circus rider, but the amusement +on her face was just a trifle studied. It was +a fine procession, clamor and all, with the Bulldog +scouting ahead, the White Pony following skittishly, +and the Bossy see-sawing behind, clanking a +dungeon chain that left a cloud of dust as far as you +could see.</p> + +<p>It must have startled the Youngish Man who +loomed up suddenly at a bend of the Road and +caught the wriggling Bulldog in his arms.</p> + +<p>"Who comes here?" he cried with a regular +war-whoop of a challenge. "Who comes here?"</p> + +<p>"Just a lady and a bossy," said the Girl, as she +reined in the Pony abruptly, and sent the Bossy +caroming off into the bushes.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span></p> + +<p>"But it's my brother's Bossy," protested the +Youngish Man.</p> + +<p>"Oh, no, it isn't," the Girl explained a little +wearily. "It's mine now. It chose between us."</p> + +<p>The Youngish Man eyed her with some amusement.</p> + +<p>"Did you really see my brother at the house?" +he probed.</p> + +<p>The Girl nodded, flushing. It was very hot, and +she was beginning to feel just a wee bit faint and +hungry and irritable.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I saw your brother," she reiterated, "but +I didn't seem to care for him. I rode by mistake +right into the picture he was painting. There's +probably paint all over me. It was very awkward, +and he didn't do a thing to make it easier. I +abominate that kind of person. If a man can't do +anything else he can always ask you if you wouldn't +like a drink of water!" She scowled indignantly. +"It was the Road's fault anyway! I was just exploring, +and the Road cried 'Follow me,' and I followed—a +little faster than I meant to—and the +Road ran right into your house and shut the door. +Oh, <i>slammed</i> the door right in my face!"</p> + +<p>"Would you like a drink of water, <i>now?</i>" suggested +the Youngish Man.</p> + +<p>"No, I thank you," said the Girl, with stubborn +dignity, and then weakened to the alluring offer<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span> +with "But my White Pony is very cruelly +thirsty."</p> + +<p>Both adventurers looked pretty jaded with heat +and dust.</p> + +<p>The Youngish Man led the way into a tiny, pungent +wood-path that ended in a gurgling spring-hole, +where the White Pony nuzzled his nose with deep-breathed, +dripping satisfaction, while the Girl kept +to her saddle and looked down on the Youngish +Man with frank interest.</p> + +<p>He looked very picturesque and brown and clever +in his khaki suit with a game bag slung across his +shoulder.</p> + +<p>"You're not a hunter," she exclaimed impulsively. +"You're not a hunter—because you +haven't any gun."</p> + +<p>"No," said the Man, "I'm a collector."</p> + +<p>The Girl cried out with pleasure and clapped her +hands. "A collector?—oh, goody! So am I! +What do you collect? Minerals? Oh—dear! +<i>Mine</i> is lots more interesting. I collect adventures."</p> + +<p>"Adventures?" The Man made no slightest effort +to conceal his amused curiosity. "Adventures? +Now I call that a jolly thing to collect. Is +it a good country to work in? And what have you +found?"</p> + +<p>The Girl smiled at him appreciatively—a little<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span> +flitting, whimsical sort of smile, and commenced to +rummage in the blouse of her white shirt-waist, +from which she finally produced a small, red-covered +notebook. She fluttered its diminutive pages +for a second, and then began to laugh:</p> + +<p>"You'd better sit down if you really want to +hear what I've found."</p> + +<p>The Man dropped comfortably into place beside +the spring and watched her. She was very watchable. +Some people have to be beautiful to rivet +your attention. Some people <i>don't</i> have to be. +It's all a matter of temperament. Her hair was +very, very brown, though, and her eyes were deep +and wide and hazel, and the red in her cheeks came +and went with every throb of her heart.</p> + +<p>"Of course," she explained apologetically, "of +course I haven't found a lot of things yet—I've +only been working at it a little while. But I've +collected a 'Runaway Accident with the Rural +Free-Delivery Man.' It was awfully scary and interesting. +And I've collected a 'Den of Little +Foxes Down in the Woods Back of My House,' and +'Two Sunrises with a Crazy Woman who Thinks +that the Sun Can't Get Up Until She Does,' and +I've collected a 'Country Camp-Meeting all Hallelujahs +and By Goshes,' and a 'Circus Where I +Spent All Day with the Snake-Charmer,' and a +'Midnight Ride Alone through the Rosedale Woods<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span> +in a Thunder-Storm.' Of course, as I say, I +haven't found a lot of things yet, but then it's only +the middle of June and I have two more weeks' vacation +yet."</p> + +<p>The Man put back his head and laughed, but it +was a pleasant sort of laugh that flooded all the +stern lines in his face.</p> + +<p>"I'm sure I never thought of making a regular +business of collecting adventures," he admitted, +"but it certainly is a splendid idea. But aren't +you ever afraid?" he asked. "Aren't you ever +afraid, for instance, riding round on a lonesome trip +like this?"</p> + +<p>The Girl laughed. "Yes," she acknowledged, +"I'm often afraid of—squirrels—and falling +twigs—and black-looking stumps. I'm often +afraid of toy noises and toy fears—but I never +saw a real fear in all my life. Even when you +jumped up in the Road I wasn't afraid of you—because +you are a gentleman—and—gentlemen +are my friends."</p> + +<p>"Have you many friends?" asked the Man. The +question seemed amusingly justifiable. "You look +to me about eighteen. Girls of your age are usually +too busy collecting Love to collect anything else—even +ideas. Have you collected any Love?"</p> + +<p>The Girl threw out her hands in joking protest. +"Collected any Love? Why, I don't even know<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span> +what Love looks like! Maybe what I'd collect +would be—poison ivy." Her eyes narrowed a little. +Her voice quivered the merest trifle. +"There's a Boy at Home—who talks—a little—about +it. But how can I tell that it's Love?"</p> + +<p>Her sudden vehemency startled him. "Where +<i>is</i> 'Home'?" he asked.</p> + +<p>For immediate answer the Girl slipped down from +the White Pony's back, and loosened the saddle +creakingly before she helped herself to a long, dripping +draught from the birch cup that hung just over +the spring.</p> + +<p>"You're nice to talk to," she acknowledged, +"and almost no one is nice to talk to. It's a whole +year since I've talked right out to any one! Where +do I live? Well, my headquarters are in New +York, but my heartquarters are over at Rosedale. +There's quite a difference, you know!"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said the Man, "I remember—there used +to—be—quite a difference. But how did you +ever happen to think of collecting adventures?"</p> + +<p>The girl pulled at the White Pony's mane for +a long, hesitating moment, then she turned and +looked searchingly into the Man's face. She very +evidently liked what she saw.</p> + +<p>"I collect adventures because I am lonesome!" +Her voice shook a little, but her eyes were frankly +untroubled. "I collect adventures because the life<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span> +that interests me doesn't happen to come to me, and +I have to go out and search for it!—I'm companion +all the year to a woman who doesn't know +right from wrong in any dear, big sense, but who +could define propriety and impropriety to you till +your ears split. And all her friends are just like +her. They haven't any mental muscle to them. +It's just dress and etiquette, dress and etiquette, +dress and etiquette! So I have to live all alone +in my head, and think and think and think, +till my poor brain churns and overlaps like a surf +without any shore. Do you know what I mean? +Then when my June vacation comes, I run right off +to Rosedale and collect all the adventures I possibly +can to take back with me for the long dreary +year. Things to think about, you know, when I +have to sit up at night giving medicine, or when I +have to mend heavy black silk clothes, or when the +dinners are so long that I could scream over the +extra delay of a salad course. So I make June a +sort of pranky, fancy-dress party for my soul. Do +you know what I mean?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I know what you mean," said the Man. +"I know just what you mean. You mean you're +eighteen. That's the whole of it. You mean that +there's no fence to your pasture, no bottom to your +cup, no crust to your bread. You mean that you +can't sleep at night for the pounding of your heart.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span> +You mean most of all that there's no limit to your +vision. You're inordinately keen after life. +That's all. You'll get over it!"</p> + +<p>"<i>I won't get over it!</i>" There was fire in the +Girl's eyes and she drew her breath sharply. "I +say I <i>won't</i> get over it! There's nothing on earth +that could stale me! If I live to be a hundred I +sha'n't wither!—why, how could I?"</p> + +<p>Buoyant, blooming, aquiver with startled emotions, +she threw out her hands with a passionate +gesture of protest.</p> + +<p>The Man shook his shoulders and jumped up. +"Perhaps you're right," he muttered. "Perhaps +you <i>are</i> the kind that won't ever grow old. If you +are—Heaven help you! Youth's nothing but a +wound, anyway. Do you want to be a wound that +never heals?" He laughed stridently.</p> + +<p>Then the Girl began to fumble through sudden +tears at the buckles of her saddle. Her growing +hunger and faintness and the heat of the day were +telling on her.</p> + +<p>"You must think me a crazy fool," she confessed, +"the way I have plunged into personalities. Why, +I could go a whole year with an alien running-mate +and never breathe a word or a sigh about myself, +but with some people—the second you see them +you know they are part of your chord. Chord is +the only term in music that I understand, and I understand<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span> +that as though I had made the word myself." +She tried to laugh. "Now I'm going +home! I've had a good time. You seem almost +like a friend. I've never had a talky friend."</p> + +<p>And she was in her saddle and half-way down +the wood-path before his mind quickened to cry out +"Stop! Wait a minute!"</p> + +<p>A little out of breath he caught up with her, and +stood for a moment like an embarrassed schoolboy, +though his face in the sunlight was as old as young +forty.</p> + +<p>"I'm afraid you haven't had much of an adventure +this morning," he volunteered whimsically. +"If you really want an adventure why don't you +come back to the house and have dinner with my +brother and me? There's no one else there. +Think how it would tease my brother! You're +twelve or fifteen miles from home, and it's already +two o'clock and very hot. My brother has done +some pictures that are going to be talked about next +winter, and I—I've got rather a conspicuous position +ahead of me in Washington. Wouldn't it +amuse you a little bit afterward, if any one spoke +of us, to remember our little farmhouse dinner to-day?—Would +you be afraid to come?" His last +question was very direct.</p> + +<p>A look came into the Girl's eyes that was very +good for a man to see.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Why, of course I wouldn't be afraid to come," +she said. "Gentlemen are my friends."</p> + +<p>But she was shy about going, just the same, with +a certain frank, boyish shyness that only served to +emphasize the general artlessness of her verve.</p> + +<p>With a quick dive into the bushes the Man collared +the Bossy and transferred his clanking chain +to the bit of the astonished White Pony.</p> + +<p>"Now you've got to come," he laughed up at +her, and the whole party started back for the tiny +old gray farmhouse where the Artist greeted them +with sad concern.</p> + +<p>"I've brought Miss Girl back to have dinner +with us," announced the Pony-leader cheerfully, +relying on his brother's serious nature to overlook +any strangeness of nomenclature. "You evidently +didn't remember meeting her at Mrs. Moyne's +house-party last spring?"</p> + +<p>The Girl fell readily into the game. She turned +the White Pony loose in the dooryard, and then +went into the queer old kitchen, rolled up her +sleeves, wound herself round with a blue-checked +apron, and commenced to work. She had a deft +touch at household matters, and the Man followed +her about as humbly as though he himself had not +been adequately providing meals for the past two +months.</p> + +<p>The color rose high in the Girl's cheeks, and her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span> +voice took on the thrill and breathiness of amused +excitement. Wherever she found a huddle of best +china or linen or silver she raided it for her use, +and the table flared forth at last with a dainty, +inconsequent prettiness that quite defied the Artist's +prescribed rules for beauty.</p> + +<p>It was a funny dinner, with an endless amount +of significant bantering going on right under the +Artist's sunburned nose. Yet for all the mirth of +the situation, the Girl had quite a chance to study +the face of her special host, in all its full detail of +worldliness, of spirituality, of hardness, of sweetness. +Her final impression, as her first one, was +of a wonderful affinity and congeniality. "His +face is like a harbor for all my stormy thoughts," +was the way she described it to herself.</p> + +<p>After dinner the three washed up the dishes as +sedately as though they had been working together +day-in, day-out through the whole season, and after +that the Artist escaped as quickly as possible to +catch a cloud effect which he seemed to consider +preposterously vital.</p> + +<p>Then with a dreary little feeling of a prize-pleasure +all spent and gone, the Girl went over to the +mirror in the sitting-room and pinned on her gray +slouch hat and patted her hair and straightened her +belt.</p> + +<p>But it was not her own reflection that interested<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span> +her most. The mirror made a fine frame for the +whole quaint room, with its dingy landscape wall-paper +from which the scarlet petticoat of a shepherdess +or the vivid green of a garland stood out +with cheerful crudity. The battered, blackened +fireplace was lurid here and there with gleams of +copper kettles, and a huge gray cat purred comfortably +in the curving seat of a sun-baked rocking-chair.</p> + +<p>It was a good picture to take home in your mind +for remembrance, when walls should be brick and +rooms ornate and life hackneyed, and the Girl shut +her eyes for a second, experimentally, to fix the +vision in her consciousness.</p> + +<p>When she opened her eyes again the Man was +struggling through the doorway dragging a small, +heavy trunk.</p> + +<p>"Oh, don't go yet!" he exclaimed. "Here are +a lot of your things in this trunk. I brought them +in to show you."</p> + +<p>And he dragged the trunk to the middle of the +room and knelt down on the floor and commenced to +unlock it.</p> + +<p>"<i>My</i> things?" cried the Girl in amazement, and +ran across the room and sat down on the floor beside +him. "<i>My</i> things?"</p> + +<p>There was a funny little twist to the Man's +mouth that never relaxed all the time he was tinkering<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span> +with the lock. "Yes—<i>your</i> things," was +all he said till the catch yielded finally, and he raised +the cover to display the full contents to his companion's +curious eyes.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 332px;"> +<img src="images/gs04.jpg" width="332" height="500" alt="Instinctively she clasped it to her" title="" /> +<span class="caption">Instinctively she clasped it to her</span> +</div> + +<p>"Oh—<i>books!</i>" she cried out, with a sudden, +sweeping flush of comprehension, and darted her +hand into the dusty pile and pulled out a well-worn +copy of the Rubaiyat. Instinctively she clasped it +to her.</p> + +<p>"I thought so!" said the Youngish Man quizzically. +"I thought that was one of your books.</p> + +<div class='poem'> +"When Time lets slip a little, perfect hour,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Oh, take it—for it will not come again."</span><br /> +</div> + +<p>His eyes narrowed, and his hands reached nervously +to regain possession of the volume. Then he +laughed.</p> + +<p>"<i>I</i>, also, used to think that Life was made for +me," he scoffed teasingly. "It's a glorious idea—as +long as it lasts! You take every harsh old +happening and every flimsy friendship and line it +with your own silk, and then sit by and say, 'Oh, +<i>isn't</i> the World a rustly, shimmery, luxurious place!' +And all the time the happening <i>is</i> harsh, and the +friendship <i>is</i> flimsy, and it's just your own perishable +silk lining that does the rustle and the shimmer +and the luxury act. Oh, I suppose that's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span> +'woman talk' about silk linings, but I know a +thing or two, even if I am a man."</p> + +<p>But the radiancy of the Girl's face defied his +cynicism utterly. Her eyes were absolutely fathomless +with Youth.</p> + +<p>Then his mood changed suddenly. He reached +out with a little brooding gesture of protection. +"These are my college books," he confided, "my +Dream Library. I've scarcely thought of them for +a dozen years. I don't meet many dreamers nowadays. +You've probably got a lot of newer books +than these, but I'll wager you anything in the +world that every book here is a precious friend to +you. I shouldn't wonder if your own copies +opened exactly to the same places. Here's young +Keats with his shadowing tragedy. How you have +mooned over it. And here's Tennyson. What +about the starlit vision:</p> + +<div class='poem'> +"And on her lover's arm she leant,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And round her waist she felt it fold,—"</span><br /> +</div> + +<p>The Girl took up the words softly in unison:</p> + +<div class='poem'> +"And far across the hills they went<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">To that new world which is the old."</span><br /> +</div> + +<p>In rushing, eager tenderness she browsed through +one book after another, sometimes silently, sometimes +with a little crooning quotation, where corners<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span> +were turned down. And when she had quite +finished, her eyes were like stars, and she looked +up tremulously, and whispered:</p> + +<p>"Why, we—like—just—the—same—things."</p> + +<p>But the Youngish Man did not smile back at her. +His face in that second turned suddenly old-looking +and haggard and gray. He threw the books back +into their places, and slammed the trunk-cover with +a bang.</p> + +<p>For just the infinitesimal fraction of a second +the Man and the Girl looked into each other's eyes. +For just that infinitesimal fraction of a second the +Man's eyes were as unfathomable as the Girl's.</p> + +<p>Then with a great sniff and scratching and whine, +the White Bulldog pushed his way into the room, +and the Girl jumped up in alarm to note that the sun +was dropping very low in the west, and that the +shadows of late afternoon crept palpably over her +companion's face.</p> + +<p>For a moment the two stood awkwardly without +a word, and then the Girl with a conscious effort +at lightness queried:</p> + +<p>"But <i>where</i> did the Runaway Road go to? I +<i>must</i> find out."</p> + +<p>The Youngish Man turned as though something +had startled him.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Wouldn't you rather leave things just as they +are?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"NO!" The Girl stamped her foot vehemently. +"NO! I want everything. I want the whole adventure."</p> + +<p>"The whole adventure?" The Youngish Man +winced at the phrase, and then laughed to cover his +seriousness.</p> + +<p>"All right," he acquiesced. "I'll show you just +where the Runaway Road goes to."</p> + +<p>Without further explanation he stepped to the +dooryard and scooped up two heaping handfuls of +gravel from the Road. As he came back into the +room he trailed a little line of earth across the +floor to the foot of the stairs, and threw the remaining +handful up the steps just as a heedless +child might have done.</p> + +<p>"Go follow your Runaway Road," he smiled, +"and see where it leads to, if you are so eager! +I'm going down to the woods to see if my brother +is quite lost in his clouds."</p> + +<p>Wasn't that <i>another</i> dare? It seemed a craven +thing to tease for a climax and then shirk it. She +had never shirked anything yet that was right, no +matter how unusual it was.</p> + +<p>She started for the stairs. One step, two steps, +three steps, four steps—her riding-boots grated on<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span> +the gravel. "Oh, you funny Runaway Road," she +trembled, "where <i>do</i> you go to?"</p> + +<p>At the top stairs a tiny waft of earth turned her +definitely into the first doorway.</p> + +<p>She took one step across the threshold, and then +stood stock-still and stared. It was a <i>woman's +room</i>. And from floor to ceiling and from wall +to wall flaunted an incongruous, moneyed effort to +blot out all temperament and pang and trenchant +life-history from one spot at least of the little old +gray farmhouse. Bauble was there, and fashion +and novelty, but the whole gay decoration looked +and felt like the sumptuous dressing of a child +whom one <i>hated</i>.</p> + +<p>With a gasp of surprise the Girl went over and +looked at herself in the mirror.</p> + +<p>"Wouldn't I look queer in a room like this?" +she whispered to herself. But she didn't look +queer at all. She only felt queer, like a flatted +note.</p> + +<p>Then she hurried right down the stairs again, +and went out in the yard, and caught the White +Pony, and climbed up into her saddle.</p> + +<p>The Youngish Man came running to say good-by.</p> + +<p>"Well?" he said.</p> + +<p>The Girl's eyes were steady as her hand. If her +heart fluttered there was no sign of it.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Why, it was a <i>woman's</i> room," she answered +to his inflection.</p> + +<p>"Yes," said the Youngish Man quite simply. +"It is my wife's room. My wife is in Europe getting +her winter clothes. All people do not happen—to—like—the—same—things."</p> + +<p>The Girl put out her hand to him with bright-faced +friendliness.</p> + +<p>"In Europe?" she repeated. "Indeed, I shall +not be so local when I think of her. Wherever +she is—all the time—I shall always think of your +wife as being—most of anything else—<i>in luck</i>."</p> + +<p>She drew back her hand and chirruped to the +White Pony, but the Youngish Man detained her.</p> + +<p>"Wait a second," he begged. "Here's a copy +of Matthew Arnold for you to take home as a +token, though there's only one thing in it for us, +and you won't care for that until you are forty. +You can play it's about the mountains that you +pass going home. Here it is:</p> + +<div class='poem'> +"Unaffrighted by the silence round them,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Undistracted by the sights they see,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;"><i>THESE</i> demand not that the things about them</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Yield them love, amusement, sympathy."</span><br /> +</div> + +<p>"Rather cracked-ice comfort, isn't it?" the +Girl laughed as she tucked the little book into her +blouse.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Rather," said the Youngish Man, "but cracked +ice is good for fevers, and Youth is the most raging +fever that I know about."</p> + +<p>Then he stood back from the White Pony, and +smiled quizzically, and the Girl turned the White +Pony's head, and started down the Road.</p> + +<p>Just before the first curve in the alders, she +whirled in her saddle and looked back. The +Youngish Man was still standing there watching +her, and she held up her hand as a final signal. +Then the Road curved her out of sight.</p> + +<p>It was chilly now in the gloaming shade of the +woods, and home seemed a long way off. After +a mile or two the White Pony dragged as though +his feet were sore, and when she tried to force him +into a jarring canter the sharp corners of the +Matthew Arnold book goaded cruelly against her +breast.</p> + +<p>"It isn't going to be a very pleasant ride," she +said. "But it was quite an adventure. I don't +know whether to call it the 'Adventure of the Runaway +Road' or the 'Adventure of the Little Perfect +Hour.'"</p> + +<p>Then she shivered a little and tried to keep the +White Pony in the rapidly fading sun spots of the +Road, but the shadows grew thicker and cracklier +and more lonesome every minute, and the only familiar +sound of life to be heard was 'way off in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span> +the distance, where some little lost bossy was calling +plaintively for its mother.</p> + +<p>There were plenty of unfamiliar sounds, though. +Things—nothing special, but just Things—sighed +mournfully from behind a looming boulder. +Something dark, with gleaming eyes, scudded +madly through the woods. A ghastly, mawkish +chill like tomb-air blew dankly from the swamp. +Myriads of tiny insects droned venomously. The +White Pony shied at a flash of heat lightning, and +stumbled bunglingly on a rolling stone. Worst of +all, far behind her, sounded the unmistakable tagging +step of some stealthy creature.</p> + +<p>For the first time in her life the girl was +frightened—hideously, sickeningly frightened of +Night!</p> + +<p>Back in the open clearing round the tiny farmhouse, +the light, of course, still lingered in a lulling +yellow-gray. It would be an hour yet, she reasoned, +before the great, black loneliness settled +there. She could picture the little, simple, homely, +companionable activities of early evening—the +sputter of a candle, the good smell of a pipe, the +steamy murmur of a boiling kettle. O—h! But +could one go back wildly and say: "It is darker +and cracklier than I supposed in the woods, and +I am a wilful Girl, and there are fifteen wilful +miles between me and home—and there is a cemetery<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span> +on the way, and a new grave—and a squalid +camp of gypsies—and a broken bridge—<i>and I +am afraid! What shall I do?</i>"</p> + +<p>She laughed aloud at the absurdity, and cut at +the White Pony sharply with her whip. It would +be lighter, she thought, on the open village road +below the hill.</p> + +<p>Love? Amusement? Sympathy? She shook +her young fist defiantly at the hulking contour of +a stolid, bored old mountain that loomed up through +a gap in the trees. "<i>Drat</i> Self-sufficiency," she +cursed, with a vehement little-girl curse. "I +won't be a bored old Mountain. I <i>won't!</i> I +<i>won't!</i> I <i>won't!</i>"</p> + +<p>All her short, eager life, it seemed, she had been +floundering like a stranger in a strange land—no +father or mother, no chum, no friend, no lover, no +anything—and now just for a flash, just for one +"little, perfect hour" she had found a voice at +last that <i>spoke her own language</i>, and the voice +belonged to a Man who belonged to another woman!</p> + +<p>She remembered her morning's singing with a +bitter pang. "<i>Nothing</i> is mine forever. Nothing, +<i>nothing</i>, NOTHING!" she sobbed.</p> + +<p>A great, black, smothering isolation like a pall +settled down over her, and seemed to pin itself with +a stab through her heart. Everybody, once in his +time, has tried to imagine his Dearest-one absolutely<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span> +nonexistent, unborn, and tortured himself +with the possibility of such a ghostly vacuum in +his life. To the Girl suddenly it seemed as though +puzzled, lonely, unmated, all her short years, she +had stumbled now precipitously on the Great Cause +Of It—a <i>vacuum</i>. It was not that she had lost +any one, or missed any one. <i>It was simply that +some one had never been born!</i></p> + +<p>The thought filled her with a whimsical new +terror. She pounded the White Pony into a gallop +and covered the last half-mile of the Runaway +Road. At the crest of the hill the valley vista +brightened palely and the White Pony gave a +whimper of awakened home instinct. Cautiously, +warily, with legs folding like a jack-knife he began +the hazardous descent.</p> + +<p>Was he sleepy? Was he clumsy? Was he footsore? +Just before the Runaway Road smoothed +out into the village highway his knees wilted suddenly +under him, and he pitched headlong with a +hideous lurch that sent the Girl hurtling over his +neck into a pitiful, cluttered heap among the dust +and stones, where he came back after his first panicky +run, and blew over her with dilated nostrils, +and whimpered a little before he strayed off to a +clover patch on the highway below.</p> + +<p>Twilight deepened to darkness. Darkness quickened +at last to stars. It was Night, real Night,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span> +black alike in meadow, wood, and dooryard, before +the Girl opened her eyes again. Part of an orange +moon, waning, wasted, decadent, glowed dully in +the sky.</p> + +<p>For a long time, stark-still and numb, she lay +staring up into space, conscious of nothing except +consciousness. It was a floaty sort of feeling. +Was she dead? That was the first thought that +twittered in her brain. Gradually, though, the reassuring +edges of her cheeks loomed into sight, +and a beautiful, real pain racked along her spine and +through her side. It was the pain that whetted +her curiosity. "If it's my neck that's broken," +she reasoned, "it's all over. If it's my heart it's +only just begun."</p> + +<p>Then she wriggled one hand very cautiously, +and a White Doggish Something came over and +licked her fingers. It felt very kind and refreshing.</p> + +<p>Now and then on the road below, a carriage +rattled by, or one voice called to another. She +didn't exactly care that no one noticed her, or +rescued her—indeed, she was perfectly, sluggishly +comfortable—but she remembered with alarming +distinctness that once, on a scorching city pavement, +she had gone right by a bruised purple pansy that +lay wilting underfoot. She could remember just +how it looked. It had a funny little face, purple<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span> +and yellow, and all twisted with pain. And she +had gone right by. And she felt very sorry about +it now.</p> + +<p>She was still thinking about that purple pansy +an hour later, when she heard the screeching toot +of an automobile, the snort of a horse, and the terrified +clatter of hoofs up the hill. Then the White +Doggish Something leaped up and barked a sharp, +fluttery bark like a signal.</p> + +<p>The next thing she knew, pleasant voices and a +lantern were coming toward her. "They will be +frightened," she thought, "to find a body in the +Road." So, "Coo-o! Coo-o!" she cried in a +faint little voice.</p> + +<p>Then quickly a bright light poured into her face, +and she swallowed very hard with her eyes for a +whole minute before she could see that two men +were bending over her. One of the men was just +a man, but the other one was the Boy From Home. +As soon as she saw him she began to cry very softly +to herself, and the Boy From Home took her right +up in his great, strong arms and carried her down +to the cushioned comfort of the automobile.</p> + +<p>"Where—did—you—come—from?" she +whispered smotheringly into his shoulder.</p> + +<p>The harried, boyish face broke brightly into a +smile.</p> + +<p>"I came from Rosedale to-night, to find <i>you!</i>"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span> +he said. "But they sent me up here on business +to survey a new Road."</p> + +<p>"To survey a new Road?" she gasped. "That's—good. +All the Roads that I know—go—to—Other +People's Homes."</p> + +<p>Her head began to droop limply to one side. +She felt her senses reeling away from her again. +"If—I—loved—you," she hurried to ask, +"would—you—make—me—a—safe Road—<i>all +my own?</i>"</p> + +<p>The Boy From Home gave a scathing glance +at the hill that reared like a crag out of the darkness.</p> + +<p>"If I couldn't make a safer Road than <i>that</i>—" +he began, then stopped abruptly, with a sudden +flash of illumination, and brushed his trembling lips +across her hair.</p> + +<p>"I'll make you the safest, smoothest Road that +ever happened," he said, "if I have to dig it with +my fingers and gnaw it with my teeth."</p> + +<p>A little, snuggling sigh of contentment slipped +from the Girl's lips.</p> + +<p>"Do—you—suppose," she whispered, "do—you—suppose—that—after—all—<i>this</i>—was—the +real—end—of—the Runaway Road?"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span></p> +<h2>SOMETHING THAT HAPPENED IN OCTOBER</h2> + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 166px;"> +<img src="images/drop_m.png" width="166" height="164" alt="M" title="" /> +</div><div class='unindent'><br />ONDAY, Tuesday, Wednesday, +Thursday, Friday, it had rained. +Day in, day out, day in, day out, +day in, it had rained and rained +and rained and rained and rained, +till by Friday night the great blue +mountains loomed like a chunk of ruined velvet, +and the fog along the valley lay thick and gross as +mildewed porridge.</div> + +<p>It was a horrid storm. Slop and shiver and rotting +leaves were rampant. Even in Alrik's snug little +house the chairs were wetter than moss. Clothes +in the closets hung lank and clammy as undried +bathing-suits. Worst of all, across every mirror +lay a breathy, sad gray mist, as though ghosts had +been back to whimper there over their lost faces.</p> + +<p>It had never been so before in the first week of +October.</p> + +<p>There were seven of us who used to tryst there +together every year in the gorgeous Scotch-plaid +Autumn, when the reds and greens and blues and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span> +browns and yellows lapped and overlapped like a +festive little kilt for the Young Winter, and every +crisp, sweet day that dawned was like the taste of +cider and the smell of grapes.</p> + +<p>That is the kind of October well worth living, +and seven people make a wonderfully proper number +to play together in the country, particularly if +six of you are men and women, and one of you is +a dog.</p> + +<p>Yet, after all, it was October, and October alone, +that lured us. We certainly differed astonishingly +in most of our other tastes.</p> + +<p>Three of us belonged to the peaceful Maine +woods—Alrik and Alrik's Wife and his Growly-Dog-Gruff. +Four of us came from the rackety +cities—the Partridge Hunter, the Blue Serge Man, +the Pretty Lady, and Myself—a newspaper +woman.</p> + +<p>Incidentally, I may add that the Blue Serge Man +and the Pretty Lady were husband and wife, but +did not care much about it, having been married, +very evidently, in some gorgeously ornate silver-plated +emotion that they had mistaken at the time +for the "sterling" article. The shine and beauty +of the marriage had long since worn away, leaving +things quite a little bit edgy here and there. Alrik's +young spouse was, wonder of wonders, a transplanted +New York chorus girl. No other biographical<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span> +data are necessary except that Growly-Dog-Gruff +was a brawling, black, fat-faced mongrel +whose complete sense of humor had been +slammed in the door at a very early age. For +some inexplainable reason, he seemed to hold all +the rest of the crowd responsible for the catastrophe, +but was wildly devoted to me. He showed this +devotion by never biting me as hard as he bit the +others.</p> + +<p>Yet even with Growly-Dog-Gruff included among +our assets, we had always considered ourselves an +extremely superior crowd.</p> + +<p>There were seven of us, I said, who <i>used</i> to +tryst there together every autumn. But now, since +the year before, three of us had <i>gone</i>, Alrik's +Wife, Alrik's Dog, and the Blue Serge Man. So +the four of us who remained huddled very close +around the fire on that stormy, dreary, ghastly first +night of our reunion, and talked-talked-talked and +laughed-laughed-laughed just as fast as we possibly +could for fear that a moment's silence would plunge +us all down, whether or no, into the sorrow-chasm +that lurked so consciously on every side. Yet we +certainly looked and acted like a very jovial quartet.</p> + +<p>The Pretty Lady, to be sure, was a black wisp +of crape in her prim, four-footed chair; but Alrik's +huge bulk tipped jauntily back against the wainscoting +in a gaudy-colored Mackinaw suit, with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span> +merely a broad band of black across his left sleeve—as +one who, neither affirming nor denying the +formalities of grief, would laconically warn the +public at large to "Keep Off My Sorrow." I +liked Alrik, and I had liked Alrik's Wife. But I +had loved Alrik's Dog. I do not care especially for +temper in women, but a surly dog, or a surly man, +is as irresistibly funny to me as Chinese music, there +is so little plot to any of them.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/gs05.jpg" width="500" height="383" alt="The four of us who remained huddled very close around the fire" title="" /> +<span class="caption">The four of us who remained huddled very close around the fire</span> +</div> + +<p>But now on the hearth-rug at my feet the Partridge +Hunter lay in amiable corduroy comfort, +with the little puff of his pipe and his lips throbbing +out in pleasant, dozy regularity. He had +traveled in Japan since last we met, and one's blood +flowed pink and gold and purple, one's flesh turned +silk, one's eyes onyx, before the wonder of his +narrative.</p> + +<p>No one was to be outdone in adventurous recital. +Alrik had spent the summer guiding a party of +amateur sports along the Allagash, and his garbled +account of it would have stocked a comic paper for +a month. The Pretty Lady had christened a warship, +and her eager, brooky voice went rippling and +churtling through such major details as blue chiffon +velvet and the goldiest kind of champagne. Even +Alrik's raw-boned Old Mother, clinking dirty supper +dishes out in the kitchen, had a crackle-voiced +tale of excitement to contribute about a floundering<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span> +spring bear that she had soused with soap-suds from +her woodshed window.</p> + +<p>But all the time the storm grew worse and worse. +The poor, tiny old house tore and writhed under +the strain. Now and again a shutter blew shrilly +loose, or a chimney brick thudded down, or a great +sheet of rain sucked itself up like a whirlpool and +then came drenching and hurtling itself in a perfect +frenzy against the frail, clattering window-panes.</p> + +<p>It was a good night for four friends to be housed +together in a red, red room, where the low ceiling +brooded over you like a face and the warped floor +curled around you like the cuddle of a hand. A +living-room should always be red, I think, like the +walls of a heart, and cluttered, as Alrik's was, with +every possible object, mean or fine, funny or pathetic, +that typifies the owner's personal experience.</p> + +<p>Yet there are people, I suppose, people stuffed +with arts, not hearts, who would have monotoned +Alrik's bright walls a dull brain-gray, ripped down +the furs, the fishing-tackle, the stuffed owls, the +gaudy theatrical posters, the shelf of glasses, the +spooky hair wreaths, the really terrible crayon portrait +of some much-beloved ancient grandame; and, +supplementing it all with a single, homesick Japanese +print, yearning across the vacuum at a chalky<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span> +white bust of a perfect stranger like Psyche or +Ruskin, would have called the whole effect more +"successful." Just as though the crudest possible +room that represents the affections is not infinitely +more worth while than the most esoteric apartment +that represents the intellect.</p> + +<p>There were certainly no vacuums in Alrik's room. +Everything in it was crowded and scrunched together +like a hard, friendly hand-shake. It was the +most fiercely, primitively sincere room that I have +ever seen, and king or peasant therefore would have +felt equally at home in it. Surely no mere man +could have crossed the humpy threshold without +a blissful, instinctive desire to keep on his hat and +take off his boots. Alrik knew how to make a room +"homeful." Alrik knew everything in the world +except grammar.</p> + +<p>Red warmth, yellow cheer, and all-colored jollity +were there with us.</p> + +<p>Faster and faster we talked, and louder and +louder we laughed, until at last, when the conversation +lost its breath utterly, Alrik jumped up with +a grin and started our old friend the phonograph. +His first choice of music was a grotesque <i>duo</i> by +two back-yard cats. It was one of those irresistibly +silly minstrel things that would have exploded +any decent bishop in the midst of his sermon. Certainly +no one of us had ever yet been able to withstand<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span> +it. <i>But now no bristling, injuriated dog +jumped from his sleep and charged like a whole +regiment on the perfectly innocent garden.</i> And +the duo somehow seemed strangely flat.</p> + +<p>"Here is something we used to like," suggested +Alrik desperately, and started a splendid barytone +rendering of "Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes." +<i>But no high-pitched, mocking tenor voice took up +the solemn velvet song and flirted it like a cheap +chiffon scarf.</i> And the Pretty Lady rose very suddenly +and went out to the kitchen indefinitely "for +a glass of water." It was funny about the Blue +Serge Man. I had not liked him overmuch, but I +missed <i>not-liking-him</i> with a crick in my heart +that was almost sorrow.</p> + +<p>"Oh, for heaven's sake try some other music!" +cried the Partridge Hunter venomously, and Alrik +clutched out wildly for the first thing he could +reach. It was "Give My Regards to Broadway." +We had practically worn out the record the year before, +but its mutilated remains whirred along, dropping +an occasional note or word, with the same +cheerful spunk and unconcern that characterized +the song itself:</p> + +<div class='unindent'> +"Give my regards to Broadway,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Remember me to Herald Square,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Tell all the—whirry—whirry, whirrrrry—whirrrrrrr</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">That I will soon be there."</span><br /> +</div><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span></p> + +<div class='unindent'>The <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'Patridge'">Partridge</ins> Hunter began instantly to beat muffled +time with his soft felt slippers. Alrik plunged +as usual into a fearfully clever and clattery imitation +of an ox shying at a street-car. <i>But what of +it? No wakened, sparkling-eyed girl came stealing +forth from her corner to cuddle her blazing cheek +against the cool, brass-colored jowl of the phonograph +horn.</i> An All-Goneness is an amazing thing. +It was strange about Alrik's Wife. Her presence +had been as negative as a dead gray dove. But her +<i>absence</i> was like scarlet strung with bells!</div> + +<p>The evening began to drag out like a tortured +rubber band getting ready to snap.</p> + +<p>It was surely eleven o'clock before the Pretty +Lady returned from the kitchen with our hot lemonades. +The tall glasses jingled together pleasantly +on the tray. The height was there, the +breadth, the precious, steaming fragrance. <i>But +the Blue Serge Man had always mixed our nightcaps +for us.</i></p> + +<p>With grandiloquent pleasantry, the Partridge +Hunter jumped to his feet, raised his glass, toasted +"Happy Days," choked on the first swallow, bungled +his grasp, and dropped the whole glass in shattering, +messy fragments to the floor.</p> + +<p>"Lord," he muttered under his breath, "one +could stand missing a fellow in a church or a graveyard +or a mournful sunset glow—but to miss him<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span> +in a foolish, folksy—hot lemonade!—Lord!" +And he shook his shoulders almost angrily and +threw himself down again on the hearth-rug.</p> + +<p>The darkening room was warm as an oven now, +and the great, soft, glowing pile of apple-wood embers +lured one's drowsy eyes like a flame-colored +pillow. No one spoke at all until midnight.</p> + +<p>But the clock had only just finished complaining +about the hour when the Partridge Hunter straightened +up abruptly and cried out to no one in particular:</p> + +<p>"Well, I simply can't bluff this out any longer. +I've just <i>got</i> to know how it all happened!"</p> + +<p>No one stopped to question his meaning. No +one stopped to parry with word or phrase. Like +two tense music-boxes wound to their utmost +resonance, but with mechanism only just that instant +released, Alrik and the Pretty Lady burst into +sound.</p> + +<p>The Pretty Lady spoke first. Her breath was +short and raspy and cross, like the breath of a person +who runs for a train—and misses it.</p> + +<p>"It was—in—Florida," she gasped, "the—last—of +March. The sailboat was a dreadful, +flimsy, shattered thing. But he <i>would</i> go out in it—<i>alone</i>—storm +or no storm!" She spoke with +a sudden sense of emotional importance, with +a certain strange, fierce, new pride in the shortcomings<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span> +of her Man. "He must have swamped within +an hour. They found his boat. But they never +found his body. Just as one could always find his +pocket, but never his watch—his purse, but never +his money—his song, but never his soul." Her +broken self-control plunged deeper and deeper into +bitterness. "It was a stupid—wicked—wilful—accident," +she persisted, "and I can see him in +his last, smothery—astonished—moment—just—as—as—plainly—as—though—I—had—been—there. +Do you think for an instant that he +would swallow even—Death—without making a +fuss about it? Can't you hear him rage and sputter: +'<i>This</i> is too salt! <i>This</i> is too cold! Take it +away and bring me another!' While all the time +his frenzied mind was racing up and down some +precious, memoried playground like the Harvard +Stadium or the New York Hippodrome, whimpering, +'Everybody'll be there except—<i>me</i>—except +<span class="smcap">m-e</span>!'"</p> + +<p>The Pretty Lady's voice took on a sudden hurt, +left-out resentment. "Of course," she hurried on, +"he wasn't exactly sad to go—nothing could +make him sad. But I know that it must have made +him very <i>mad</i>. He had just bought a new automobile. +And he had rented a summer place at +Marblehead. And he wanted to play tennis in +June—"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span></p> + +<p>She paused for an instant's breath, and Alrik +crashed like a moose into the silence.</p> + +<p>"It was lung trouble!" he attested vehemently. +"Cough, cough, cough, all the time. It came on +specially worse in April, and she died in May. She +wasn't never very strong, you know, but she'd +been brought up in your wicked old steam-heated +New York, and she would persist in wearing tissue-paper +clothes right through our rotten icy winters +up here. And when I tried to dose her like the +doctor said, with cod-liver oil or any of them thick +things, I couldn't fool her—she just up an' said it +was nothin' but liquid flannel, and spit it out and +sassed me. And Gruff—Growly-Dog-Gruff," he +finished hastily, "I don't know what ailed him. +He jus' kind of followed along about June."</p> + +<p>The Partridge Hunter drew a long, heavy breath. +When he spoke at last, his voice sounded like the +voice of a man who holds his hat in his hand, and +the puffs of smoke from his pipe made a sort of little +halo round his words.</p> + +<p>"Isn't it nice," he mused, "to think that while +we four are cozying here to-night in the same jolly +old haunts, perhaps they three—Man, Girl, and +Dog—are cuddling off together somewhere in the +big, spooky Unknown, in the shade of a cloud, or +the shine of a star—talking—perhaps—about—<i>us?</i>"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span></p> + +<p>The whimsical comfort of the thought pleased +me. I did not want any one to be alone on such a +night.</p> + +<p>But Alrick's tilted chair came crashing down on +the floor with a resounding whack. His eyes were +blazing.</p> + +<p>"She <i>ain't</i> with him!" he cried. "She <i>ain't</i>, +she <span class="smcap">ain't</span>, she A-I-N-'T! I won't have it. Why, +it's the middle of the night!"</p> + +<p>And in that electric instant I saw the Pretty +Lady's face set rigidly, all except her mouth, which +twisted in my direction.</p> + +<p>"I'll wager she <i>is</i> with him," she whispered under +her breath. "She always did tag him wherever +he went!"</p> + +<p>Then I felt the toe of my slipper meet the recumbent +elbow of the Partridge Hunter. Had I +reached out to him? Or had he reached back to +me? There was no time to find out, for the +smooth, round conversation shattered prickingly in +the hand like a blown-glass bauble, and with much +nervous laughter and far-fetched joke-making, we +rose, rummaged round for our candles, and climbed +upstairs to bed.</p> + +<p>Alrik's Old Mother burrowed into a corner under +the eaves.</p> + +<p>The Pretty Lady had her usual room, and mine +was next to hers. For a lingering moment I dallied<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span> +with her, craving some tiny, absurd bit of loving +service. First, I helped her with a balky hook on +her collar. Then I started to put her traveling +coat and hat away in the closet. On the upper shelf +something a little bit scary brushed my hands. <i>It +was the Blue Serge Man's cap, with a ragged gash +across it where Growly-Dog-Gruff had worried it +on a day I remembered well.</i> With a hurried +glance over my shoulder to make sure that the +Pretty Lady had not also spied it, I reached up and +shoved it—oh, 'way, 'way back out of sight, where +no one but a detective or a lover could possibly +find it.</p> + +<p>Then I hurried off to my room with a most garish +human wonder: How could a <i>man</i> be all gone, +but his silly cap <i>last?</i></p> + +<p>My little room was just as I remembered it, bare, +bleak, and gruesomely clean, with a rag rug, a +worsted motto, and a pink china vase for really +sensuous ornamentation. I opened the cheap pine +bureau to stow away my things. <i>A trinket jingled—a +tawdry rhinestone side-comb. Caught in the +setting was a tiny wisp of brown hair.</i> I slammed +the drawer with a bang, and opened another. +<i>Metal and leather slid heavily along the bottom.</i> +It might have been my beast's collar, if distinctly +across the name-plate had not run the terse phrase +"Alrik's Cross Dog." I did not like to have my<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span> +bureau haunted! When I slammed that drawer, it +cracked the looking-glass.</p> + +<p>Then, with candle burning just as cheerfully as +possible, I lay down on the bed in all my clothes +and began to <i>wake up</i>—wider and wider and +wider.</p> + +<p>My reason lay quite dormant like some drugged +thing but my memory, photographic as a lens, began +to reproduce the ruddy, blond face of the Blue +Serge Man beaming across a chafing-dish; the +mournful, sobbing sound of a dog's dream; the +crisp, starched, Monday smell of the blue gingham +aprons that Alrik's Wife used to wear. The vision +was altogether too vivid to be pleasant.</p> + +<p>Then the wet wind blew in through the window +like a splash of alcohol, chilling, revivifying, stinging +as a whip-lash. The tormented candle flame +struggled furiously for a moment, and went out, +hurtling the black night down upon me like some +choking avalanche of horror. In utter idiotic +panic I jumped from my bed and clawed my way +toward the feeble gray glow of the window-frame. +The dark dooryard before me was drenched with +rain. The tall linden trees waved and mourned in +the wind.</p> + +<p>"Of course, of course, there are no ghosts," I +reasoned, just as one reasons that there is no mistake +in the dictionary, no flaw in the multiplication<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span> +table. But sometimes one's fantastically jaded +nerves think they have found the blunder in language, +the fault in science. Ghosts or no ghosts—if +you <i>thought</i> you saw one, wouldn't it be just +as bad? My eyes strained out into the darkness. +Suppose—I—should—<i>think</i>—that I heard the +bark of a dog? Suppose—suppose—that from +that black shed door where the automobile used to +live, I should <i>think</i>—even <span class="smcap">t-h-i-n-k</span> that I saw +the Blue Serge Man come stumbling with a lantern? +The black shed door burst open with a bang-bang-bang, +and I screamed, jumped, snatched a blanket, +and fled for the lamp-lighted hall.</p> + +<p>A little dazzled by the sudden glow, I shrank +back in alarm from a figure on the top stair. It +was the Pretty Lady. Wrapped clumsily like myself +in a big blanket, she sat huddled there with the +kerosene lamp close beside her, mending the Blue +Serge Man's cap. On the step below her, smothered +in a soggy lavender comforter, crouched Alrik's +Old Mother, her dim eyes brightened uncannily +with superstitious excitement. I was evidently +a welcome addition to the party, and the old woman +cuddled me in like a meal-sack beside her.</p> + +<p>"Naw one could sleep a night like this," she +croaked.</p> + +<p>"<i>Sleep?</i>" gasped the Pretty Lady. Scorn infinite +was in her tone.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span></p> + +<p>But comfortably and serenely from the end of +the hall came the heavy, regular breathing of the +Partridge Hunter, and from beyond that, Alrik's +blissful, oblivious snore. Yet Alrik was the only +one among us who claimed an agonizing, personal +sorrow.</p> + +<p>I began to laugh a bit hysterically. "Men are +funny people," I volunteered.</p> + +<p>Alrik's Old Mother caught my hand with a +chuckle, then sobered suddenly, and shook her +wadded head.</p> + +<p>"Men <i>ain't</i> exactly—people," she confided. +"Men <i>ain't</i> exactly people—at all!"</p> + +<p>The conviction evidently burned dull, steady, +comforting as a night-light, in the old crone's eighty +years' experience, but the Pretty Lady's face +grabbed the new idea desperately, as though she +were trying to rekindle happiness with a wet match. +Yet every time her fretted lips straightened out in +some semblance of Peace, her whole head would +suddenly explode in one gigantic sneeze. There +was no other sound, I remember, for hours and +hours, except the steady, monotonous, slobbery +swash of a bursting roof-gutter somewhere close in +the eaves.</p> + +<p>Certainly Dawn itself was not more chilled and +gray than we when we crept back at last to our<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span> +beds, thick-eyed with drowsy exhaustion, limp-bodied, +muffle-minded.</p> + +<p>But when we woke again, the late, hot noonday +sun was like a scorching fire in our faces, and the +drenched dooryard steamed like a dye-house in the +sudden burst of unseasonable heat.</p> + +<p>After breakfast, the Pretty Lady, in her hundred-dollar +ruffles, went out to the barn with shabby +Alrik to help him mend a musty old plow harness. +The Pretty Lady's brains were almost entirely in +her fingers. So were Alrik's. The exclusiveness +of their task seemed therefore to thrust the Partridge +Hunter and me off by ourselves into a sort of +amateur sorrow class, and we started forth as cheerfully +as we could to investigate the autumn woods.</p> + +<p>Passing the barn door, we heard the strident +sound of Alrik's complaining. Braced with his +heavy shoulders against a corner of the stall, he +stood hurling down his new-born theology upon +the glossy blond head of the Pretty Lady who sat +perched adroitly on a nail keg with two shiny-tipped +fingers prying up the corners of her mouth +into a smile. One side of the smile was distinctly +wry. But Alrik's face was deadly earnest. Sweat +bubbled out on his forehead like tears that could not +possibly wait to reach his eyes.</p> + +<p>"There ought to be a separate heaven for ladies<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span> +and gentlemen," he was arguing frantically. +"'Tain't fair. 'Tain't right. I won't have it! +I'll see a priest. I'll find a parson. If it ain't +proper to live with people, it ain't proper to die +with 'em. I tell you I won't have Amy careerin' +round with strange men. She always was foolish +about men. And I'm breakin' my heart for her, +and Mother's gettin' old, and the house is goin' +to rack and ruin, but how—<i>how</i> can a man go and +get married comfortable again when his mind's all +torturin' round and round and round about his first +wife?"</p> + +<p>The Partridge Hunter gave a sharp laugh under +his breath, yet he did not seem exactly amused. +"Laugh for <i>two!</i>" I suggested, as we dodged out +of sight round the corner and plunged off into the +actual Outdoors.</p> + +<p>The heat was really intense, the October sun +dazzlingly bright. Warmth steamed from the earth, +and burnished from the sky. A plushy brown rabbit +lolling across the roadway dragged on one's +sweating senses like overshoes in June. Under our +ruthless, heavy-booted feet the wet green meadow +winced like some tender young salad. At the edge +of the forest the big pines darkened sumptuously. +Then, suddenly, between a scarlet sumach and a slim +white birch, the cavernous wood-path opened forth<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span> +mysteriously, narrow and tall and domed like the +arch of a cathedral. Not a bird twitted, not a leaf +rustled, and, far as the eye could reach, the wet +brown pine-needles lay thick and soft and padded +like tan-bark, as though all Nature waited hushed +and expectant for some exquisitely infinitesimal +tragedy, like the travail of a squirrel.</p> + +<p>With brain and body all a-whisper and a-tiptoe, +the Partridge Hunter and I stole deeper and deeper +into the Color and the Silence and the Witchery, +dazed at every step by the material proof of autumn +warring against the spiritual insistence of +spring. It was the sort of day to make one very +tender toward the living just because they were living, +and very tender toward the dead just because +they were dead.</p> + +<p>At the gurgling bowl of a half-hidden spring, +we made our first stopping-place. Out of his generous +corduroy pockets the Partridge Hunter +tinkled two drinking-cups, dipped them deep in the +icy water, and handed me one with a little shuddering +exclamation of cold. For an instant his eyes +searched mine, then he lifted his cup very high and +stared off into <i>Nothingness</i>.</p> + +<p>"To the—<i>All-Gone People</i>," he toasted.</p> + +<p>I began to cry. He seemed very glad to have me +cry. "Cry for two," he suggested blithely, "cry<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span> +for two," and threw himself down on the twiggy +ground and began to snap metallically against the +cup in his hand.</p> + +<p>"Nice little tin cup," he affirmed judicially. +"The Blue Serge Man gave it to me. It must +have cost as much as fifteen cents. And it will +last, I suppose, till the moon is mud and the stars +are dough. But the Blue Serge Man himself is—quite +<i>gone</i>. Funny idea!" The Partridge Hunter's +forehead began to knit into a fearful frown. +"Of course it <i>isn't</i> so," he argued, "but it would +certainly seem sometimes as though a man's <i>things</i> +were the only really immortal, indestructible part +of him, and that Soul was nothing in the world but +just a composite name for the S-ouvenirs, O-rnaments, +U-tensils, L-itter that each man's personality +accumulates in the few years' time allotted to +him. The man himself, you see, is wiped right off +the earth like a chalk-mark, but you can't escape or +elude in a million years the wizened bronze elephant +that he brought home from India, or the showy +red necktie that's down behind his bureau, or the +floating, wind-blown, ash-barrel bill for violets that +turns up a generation hence in a German prayer-book +at a French book-stall.</p> + +<p>"And isn't Death a teasing teacher? Holds up +a personality suddenly like a map—makes you +learn by heart every possible, conceivable pleasant<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span> +detail concerning that personality, and then, when +you are fairly bursting with your happy knowledge, +tears up the map in your face and says, 'There's no +such country any more, so what you've learned +won't do you the slightest good.' And there you'd +only just that moment found out that your friend's +hair was a beautiful auburn instead of 'a horrid +red'; that his blessed old voice was hearty, not +'noisy'; that his table manners were quaint, not +'queer'; that his morals were broad, not 'bad.'"</p> + +<p>The Partridge Hunter's mouth began to twist. +"It's a horrid thing to say," he stammered, "but +there ought to be a sample shroud in every home, +so that when your husband is late to dinner, or +your daughter smokes a cigarette, or your son decides +to marry the cook, you could get out the +shroud and try it on the offender, and make a few +experiments concerning—well, <i>values</i>. Why, I +saw a man last week dragged by a train—jerked +in and out and over and under, with his head or his +heels or the hem of his coat just missing Death +every second by the hundred-millionth fraction of +an inch. But when he was rescued at last and went +home to dinner—shaken as an aspen, sicker than +pulp, tongue-tied like a padlock—I suppose, very +likely, his wife scolded him for having forgotten the +oysters."</p> + +<p>The Partridge Hunter's face flushed suddenly.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I didn't care much for Alrik's Wife," he attested +abruptly. "I always thought she was a +trivial, foolish little crittur. But if I had known +that I was never going to see her again—while the +sun blazed or the stars blinked—I should like to +have gone back from the buckboard that last morning +and stroked her brown hair just once away from +her eyes. Does that seem silly to you?"</p> + +<p>"Why, no," I said. "It doesn't seem silly at +all. If I had guessed that the Blue Serge Man +was going off on such a long, long, never-stop journey, +I might even have kissed him good-by. But +I certainly can't imagine anything that would have +provoked or astonished him more! People can't +go round petting one another just on the possible +chance of never meeting again. And goodness +gracious! nobody wants to. It's only that when +a person actually <i>dies</i>, a sort of subtle, holy sense +in you wakes up and wishes that just once for all +eternity it might have gotten a signal through to +that subtle, holy sense in the other person. And +of course when a youngster dies, you feel somehow +that he or she must have been different all +along from other people, and you simply wish that +you might have guessed that fact sooner—before +it was too late."</p> + +<p>The Partridge Hunter began to smile. "If you +knew," he teased, "that I was going to be massacred<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span> +by an automobile or crumpled by an elevator +before next October—would you wish that you +had petted me just a little to-day?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," I acknowledged.</p> + +<p>The Partridge Hunter pretended he was deaf. +"Say that once again," he begged.</p> + +<p>"Y-e-s," I repeated.</p> + +<p>The Partridge Hunter put back his head and +roared. "That's just about like kissing through +the telephone," he said. "It isn't particularly satisfying, +and yet it makes a desperately cunning +sound."</p> + +<p>Then I put back my head and laughed, too, because +it is so thoroughly comfortable and pleasant +to be friends for only one single week in all the +year. Independence is at best such a scant fabric, +and every new friendship you incur takes just one +more tuck in that fabric, till before you know it +your freedom is quite too short to go out in. The +Partridge Hunter felt exactly the same way about +it, and after each little October playtime we ripped +out the thread with never a scar to show.</p> + +<p>Even now while we laughed, we thought we +might as well laugh at everything we could think +of, and get just that much finished and out of the +way.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps," said the Partridge Hunter, "perhaps +the Blue Serge Man was <i>glad</i> to see Amy, and perhaps<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span> +he was rattled, no one can tell. But I'll wager +anything he was awfully mad to see Gruff. There +were lots of meteors last June, I remember. I understand +now. It was the Blue Serge Man raking +down the stars to pelt at Gruff."</p> + +<p>"Gruff was a very—nice dog," I insisted.</p> + +<p>"He was a very growly dog," acceded the Partridge +Hunter.</p> + +<p>"If you growl all the time, it's almost the same +as a purr," I argued.</p> + +<p>The Partridge Hunter smiled a little, but not +very generously. Something was on his mind. +"Poor little Amy," he said. "Any man-and-woman +game is playing with fire, but it's foolish to +think that there are only two kinds, just Hearth-Fire +and Hell-Fire. Why, there's 'Student-lamp' +and 'Cook-stove' and 'Footlights.' Amy and the +Blue Serge Man were playing with 'Footlights,' I +guess. She needed an audience. And he was New +York to her, great, blessed, shiny, rackety New +York. I believe she loved Alrik. He must have +been a pretty picturesque figure on that first and +only time when he blazed his trail down Broadway. +But <i>happy</i> with him—<span class="smcap">h-e-r-e</span>? Away from New +York? Five years? In just green and brown +woods where the posies grow on the ground instead +of on hats, and even the Christmas trees are +trimmed with nothing except real snow and live<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span> +squirrels? <span class="smcap">G-l-o-r-y!</span> Of course her chest caved +in. There wasn't kinky air enough in the whole +state of Maine to keep her kind of lungs active. +Of course she starved to death. She needed her +meat flavored with harp and violin; her drink +aerated with electric lights. We might have done +something for her if we'd liked her just a little bit +better. But I didn't even know her till I heard that +she was dead."</p> + +<p>He jumped up suddenly and helped me to my +feet. Something in my face must have stricken +him. "Would you like my warm hand to walk +home with?" he finished quite abruptly.</p> + +<p>Even as he offered it, one of those chill, quick +autumn changes came over the October woods. The +sun grayed down behind huge, windy clouds. The +leaves began to shiver and shudder and chatter, +and all the gorgeous reds and greens dulled out of +the world, leaving nothing as far as the eye could +reach but dingy squirrel-colors, tawny grays and +dusty yellows, with the far-off, panting sound of a +frightened brook dodging zigzag through some +meadow in a last, desperate effort to escape winter. +As a draft from a tomb the cold, clammy, valley +twilight was upon us.</p> + +<p>Like two bashful children scuttling through a +pantomime, we hurried out of the glowery, darkening +woods, and then at the edge of the meadow<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span> +broke into a wild, mirthful race for Alrik's bright +hearth-fire, which glowed and beckoned from his +windows like a little tame, domesticated sunset. +The Partridge Hunter cleared the porch steps at +a single bound, but I fell flat on the bruising doormat.</p> + +<p>Nothing really mattered, however, except the +hearth-fire itself.</p> + +<p>Alrik and the Pretty Lady were already there +before us, kneeling down with giggly, scorching +faces before a huge corn-popper foaming white +with little muffled, ecstatic notes of heat and +harvest.</p> + +<p>The Pretty Lady turned a crimson cheek to us, +and Alrik's tanned skin glowed like a freshly shellacked +Indian. Even the Old Mother's asthmatic +breath purred from the jogging rocker like a specially +contented pussy-cat.</p> + +<p>Nothing in all the room, I remember, looked +pallid or fretted except the great, ghastly white +face of the clock. I despise a clock that looks worried. +It wasn't late, anyway. It was scarcely +quarter-past four.</p> + +<p>Indeed, it was only half-past four when the company +came. We were making such a racket among +ourselves that our very first warning was the sudden, +blunt, rubbery <i>m-o-o</i> of an automobile directly +outside. Mud was the first thing I thought of.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span></p> + +<p>Then the door flew open peremptorily, and there +on the threshold stood the Blue Serge Man—not +dank and wet with slime and seaweed, but fat and +ruddy and warm in a huge gray 'possum coat. Only +the fearful, stilted immovability of him gave the +lie to his reality.</p> + +<p><i>It was a miracle!</i> I had always wondered a great +deal about miracles. I had always longed, craved, +prayed to experience a miracle. I had always supposed +that a miracle was the supreme sensation of +existence, the ultimate rapture of the soul. But it +seems I was mistaken. A miracle doesn't do anything +to your soul for days and days and days. Your +heart, of course, may jump, and your blood foam, +but first of all it simply makes you very, very sick in +the pit of your stomach. It made a man like Alrik +clutch at his belt and jump up and down and "holler" +like a lunatic. It smote the Partridge Hunter +somewhere between a cramp and a sob. It ripped +the Old Mother close at her waist-line, and raveled +her out on the floor like a fluff of gray yarn.</p> + +<p>But the Pretty Lady just stood up with her hands +full of pop-corn, and stared and stared and stared +and <span class="smcap">stared</span>. From her shining blond head to +her jet-black slippers she was like an exploded +pulse.</p> + +<p>The Blue Serge Man stepped forward into the +room and faltered. In that instant's faltering,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span> +Alrik jumped for him like a great, glad, loving dog, +and ripped the coat right off his shoulders.</p> + +<p>The Blue Serge Man's lips were all a-grin, but +a scar across his forehead gave a certain tense, +stricken dignity to his eyes. Very casually, very +indolently, he began to tug at his gloves, staring all +the while with malevolent joy on the fearful crayon +portrait of the ancient grandame.</p> + +<p>"That's the very last face I thought of when I +was drowning," he drawled, "and there wasn't +room enough in all heaven for the two of us. Bully +old face, I'm glad I'm here. I've been in Cuba," +he continued quite abruptly, "and I meant to play +dead forever and ever. But there was an autumn +leaf—a red autumn leaf in a lady's hat—and it +made me homesick." His voice broke suddenly, +and he turned to his wife with quick, desperate, +pleading intensity. "I'm not—much—good," +he gasped. "But I've—<i>come back!</i>"</p> + +<p>I saw the flaky white pop-corn go trickling +through the Pretty Lady's fingers, but she just stood +there and shook and writhed like a tightly wrung +newspaper smoldering with fire. Then her face +flamed suddenly with a light I had never, never +seen since my world was made.</p> + +<p>"I don't care whether you're any good or +not," she cried. "You're alive! You're alive! +You're alive! You're <i>alive!</i> You're—<span class="smcap">alive</span>!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span></p> + +<p>I thought she would never stop saying it, on and +on and on and on. "You're alive, you're alive, +you're alive." Like a defective phonograph disk +her shattered sense caught on that one supreme +phrase, "You're alive! You're alive! You're +alive! You're alive!"</p> + +<p>Then the blood that had blazed in her face spread +suddenly to her nerveless hands, and she began to +pluck at the crape ruffles on her gown. Stitch by +stitch I heard the rip-rip-rip like the buzz of a fishing-reel. +But louder than all came that maddening, +monotonous cry, "You're alive! You're +alive! You're alive!" I thought her brain was +broken.</p> + +<p>Then the Blue Serge Man sprang toward her, +and I shut my eyes. But I caught the blessed, +clumsy sound of a lover's boot tripping on a ruffle—the +crushing out of a breath—the smother of a +half-lipped word.</p> + +<p>I don't know what became of Alrik. I don't +know what became of Alrik's Old Mother. But +the Partridge Hunter, with his arm across his eyes, +came groping for me through the red, red room.</p> + +<p>"Let's get out of this," he whispered. "Let's +get out of this."</p> + +<p>So once again, amateurs both in sorrow and in +gladness, the Partridge Hunter and I fled fast before +the Incomprehensible. Out we ran through<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span> +Amy's frost-blighted rose-garden, <i>where no gay, +shrill young voice challenged our desecration</i>, out +through the senile old apple orchard, <i>where no suspicious +dog came bristling forth to question our +innocent intrusion</i>, up through the green-ribbon +roadway, up through the stumbling wood-path, to +the safe, sound, tangible, moss-covered pasture-bars, +where the warm, brown-fur bossies, sweet-breathed +and steaming, came lolling gently down +through the gauzy dusk to barter their pleasant +milk for a snug night's lodging and a troughful of +yellow mush.</p> + +<p>A dozen mysterious wood-folk crackled close +within reach, as though all the little day-animals +were laying aside their starched clothes for the +night; and the whole earth teemed with the exquisite, +sleepy, nestling-down sound of fur and +feathers and tired leaves. Out in the forest depths +somewhere a belated partridge drummed out his excuses. +Across on the nearest stone wall a tawny +marauder went hunching his way along. It might +have been a fox, it might have been Amy's thrown-away +coon-cat. Short and sharp from the house +behind us came the fast, furious crash of Alrik's +frenzied young energies, chopping wood enough to +warm a dozen houses for a dozen winters for a +dozen new brides. But high above even the racket +of his ax rang the sweet, wild, triumphant resonance<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span> +of some French Canadian <i>chanson</i>. His heart +and his lungs seemed fairly to have exploded in +relief.</p> + +<p>And over the little house, and the dark woods, +and the mellow pasture, and the brown-fur bossies, +broke a little, wee, tiny prick-point of a star, as +though some Celestial Being were peeping down +whimsically to see just what the Partridge Hunter +and I thought of it all.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE AMATEUR LOVER</h2> + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 165px;"> +<img src="images/drop_w.png" width="165" height="164" alt="W" title="" /> +</div><div class='unindent'><br />ITH every night piercing her like +a new wound, and every morning +stinging her like salt in that +wound, Ruth Dudley's broken +engagement had dragged itself +out for four long, hideous +months. There's so much fever in a woman's +sorrow.</div> + +<p>At first, to be sure, there had been no special +outward and visible sign of heartbreak except the +thunderstorm shadows under the girl's blue eyes. +Then, gradually, very gradually, those same plucky +eyes had dulled and sickened as though every individual +thought in her brain was festering. Later, +an occasional loosened finger ring had clattered off +into her untouched plate or her reeking strong cup +of coffee. At the end of the fourth month the +family doctor was quite busy attesting that she had +no tubercular trouble of any sort. There never yet +was any stethoscope invented that could successfully +locate consumption of the affections.</p> + +<p>It was about this time that Ruth's Big Brother,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span> +strolling smokily into her room one evening, jumped +back in tragic dismay at the astonishing sight that +met his eyes. There, like some fierce young sacrificial +priestess, with a very modern smutty nose and +scorched cheeks, Ruth knelt on the hearth-rug, slamming +every conceivable object that she could reach +into the blazing fire. The soft green walls of the +room were utterly stripped and ravished. The floor +in every direction lay cluttered deep with books and +pictures and clothes and innumerable small bits of +bric-a-brac. Already the brimming fireplace leaked +forth across the carpet in little gray, gusty flakes of +ash and cinder.</p> + +<p>The Big Brother hooted right out loud. "Why, +Ruthy Dudley," he gasped. "What <i>are</i> you doing? +You look like the devil!"</p> + +<p>Blissfully unconscious of smoke or smut, the girl +pushed back the straggling blond hair from her +eyes and grinned, with her white teeth shot like a +bolt through her under lip to keep the grin in place.</p> + +<p>"I'm not a 'devil,'" she explained. "I'm a +god! And what am I doing? I'm creating a new +heaven and a new earth."</p> + +<p>"You won't have much left to create it with," +scoffed the Big Brother, kicking the tortured wreck +of a straw hat farther back into the flames.</p> + +<p>The girl reached up impatiently and smutted her +other hand across her eyes. "Nothing left to create<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span> +it with?" she mocked. "Why, if I had anything +left to create it with, I'd be only a—mechanic!"</p> + +<p>Then, blackened like a coal-heaver and tousled +like a Skye terrier, she picked up the scarlet bellows +and commenced to pump a savage yellow flame into +a writhing, half-charred bundle of letters.</p> + +<p>Through all the sweet, calm hours of that warm +June night the sacrifice progressed with amazing +rapacity. By midnight she had just finished stirring +the fire-tongs through the ghostly, lacelike ashes of +her wedding gown. At two o'clock her violin went +groaning into the flames. At three her Big Brother, +yawning sleepily back in his nightclothes, picked her +up bodily and dumped her into her bed. He was +very angry. "Little Sister," he scolded, "there's +no man living worth the fuss you're making over +Aleck Reese!" And the little sister sat up and +rubbed her smutty, scorched cheek against his cool, +blue-shaven face as she tilted the drifting ashes +from the bedspread. "I'm not making any +'fuss,'" she protested. "I'm only just—burning +my bridges." It was the first direct allusion that +she had ever made to her trouble.</p> + +<p>Twice after that—between three o'clock and +breakfast time—the Big Brother woke from his +sleep with a horrid sense that the house was on fire. +Twice between three o'clock and breakfast time he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span> +met the Housekeeper scuttling along the halls on the +same sniffy errand. Once with a flickering candle-light +Ruth herself crept out to the doorway and +laughed at them. "The house isn't on fire, you +sillies," she cried. "Don't you know a burnt bridge +when you smell it?" But the doctor had said quite +distinctly: "You must watch that little girl. Sorrow +in the tongue will talk itself cured, if you give +it a chance; but sorrow in the eyes has a wicked, +wicked way now and then of leaking into the +brain."</p> + +<p>It was the Housekeeper, though, whose eyes +looked worried and tortured at breakfast time. It +was the Big Brother's face that showed a bit sharp +on the cheek-bones. Ruth herself, for the first time +in a listless, uncollared, unbelted, unstarched month, +came frisking down to the table as white and fresh +and crisp as linen and starch and curls could make +her.</p> + +<p>"I'm going to town this morning," she announced +nonchalantly to her relieved and delighted +hearers. The eyes that turned to her brother's were +almost mischievous. "Couldn't you meet me at +twelve o'clock," she suggested, "and take me off to +the shore somewhere for lunch? I'll be shopping +on Main Street about that time, so suppose I meet +you at Andrew Bernard's office."</p> + +<p>Half an hour later she was stealing out of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span> +creaky back door into the garden, along the gray, +pebbly gravel walk between the tall tufts of crimson +and purple phlox, to the little gay-faced plot +of heart's-ease where the family doctor, symbolist +and literalist, had bade her dig and delve every day +in the good, hot, wholesome, freckly sunshine. +Close by in the greensward an absurd pet lamb was +tugging and bouncing at the end of its stingy tether. +In a moment's time the girl had transferred the +clumsy iron tether-stake to the midst of her posy +bed. Then she started for the gate.</p> + +<p>Pausing for just one repentant second with her +hand on the gate latch, she turned and looked back +to the ruthlessly trodden spot where the bland-eyed +lamb stood eyeing her quizzically with his soft, +woolly mouth fairly dripping with the tender, precious +blossoms. "Heart's-ease. B-a-a!" mocked +the girl, with a flicker of real amusement. +"Heart's-ease. B-a-a-a!" scoffed the lamb, just +because his stomach and his tongue happened to be +made like that. Then with a quick dodge across +the lane she ran to meet the electric car and started +off triumphantly for the city, shutting her faint eyes +resolutely away from all the roadside pools and +ponds and gleams of river whose molten, ultimate +peace possibilities had lured her sick mind so incessantly +for the past dozen weeks.</p> + +<p>Two hours later, with a hectic spurt of energy,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span> +she was racing up three winding, dizzy flights of +stairs in a ponderous, old-fashioned office building.</p> + +<p>Before a door marked "Andrew Bernard, Attorney +at Law," she stopped and waited a frightened +moment for breath and courage. As though the +pounding of her heart had really sounded as loud +as it felt, the door handle turned abruptly, and a +very tall, broad-shouldered, grave-faced young man +greeted her with attractive astonishment.</p> + +<p>"Good morning, Drew," she began politely. +"Why, I haven't seen you for a year." Then, +with alarming vehemence, she finished: "Are you +all alone? I want to talk with you."</p> + +<p>Her breathlessness, her embarrassment, her fragile +intensity sobered the young man instantly as he +led her into his private office and stood for a moment +staring inquiringly into her white face. Her mouth +was just as he had last seen it a year ago, fresh and +whimsical and virginal as a child's; but her eyes +were scorched and dazed like the eyes of a shipwreck +survivor or any other person who has been +forced unexpectedly to stare upon life's big emotions +with the naked eye.</p> + +<p>"I hear you've been ill this spring," he began +gently. "If you wanted to talk with me, Ruthy, +why didn't you let me come out to the house and +see you? Wouldn't it have been easier?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span></p> + +<p>She shook her head. "No," she protested, "I +wanted to come here. What I've got to talk about +is very awkward, and if things get too awkward—why, +an embarrassed guest has so much better +chance to escape than an embarrassed host." She +struggled desperately to smile, but her lips twittered +instead into a frightened quiver. With narrowing +eyes the young man drew out his big leather chair +for her. Then he perched himself on the corner of +his desk and waited for her to speak.</p> + +<p>"Ruthy dear," he smiled, "what's the trouble? +Come, tell your old chum all about it."</p> + +<p>The girl scrunched her eyes up tight, like a person +who starts to jump and doesn't care where he +lands. Twice her lips opened and shut without a +sound. Then suddenly she braced herself with an +intense effort.</p> + +<p>"Drew," she blurted out, "do you remember—three +years ago—you asked me to—marry—you?"</p> + +<p>"Do I remember it?" gasped Drew. The edgy +sharpness of his tone made the girl open her eyes +and stare at him. "Yes," he acknowledged, "I +remember it."</p> + +<p>The girl began to smooth her white skirts with +excessive precision across her knees. "What made +you—ask me?" she whispered.</p> + +<p>"What made me ask you?" cried the man.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span></p> + +<p>"What made me ask you? Why, I asked you because +I love you."</p> + +<p>The girl bent forward anxiously as though she +were deaf. "You asked me because—<i>what?</i>" +she quizzed him.</p> + +<p>"Because I love you," he repeated.</p> + +<p>She jumped up suddenly and ran across the room +to him. "Because you—love me?" she reiterated. +"'Love?' Not 'loved'? Not past tense? Not +all over and done with?"</p> + +<p>There was no mistaking her meaning. But the +man's face did not kindle, except with pain. Almost +roughly he put his hands on her shoulders and +searched down deep into her eyes. "Ruth," he +probed, "what are you trying to do to me? Open +an old wound? You know I—love you."</p> + +<p>The girl's mouth smiled, but her eyes blurred wet +with fright and tears.</p> + +<p>"Would you care anything—about—marrying +me—now?" she faltered.</p> + +<p>Drew's face blanched utterly, and the change gave +him such a horridly foreign, alien look that the girl +drew away from his hands and scuttled back to the +big chair, and began all over again to smooth and +smooth the garish white skirt across her knees. +"Oh, Drew, Drew," she pleaded, "please look like—<i>you</i>. +Please—please—don't look like anybody +else."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span></p> + +<p>But Drew did not smile at her. He just stood +there and stared in a puzzled, tortured sort of way.</p> + +<p>"What about Aleck Reese?" he began with +fierce abruptness.</p> + +<p>The girl met the question with unwonted flippancy. +"I've broken my engagement to Aleck +Reese," she said coolly. "Broken it all to smash."</p> + +<p>But the latent tremor in her voice did not satisfy +the man. "Why did you break it?" he insisted. +"Isn't Aleck Reese the man you want?"</p> + +<p>Her eyes wavered and fell, and then rallied suddenly +to Drew's utmost question.</p> + +<p>"Yes, Drew," she answered ingenuously, "Aleck +Reese <i>is</i> the man I want, <i>but he's not the kind of +man I want!</i>" As the telltale sentence left her lips, +every atom of strength wilted out of her, and she +sank back into her chair all sick and faint and shuddery.</p> + +<p>The impulsive, bitter laugh died dumb on Drew's +lips. Instantly he was at her side, gentle, patient, +compassionate, the man whom she knew so well. +"Do you mean," he stammered in a startled sort of +way, "do you mean that—love or no love—I, I +am the kind of man that you do want?"</p> + +<p>Her hand stole shyly into his and she nodded her +head. But her eyes were turned away from him.</p> + +<p>For the fraction of a second he wondered just +what the future would hold for him and her if he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span> +should snatch the situation into his arms and crush +her sorrow out against his breast. Then in that +second's hesitancy she shook her hair out of her eyes +and looked up at him like a sick, wistful child.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Drew," she pleaded, "you've never, never +failed me yet—all my hard lessons, all my Fourth-of-July +accidents, all my broken sleds and lost skates. +Couldn't you help me now we're grown up? I'm +so unhappy."</p> + +<p>The grimness came back to Drew's face.</p> + +<p>"Has Aleck Reese been mean to you?" he asked.</p> + +<p>Her eyebrows lifted in denial. "Oh, no—not +specially," she finished a trifle wearily. "I simply +made up my mind at last that I didn't want to marry +him."</p> + +<p>Drew's frown relaxed. "Then what's the trouble?" +he suggested.</p> + +<p>Her eyebrows arched again. "What's the trouble?" +she queried. "Why, I happen to love him. +That's all."</p> + +<p>She took her hand away from Drew and began to +smooth her skirt once more.</p> + +<p>"Yes," she repeated slowly, "as long ago as last +winter I made up my mind that I didn't want to +marry him—but I didn't make up my courage until +Spring. My courage, I think, is just about six +months slower than my mind. And then, too, my +'love-margin' wasn't quite used up, I suppose. A<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span> +woman usually has a 'love-margin,' you know, and, +besides, there's always so much more impetus in a +woman's love. Even though she's hurt, even +though she's heartbroken, even though, worst of +all, she's a tiny bit bored, all her little, natural love +courtesies go on just the same of their own momentum, +for a day or a week, or a month, or half +a lifetime, till the love-flame kindles again—or else +goes out altogether. Love has to be like that. But +if I were a man, Drew, I'd be awfully careful that +that love-margin didn't ever get utterly exhausted. +Aleck, though, doesn't understand about such +things. I smoothed his headaches just as well, and +listened to his music just as well, so he shiftlessly +took it for granted that I loved him just as well. +What nonsense! 'Love?'" Her voice rose almost +shrilly. "'Love?' Bah! What's love, anyway, +but a wicked sort of hypnotism in the way that a +mouth slants, or a cheek curves, or a lock of hair +colors? Listen to me. If Aleck Reese were a +woman and I were a man, I certainly wouldn't +choose his type for a sweetheart—irritable, undomestic, +wild for excitement. How's that for a +test? And if Aleck Reese and I were both women, +I certainly shouldn't want him for my friend. +Oughtn't that to decide it? Not a vital taste in +common, not a vital interest, not a vital ideal!"</p> + +<p>She began to laugh hysterically. "And I can't<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span> +sleep at night for remembering the droll little way +that his hair curls over his forehead, or the hurt, surprised +look in his eyes when he ever really did get +sorry about anything. My God! Drew, look at +me!" she cried, and rolled up her sleeves to her +elbow. The flesh was gone from her as though a +fever had wasted her.</p> + +<p>The muscles in Drew's throat began to twitch unpleasantly. +"Was Aleck Reese mean to you?" he +persisted doggedly.</p> + +<p>A little faint, defiant smile flickered across her +lips. "Never mind, Drew," she said, "whether +Aleck Reese was mean to me or not. It really +doesn't matter. It doesn't really matter at all +just exactly what a man does or doesn't do +to a woman as long as, by one route or another, +before her wedding day, he brings her to the +place where she can honestly say in her heart, +'This man that I want is not the kind of man that +I want.' Honor, loyalty, strength, gentleness—why, +Drew, the man I marry has <i>got</i> to be the kind +of man I want.</p> + +<p>"I've tried to be fair to Aleck," she mused almost +tenderly. "I've tried to remember always +that men are different from women, and that Aleck +perhaps is different from most men. I've tried to +remember always that he is a musician—a real, +real musician with all the ghastly, agonizing extremes<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span> +of temperament. I've tried to remember +always that he didn't grow up here with us in our +little town with all our fierce, little-town standards, +but that he was educated abroad, that his whole +moral, mental, and social ideals are different, that +the admiration and adulation of—new—women +is like the breath of life to him—that he simply +couldn't live without it any more than I could live +without the love of animals, or the friendship of +children, or the wonderfulness of outdoors, all of +which bore <i>him</i> to distraction.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I've reasoned it all out, night after night +after night, fought it out, <i>torn</i> it out, that he probably +really and truly did love me quite a good deal—in +his own way—when there wasn't anything +else to do. But how can it possibly content a woman +to have a man love her as well as <i>he</i> knows how—if +it isn't as well as <i>she</i> knows how? We won't +talk about—Aleck Reese's morals," she finished +abruptly. "Fickleness, selfishness, neglect, even infidelity +itself, are such purely minor, incidental data +of the one big, incurably rotten and distasteful fact +that—such and such a man is <i>stupid in the affections</i>."</p> + +<p>With growing weakness she sank back in her +chair and closed her eyes.</p> + +<p>For an anxious moment Drew sat and watched +her. "Is that all?" he asked at last.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span></p> + +<p>She opened her eyes in surprise. "Why, yes," +she said, "that's all—that is, it's all if you understand. +I'm not complaining because Aleck Reese +didn't love me, but because, loving me, he wasn't +<i>intelligent</i> enough to be true to me. You do understand, +don't you? You understand that it +wasn't because he didn't pay his love bills, but because +he didn't know enough to pay them. He +took my loyalty without paying for it with his; he +took my devotion, my tenderness, my patience, without +ever, ever making any adequate return. Any +girl ought to be able to tell in six months whether +her lover is using her affection rightly, whether he +is taking her affection and investing it with his +toward their mutual happiness and home. Aleck +invested nothing. He just took all my love that +he could grab and squandered it on himself—always +and forever on himself. A girl, I say, ought +to be able to tell in six months. But I am very +stupid. It has taken me three years."</p> + +<p>"Well, what do you want <i>me</i> to do?" Drew +asked a bit quizzically.</p> + +<p>"I want you to advise me," she said.</p> + +<p>"Advise you—<i>what?</i>" persisted Drew.</p> + +<p>The first real flicker of comedy flamed in the +girl's face. Her white cheeks pinked and dimpled. +"Why, advise me to—marry <i>you!</i>" she announced.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span> +"<span class="smcap">well, why not?</span>" She fairly hurled +the three-word bridge across the sudden, awful +chasm of silence that yawned before her.</p> + +<p>Drew's addled mind caught the phrase dully and +turned it over and over without attempting to +cross on it. "Well, why not? Well, why not?" +he kept repeating. His discomfiture filled the girl +with hysterical delight, and she came and perched +herself opposite him on the farther end of his desk +and smiled at him.</p> + +<p>"It seems to me perfectly simple," she argued. +"Without any doubt or question you certainly are +the kind of man whom I should like to marry. +You are true and loyal and generous and rugged +about things. And you like the things that I like. +And I like the people that you like. And, most of +anything in the world, you are <i>clever in the affections</i>. +You are heart-wise as well as head-wise. +Why, even in the very littlest, silliest thing that +could possibly matter, you wouldn't—for instance—remember +George Washington's birthday and +forget mine. And you wouldn't go away on a +lark and leave me if I was sick, any more than +you'd blow out the gas. And you wouldn't—hurt +me about—other women—any more than +you'd eat with your knife." Impulsively she +reached over and patted his hand with the tips of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span> +her fingers. "As far as I can see," she teased, +"there's absolutely no fault in you that matters +to me except that I don't happen to love you."</p> + +<p>Quick as her laugh the tears came scalding back +to her eyes.</p> + +<p>"Why, Drew," she hurried on desperately, +"people seem to think it's a dreadful thing to +marry a man whom you don't love; but nobody +questions your marrying <i>any</i> kind of a man if you +do love him. As far as I can make out, then, +it's the love that matters, not the man. Then why +not love the right man?" She began to smile +again. "So here and now, sir, I deliberately choose +to love <i>you</i>."</p> + +<p>But Drew's fingers did not even tighten over +hers.</p> + +<p>"I want to be a happy woman," she pleaded. +"Why, I'm only twenty-two. I can't let my life +be ruined now. There's <i>got</i> to be some way out. +And I'm going to find that way out if I have to +crawl on my hands and knees for a hundred years. +I'm luckier than some girls. I've got such a shining +light to aim for."</p> + +<p>Almost roughly Drew pulled his hand away, the +color surging angrily into his cheeks. "I'm no +shining light," he protested hotly, "and you shall +never, never come crawling on your hands and +knees to me."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Yes, I shall," whispered the girl. "I shall +come creeping very humbly, if you want me. And +you do want me, don't you? Oh, please advise +me. Oh, please play you are my Father or my Big +Brother and advise me to—marry <i>you</i>."</p> + +<p>Drew laughed in spite of himself. "Play I was +your Father or your Big Brother?" Mimicry was +his one talent. "Play I was your Father or your +Big Brother and advise you to marry me?"</p> + +<p>Instantly his fine, straight brows came beetling +down across his eyes in a fierce paternal scrutiny. +Then, quick as a wink, he had rumpled his hair +and stuck out his chest in a really startling imitation +of Big Brother's precious, pompous importance. +But before Ruth could clap her hands his +face flashed back again into its usual keen, sad +gravity, and he shook his head. "Yes," he deliberated, +"perhaps if I truly were your Father or +your Brother, I really should advise you to marry—me—not +because I amount to anything and am +worth it, but because I honestly believe that I should +be good to you—and I know that Aleck Reese +wouldn't be. But if I'm to advise you in my own +personal capacity—no, Ruthy, I don't want to +marry you!"</p> + +<p>"What? What?" Staggering from the desk, +she turned and faced him, white as her dress, +blanched to her quivering lips.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span></p> + +<p>But Drew's big shoulders blocked her frenzied +effort to escape.</p> + +<p>"Don't go away like that, Little Girl," he said. +"You don't understand. It isn't a question of +caring. You know I care. But don't you, don't +you understand that a man doesn't like to marry a +woman who doesn't love him?"</p> + +<p>Her face brightened piteously. "But I <i>will</i> love +you?" she protested. "I <i>will</i> love you. I promise. +I promise you faithfully—I will love you—if +you'll only give me just a little time." The old +flicker of mischief came back to her eyes, and she +began to count on her fingers. "Let me see," she +said. "It's June now—June, July, August, September, +October, November—six months. I +promise you that I will love you by November."</p> + +<p>"I don't believe it." Drew fairly slashed the +words into the air.</p> + +<p>Instantly the hurt, frightened look came back to +her eyes. "Why, Drew," she whispered, "if it +were money that I wanted, if I were starving, or +sick, or any all-alone anything, you wouldn't refuse +to help me just because you couldn't possibly +see ahead just how I was ever going to pay you. +Drew, I'm very unhappy and frightened and lost-feeling. +I just want to borrow your love. I promise +you I will pay it back to you. You won't be +sorry. You won't. You won't!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span></p> + +<p>Drew's hand reached up and smothered the words +on her lips. "You can't borrow my love," he +said sternly. "It's yours, always, every bit of it. +But I won't marry you unless you love me. I tell +you it isn't fair to you."</p> + +<p>Impulsively she took his hand and led him back +to the big chair and pushed him gently into it, and +perched herself like a little child on a pile of bulky +law books at his feet. The eyes that looked up to +his were very hopeful.</p> + +<p>"Don't you think, Drew," she argued, "that +just being willing to marry you is love enough?"</p> + +<p>He scanned her face anxiously for some inner, +hidden meaning to her words, some precious, latent +confession; but her eyes were only blue, and just a +little bit shy.</p> + +<p>She stooped forward suddenly, and took Drew's +hand and brushed it across her cheek to the edge +of her lips. "I feel so safe with you, Drew," she +whispered, "so safe, and comforted always. Oh, +I'm sure I can teach you how to make me love +you—and you're the only man in the world that +I'm willing to teach." Her chin stiffened suddenly +with renewed stubbornness. "<i>You</i> are the Harbor +that was meant for me, and Aleck Reese is nothing +but a—Storm. If you know it, and I know it, +what's the use of dallying?"</p> + +<p>Drew's solemn eyes brightened. "Do you truly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span> +think," he said, "that Aleck Reese is only an accident +that happened to you on your way to me?"</p> + +<p>She nodded her head. Weakness and tears were +only too evidently overtaking her brave little theories.</p> + +<p>"And there's something else, too," she confided +tremulously. "My head isn't right. I have +such hideous dreams when I do get to sleep. I +dream of drowning myself, and it feels good; and +I dream of jumping off high buildings, and it feels +good; and I dream of throwing myself under railroad +trains, and it feels good. And I see the +garish announcement in the morning papers, and +I picture how Uncle Terry would look when he +got the news, and I cry and cry and cry, and it feels +good. Oh, Drew, I'm so bored with life! It isn't +right to be so bored with life. But I can't seem +to help it. Nothing in all the world has any meaning +any more. Flowers, sunshine, moonlight—everything +I loved has gone stale. There's no +taste left to anything; there's no fragrance, there's +no rhyme. Drew, I could stand the sorrow part +of it, but I simply can't stand the emptiness. I +tell you I <i>can't</i> stand it. I wish I were dead; and, +Drew, there are so many, many easy ways all the +time to make oneself dead. I'm not safe. Oh, +please take me and make me safe. Oh, please take +me and make me want to live!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span></p> + +<p>Driven almost distracted by this final appeal +to all the chivalrous love in his nature, Drew +jumped up and paced the floor. Perplexity, combativeness, +and ultimate defeat flared already in his +haggard face.</p> + +<p>The girl sensed instantly the advantage that she +had gained. "Of course," she persisted, "of +course I see now, all of a sudden, that I'm not +offering you very much in offering you a wife who +doesn't love you. You are quite right; of course +I shouldn't make you a very good wife at first—maybe +not for quite a long, long time. Probably +it would all be too hard and miserable for +you—"</p> + +<p>Drew interrupted her fiercely. "Great heavens!" +he cried out, "my part would be easy, comfortable, +serene, interesting, compared to yours. +Don't you know it's nothing except <i>sad</i> to be shut +up in the same house, in the same life, with a person +you love who doesn't love you? Nothing but +sad, I tell you; and there's no special nervous +strain about being sad. But to be shut up day +and night—as long as life lasts—with a person +who takes the impudent liberty of loving you +against your wish to be loved—oh, the spiritual +distastefulness of it, and the physical enmity, and +the ghastly, ghastly ennui! That's your part of +it. Flower or book or jewel or caress, no agonizing,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span> +heart-breaking, utterly wholesome effort to +please, but just one hideously chronic, mawkishly +conscientious effort to <i>be</i> pleased, to act pleased—though +it blast your eyes and sear your lips—to +<i>look</i> pleased. I tell you I won't have it!"</p> + +<p>"I understand all that," said Ruth gravely. "I +understand it quite perfectly. But underneath it +all—I would rather—you had taken me in your +arms—as though I were a little, little hurt girl—and +comforted me—"</p> + +<p>But before Drew's choking throat-cry had +reached his lips she had sprung from her seat and +was facing him defiantly. Across her face flared +suddenly for the first time the full, dark flush of +one of Life's big tides, and the fear in her hands +reached up and clutched at Drew's shoulders. The +gesture tipped her head back like a fagged swimmer's +struggling in the water.</p> + +<p>"I am pleading for my life, Drew," she gasped, +"for my body, for my soul, for my health, for +my happiness, for home, for safety!"</p> + +<p>He snatched her suddenly into his arms. "My +God! Ruth," he cried, "what do you want me to +do?"</p> + +<p>Triumph came like a holiday laugh to her haggard +face.</p> + +<p>"What do I want you to do?" she dimpled. +"Why, I want you to come with me now and get<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span> +a license. I want to be married right away this +afternoon."</p> + +<p>"What!" Drew hurled the word at her like +a bomb, but it did not seem to explode.</p> + +<p>Laughingly, flushingly, almost delightedly, she +stood and watched the anger rekindle in his face.</p> + +<p>"Do you think I am going to take advantage of +you like this?" he asked hotly. "You would +probably change your mind to-morrow and be very, +very sorry—"</p> + +<p>She tossed her head. It was a familiar little +gesture. "I fully and confidently expect to be +sorry to-morrow," she affirmed cheerfully. +"That's why I want to be married to-day, this +afternoon, this minute, if possible, before I have +had any chance to change my mind."</p> + +<p>Then, with unexpected abruptness, she shook her +recklessness aside and walked back to him childishly, +pulling a long, loose wisp of hair across her +face. "See," she said. "Smell the smoke in my +hair. It's the smoke from my burned bridges. I +sat up nearly all night and burned everything I +owned, everything that could remind me of Aleck +Reese, all my dresses, all my books, all my keepsakes, +all my doll houses that ever grew up into +dreams. So if you decide to marry me I shall be +very expensive. You'll have to take me just as +I am—quite a little bit crumpled, not an extra<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a></span> +collar, not an extra hairpin, not anything. Aleck +Reese either loved or hated everything I owned. +I haven't left a single bridge on which one of +my thoughts could even crawl back to him again—"</p> + +<p>Half quizzically, half caressingly, Drew stooped +down and brushed his lips across the lock of hair. +Fragrant as violets, soft as the ghost of a kiss, the +little curl wafted its dearness into his senses. But +ranker than violets, harsher than kisses, lurked the +blunt, unmistakable odor of ashes.</p> + +<p>He laughed. And the laugh was bitter as gall. +"Burning your bridges," he mused. "It's a good +theory. But if I take your life into my bungling +hands and sweat my heart out trying to make you +love me, and come home every night to find you +crying with fear and heartbreak, will you still protest +that the sting in your eyes is nothing in the +world except the <i>smudge</i> from those burnt bridges? +Will you promise?"</p> + +<p>With desperate literalness she clutched at the +phrase. Everything else in the room began to whirl +round and round like prickly stars. "I promise, I +promise," she gasped. Then sight—not air, but +just sight—seemed to be smothered right out of +her, and her brain reeled, and she wilted down unconscious +on the floor.</p> + +<p>Cursing himself for a brute, Drew snatched her +up in a little, white, crumpled heap and started for<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span> +the window. Halfway there, the office door opened +abruptly and Ruth's Big Brother stood on the +threshold. Surprise, anxiety, ultimate relief chased +flashingly across the newcomer's face, and in an instant +both men were working together over the limp +little body.</p> + +<p>"Well, old man," said the Big Brother, "I'm +glad she was here safe with you when she fainted." +His spare arm clapped down affectionately across +Drew's shoulders and jarred Drew's fingers brownly +against the death-like pallor of the girl's throat. +The Big Brother gave an ugly gasp. "Damn +Aleck Reese," he said.</p> + +<p>Drew's eyes shut perfectly tight as though he +was smitten by some unbearable agony. Then suddenly, +without an instant's warning, he pulled himself +together and burst out laughing uproariously +like a schoolboy.</p> + +<p>"Oh, what's the use of damning Aleck Reese?" +he cried. "Aleck Reese is as stale an issue as yesterday +morning's paper. If you've no particular +objection to me as a brother-in-law as well as a +tennis chum, Ruth and I were planning to marry +each other this afternoon. Maybe I was just a little +bit too vehement about it."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Three hours later, in a dusty, musty, mid-week +church vestry, an extraordinarily white and extraordinarily<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a></span> +vivacious girl was quite busy assuring a +credulous minister and a credulous sexton and a +credulous Big Brother that she would love till death +hushed her the perfectly incredulous bridegroom +who stood staring down upon her like a very tall +man in a very short dream.</p> + +<p>And then, because neither groom nor bride could +think of anything specially married to say to each +other, they kidnapped Big Brother and bore him +away in an automobile to a nervous, rollicking, wonderfully +entertaining "shore dinner," where they +sat at an open window round a green-tiled table in +a marvelously glowering, ice-cool, artificial grotto, +and ate bright scarlet lobsters while the great, hot, +blowzy yellow moon came wallowing up out of the +night-shadowed sea, and the thrilly, thumpy brass +band played "I Love You So"; and the only, only +light in the whole vague, noisy room seemed to be +Big Brother's beaming, ecstatic face gleaming like +some glad phosphorescent thing through the clouds +of murky tobacco smoke.</p> + +<p>Not till the wines and dines and roses and posies +and chatter and clatter were all over, and the automobile +had carried Big Brother off to his railroad +station and whisked the bride and groom back to +the wobbly city pavements, did Drew begin to realize +that the frolicking, jesting, crisp-tongued figure +beside him had wilted down into a piteous little<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a></span> +hunch of fear. Stooping to push her slippery new +suit case closer under her feet, he caught the sharp, +shuddering tremor of her knees, and as the automobile +swayed finally into the street that led to his +apartment, her lungs seemed to crumple up in a +paroxysm of coughing. Under the garish lights +that marked his apartment-house doorway her slight +figure drooped like a tired flower, and the footsteps +that tinkled behind him along the stone corridor +rang in his ears with a dear, shy, girlish reluctance. +The elevator had stopped running. One flight, two +flights, three, four, five they toiled up the harsh, +cool, metallic stairway. Four times Ruth stopped +to get her breath, and twice to tie her shoe. Drew +laughed to himself at the delicious subterfuge of it.</p> + +<p>Then at the very top of the strange, gloomy, midnight +building, when Drew's nervous fingers fumbled +a second with his door-lock, without the slightest +possible warning she reached out suddenly with +one mad, frenzied impulse and struck the key from +his hand. To his startled eyes she turned a face +more wild, more agonized than any terror he had +ever dreamed in his most hideous, sweating nightmare. +Instantly her hands went clutching out to +him.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Drew, for God's sake take me home!" she +gasped. "What have I done? What have I done? +What have I done? Oh, <span class="smcap">Aleck</span>!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[222]</a></span></p> + +<p>Wrenching himself free from her hands, Drew +dropped down on the floor and began to hunt around +for the key. The blood surged into his head like a +hot tide, and he felt all gritty-lunged and smothered, +as though he were crawling under water. After a +minute he stumbled to his feet and slipped the recreant +key smoothly into the lock, and swung his door +wide open, and turned back to Ruth. She stood +facing him defiantly, her eyes blazing, her poor +hands twisting.</p> + +<p>Drew nodded toward the door, and shoved the +suit case with his foot across the threshold. His +face was very stern and set.</p> + +<p>"You want me to take you 'home'?" he said. +"<i>This</i> is home. What do you mean? Take you +back to your Brother's house? You can't go back to +your Brother's house on your wedding day. It +wouldn't be fair to me. And I won't help you do +an unfair thing <i>even</i> to me. You've <i>got</i> to give +me a chance!"</p> + +<p>He nodded again toward the open door, but the +girl did not budge. His face brightened suddenly, +and he stepped back to where she was standing, and +lifted her up in his arms and swung her to his shoulder +and stumbled through the pitch-black doorway. +"Do you remember," he cried, "the day at your +grammar-school picnic when I carried you over the +railroad trestle because the locomotive that was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[223]</a></span> +swooping down upon us round the curve had scared +all the starch out of your legs? Look out for your +head now, honey, and I'll give you a very good imitation +of a cave man bringing home his bride."</p> + +<p>In another moment he had switched a blaze of +electric light into his diminutive library, and deposited +his sobbing burden none too formally in the +big easy chair that blocked almost all the open space +between his desk and his bookcases. "What! +Aren't you laughing, too?" he cried in mock alarm. +But the crumpled little figure in the big chair did not +answer to his raillery.</p> + +<p>Until it seemed as though he would totter from +his wavering foothold, Drew stood and watched her +dumbly. Then a voice that sounded strange even to +himself spoke out of his lips.</p> + +<p>"Ruth—come here," he said.</p> + +<p>She raised her rumpled head in astonishment, +gaged for a throbbing instant the new authoritative +glint in his eyes, and then slipped cautiously out of +her chair and came to him, reeking with despair. +For a second they just stood and stared at each +other, white face to white face, a map of anger confronting +a map of fear.</p> + +<p>"You understand," said Drew, "that to-day, by +every moral, legal, religious right and rite, you have +delivered your life over utterly into my hands?" +His voice was like ice.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Yes, I understand," she answered feebly, with +the fresh tears gushing suddenly into her eyes.</p> + +<p>Drew's mouth relaxed. "You understand?" he +repeated. "Well—forget it! And never, never, +never, as long as you and I are together, never, I +say, understand anything but this: you can cry about +Aleck Reese all you want to, but you sha'n't cry +about me. You can count on that anyway." +He started to smile, but his mouth twitched instead +with a wince of pain. "And I thought I could +really bring you heart's-ease," he scoffed. "Heart's-ease? +Bah!"</p> + +<p>"Heart's-ease. Bah!" The familiar phrase exploded +Ruth's inflammable nerves into hysterical +laughter. "Why, that's what the lamb said," she +cried, "when I fed him on my pansy posies. +'Heart's-ease. B-a-h!'" And her sudden burst of +even unnatural delight cleared her face for the moment +of all its haggard tragedy, and left her once +more just a very fragile, very plaintive, very helpless, +tear-stained child. "You <i>b-a-a</i> exactly like +the lamb," she suggested with timid, snuffling pleasantry; +and at the very first suspicion of a reluctant +twinkle at the corner of Drew's eyes she reached up +her trembling little hands to his shoulders and held +him like a vise with a touch so light, so faint, so +timorous that it could hardly have detained the +shadow of a humming-bird.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a></span></p> + +<p>For a moment she stared exploringly round the +unfamiliar, bright little room crowded so horribly, +cruelly close with herself, her mistake, and the life-long +friend loomed so suddenly and undesirably +into a man. Then with a quick, shuddery blink her +eyes came flashing back wetly and wistfully to the +unsolved, inscrutable face before her. Her fingers +dug themselves frantically into his cheviot shoulders.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Drew, Drew," she blurted out, "I am +so very—very—very—frightened! Won't you +please take me and play you are my—Mother?"</p> + +<p>"Play I am your Mother? <i>Play I am your +Mother!</i>" The phrase ripped out of Drew's lips +like an oath, and twitched itself just in time into +explosive, husky mirth. "Play I am your +Mother?" The teeniest grimace over his left shoulder +outlined the soft silken swish and tug of a lady's +train. A most casual tap at his belt seemed to +achieve instantly the fashionable hour-glass outline +of feminine curves. "Play I am your Mother!" +He smiled and, stooping down, took Ruth's scared +white face between his hands, and his smile was as +bright—and just about as pleasant—as a zigzag +of lightning from a storm-black sky.</p> + +<p>"Ruthy dear," he said, "I don't feel very much +like your Mother. Now if it was a cannibal that +you wanted, or a pirate, or a kidnapper, or a body-snatcher,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a></span> +or a general all-round robber of widows +and orphans, why, here I am, all dressed and trained +and labeled for the part. But a <i>Mother</i>—" The +smile went zigzagging again across his face just as a +big, wet, scalding tear came trickling down the girl's +cheek into his fingers. The feeling of that tear +made his heart cramp unpleasantly. "Oh, hang it +all," he finished abruptly, "what does a Mother do, +anyway?"</p> + +<p>The little white face in his hands flooded instantly +with a great desolation. "I don't know," she +moaned wearily. "I <i>never</i> knew."</p> + +<p>For some inexplainable reason Aleck Reese's devilish, +insolent beauty flaunted itself suddenly before +Drew's vision, and he gave a bitter gasp, and turned +away fiercely, and brushed his arm potently across +his forehead as though Sex, after all, were nothing +but a trivial mask that fastened loosely to the ears.</p> + +<p>When he turned round again, his conquered face +had that strange, soft, shining, translucent wonder-look +in it which no woman all her life long may reap +twice from a man's face. Tenderly, serenely, uncaressingly, +without passion and without playfulness, +he picked up his sad little bride and carried her +back to the big, roomy, restful chair, and snuggled +her down in his long arms, with her smoke-scented +hair across his cheek, and told her funny, giggly +little stories, and crooned her funny, sleepy<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[227]</a></span> +little songs, till her shuddering sobs soothed themselves—oh, +so slowly—into lazy, languid, bashful +little smiles, and the lazy, languid, bashful +little smiles droned off at last into nestling, contented +little sighs, and the nestling, contented little +sighs blossomed all of a sudden into merciful, peaceful +slumber.</p> + +<p>Then, when the warm, gray June dawn was just +beginning to flush across the roofs of the city, he +put her softly down and slipped away, and took his +smallest military brushes, and his smallest dressing-gown, +and his smallest slippers, and carried them +out to his diminutive guest-room. "It isn't a very +big little guest-room," he mused disconsolately, "but +then, she isn't a very big little guest. It will hold +her, I guess, as long as she's willing to stay."</p> + +<p>"As long as she's willing to stay." The phrase +puckered his lips. Again Aleck Reese's face flashed +before him in all its amazing beauty and magical +pathos, a face this time staring across a tiny, ornate +café table into the jaded, world-wise eyes of some +gorgeous woman of the theatrical demi-monde. At +the vision Drew's shoulders squared suddenly as +though for a fair fight to the finish, and then wilted +down with equal abruptness as his eyes met accidentally +in the mirror his own plain, matter-of-fact +reflection. The sight fairly mocked him. There +was no beauty there. No magic. No brilliance.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[228]</a></span> +No talent. No compelling moodiness. No possible +promise of "Love and Fame and Far Lands." +Nothing. Just eyes and nose and mouth and hair +and an ugly baseball scar on his left cheek. Merciful +heavens! What had he to fight Aleck Reese +with, except the only two virtues that a man may +not brag of—a decently clean life and an unstaled +love!</p> + +<p>Grinning to rekindle his courage, he started tiptoeing +back along the hall to his bedroom and his +kitchen, and rolled up his sleeves and began to clean +house most furiously; for even if you are quite desperately +in love, and a fairly good man besides, it is +just a little bit crowded-feeling and disconcerting to +have the lady walk unannounced right into your life +and your neckties and your pictures, to say nothing +of your last week's unwashed cream-jars.</p> + +<p>Frantically struggling with his coffee-pot at seven +o'clock, he had almost forgotten his minor troubles +when a little short, gaspy breath sound made him +look up. Huddling her tired-out dress into the ample +folds of his dressing-gown, Ruth stood watching +him bashfully.</p> + +<p>"Hello!" he said. "Who are you?"</p> + +<p>"I'm—Mrs.—Andrew Bernard, attorney at +law," she announced with stuttering nonchalance, +and started off exploringly for the cupboard to find +Drew's best green Canton china to deck the kitchen<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a></span> +breakfast table. All through the tortuous little meal +she sat in absolute tongue-tied gravity, carving her +omelet into a hundred infinitesimal pieces and sipping +like a professional coffee-taster at Drew's over-rank +concoction. Only once did her solemn face +lighten with an inspirational flash that made Drew's +heart jump. Then, "Oh, Drew," she exclaimed, +"do you think you could go out to the house to-day +and see if they fed the lamb?"</p> + +<p>"No, I don't," said Drew bluntly, and poured +himself out his fifth cup of coffee.</p> + +<p>After breakfast, all the time that he was shaving, +she came and sat on the edge of a table and +watched him with the same maddening gravity, and +when he finally started off for his office she followed +him down the whole length of his little hallway. +"I like my cave!" she volunteered with sudden sociability, +and then with a great, pink-flushing wave +of consciousness she lifted up her face to him and +stammered, "Do I kiss you good-by?"</p> + +<p>Drew shook his head and laughed. "No," he +said, "you don't even have to do that; I'm not +much of a kisser," and turned abruptly and grabbed +at the handle of the door.</p> + +<p>But before he had crossed the threshold she +reached out and pulled him back for a moment, and +he had to stoop down very far to hear what she +wanted to tell him. "It's nothing much, Drew,"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a></span> +she whispered. "It's nothing much at all. I just +wanted to say that—considering how strong they +are, and how—wild—and strange—I think men +are—very—<i>gentle</i> creatures. Thank you." And +in another instant she had gone back alone to face +by crass daylight the tragedy that she had brought +into three people's lives.</p> + +<p>Certainly in all the days and weeks that followed, +Drew never failed to qualify as a "gentle creature." +Not a day passed at his office that he did not telephone +home with the most casual-sounding pleasantry, +"Is everything all right? Any burnt-bridge +smoke in the air?" Usually, clear as his own voice, +and sometimes even with a little giggle tucked on +at the end, the answer came, "Yes, everything's +all right." But now and then over that telephone +wire a minor note flashed with unmistakably tremulous +vibration: "N-o, Drew. Oh, could you +come right home—and take me somewhere?"</p> + +<p>Drew's brown cheeks hollowed a bit, perhaps, as +time went on, but always smilingly, always frankly +and jocosely, he met the occasionally recurrent +emergencies of his love-life. Underneath his smile +and underneath his frankness his original purpose +never flinched and never wavered. With growing +mental intimacy and absolute emotional aloofness +he forced day by day the image and the consciousness +of his personality upon the girl's plastic mind:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[231]</a></span> +his picture, for instance, as a matter of course for +her locket; his favorite, rather odd, colors for her +clothes; his sturdy, adventuresome, fleet-footed +opinions to run ahead and break in all her strange +new thought-grounds for her. More than this, in +every possible way that showed to the world he +stamped her definitely as the most carefully cherished +wife among all her young married mates.</p> + +<p>At first the very novelty of the situation had fed +his eyes with rapture and fired the girl's face with +a feverish excitement almost as pink as happiness. +The surprise and congratulations of their friends, +the speech of the janitor, the floral offering of the +elevator boy, the long procession of silver spoons +and cut-glass dishes, had filled their days with interest +and laughter. Trig in her light muslin house +gowns or her big gingham aprons, Ruth fluttered +blissfully around her house like a new, brainy sort +of butterfly. By some fine, instinctive delicacy, +shrewder than many women's love, she divined and +forestalled Drew's domestic tastes and preferences, +and lined his simplest, homespun needs with all the +quiver and sheen of silk. Resting his weariness, +spurring his laziness; equally quick to divine the +need of a sofa pillow or a joke; equally interested +in his food and his politics; always ready to talk, +always ready to keep still; cramping her free suburban +ways into his hampered accommodations;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[232]</a></span> +missing her garden and her pets and her piazzas +without ever acknowledging it—she tried in every +plausible way except loving to compensate Drew for +the wrong she had done him.</p> + +<p>Only once did Drew's smoldering self-control slip +the short leash he had set for himself. Just once, +round the glowing coziness of a rainy-night open +fire, he had dropped his book slammingly on the +floor and reached out his hand to her soft hair that +brightened like bronze in the lamplight. "Are you +happy?" he had probed before he could fairly bite +the words back; and she had jumped up, and tossed +her hair out of her eyes, and laughed as she started +for the kitchen. "No, I'm not exactly happy," +she had said. "But I'm awfully—interested."</p> + +<p>So June budded into July, and July bloomed into +August, and August wilted into September, and +September brittled and crisped and flamed at last +into October. Tennis and boating and picnics and +horseback riding filled up the edges of the days. +Little by little the bright, wholesome red came back +to live in Ruth's rounding cheeks. Little by little +the good steady gleam of normal interests supplanted +the wild will-o'-the-wisp lights in her eyes. +Little by little her accumulating possessions began +to steel shyly out from her tiny room and make +themselves boldly at home in the places where hitherto +they had ventured only as guests. Her workbasket<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[233]</a></span> +crowded Drew's tobacco-jar deliberately +from the table to the top of the bookcase. Her +daring hands nonchalantly replaced a brutally clever +cartoon with a soft-toned sketch of a little child. +Once, indeed, an ostentatiously freshly laundered +dress, all lace and posies and ruffles, went and hung +itself brazenly in Drew's roomy closet right next +to his fishing clothes.</p> + +<p>And then, just as Drew thought that at last he +saw Happiness stop and turn and look at him a bit +whimsically, Aleck Reese came back to town—Aleck +Reese, not as Fate should have had him, +drunken with flattery, riotous with revelry, chasing +madly some new infatuation, but Aleck Reese +sobered, dazed, temporarily purified by the shock of +his loss, if not by the loss itself.</p> + +<p>For a week, blissfully unconscious of any cause, +Drew had watched with growing perplexity and +anxiety the sudden, abrupt flag in the girl's health +and spirits and general friendliness. Flowers, +fruit, candy, books, excursion plans had all successively, +one by one, failed to rouse either her interest +or her ordinary civility. And then one night, dragging +home extra late from a worried, wearisome +day at the office, faint for his dinner, sick for his +sleep, he found the apartment perfectly dark and +cheerless, the fire unlighted, the table unset, and +Ruth herself lying in a paroxysm of grief on the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[234]</a></span> +floor under his stumbling feet. With his dizzy +head reeling blindly, and his hands shaking like an +aspen, he picked her up and tried to carry her to +the couch; but she wrenched herself away from him, +and walked over to the window and halfway back +again before she spoke.</p> + +<p>"Aleck Reese has come home," she announced +dully, and reached up unthinkingly and turned a +blast of electric light full on her ghastly face.</p> + +<p>Drew clutched at the back of the nearest chair. +"Have you seen him?" he almost whispered.</p> + +<p>The girl nodded. "Yes. He's been here a +week. I've seen him twice. Once—all day at the +tennis club—and this afternoon I met him on the +street, and he came home with me to get—a book."</p> + +<p>"Why didn't you tell me before that he was +here?"</p> + +<p>She shrugged her shoulders wearily. "I thought +his coming wasn't going to matter," she faltered, +"but—"</p> + +<p>"But what?" said Drew.</p> + +<p>Her arms fell limply down to her sides and her +chin began to quiver.</p> + +<p>"He kissed me this afternoon," she stammered, +"and I—kissed him. And, worse than that, we +were both—glad."</p> + +<p>Trying to brush the fog away from his eyes, +Drew almost sprang across the room at her, and she<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[235]</a></span> +gave a queer little cry and fled, not away from him, +but right into his arms, as though <i>there</i> was her only +haven. "Would you be apt to hurt me?" she +gasped with a funny-sad sort of inquisitiveness. +Then she backed away and held out her hand like a +man's to Drew's shaking fingers. "I'm very much +ashamed," she said, "about this afternoon. Oh, +very, very, very much ashamed. I haven't ever +been a really good wife to you, you know, but I +never have cheated before until to-day. I promise +you faithfully that it sha'n't happen again. But, +Drew"—her face flushed utterly crimson—"but, +Drew—I honestly think that it <i>had</i> to happen to-day."</p> + +<p>Drew's tortured eyes watched her keenly for a +second and then his look softened. "Will you +please tell Aleck," he suggested, "that you told me +all about it and that I—laughed?"</p> + +<p>It was not till some time in December, however, +after a nervous, evasive, speechless sort of week, +that Ruth appeared abruptly one day at Drew's office, +looking for all the world like the frightened +child who had sought him out there the June before.</p> + +<p>"Drew, you're five years older than I am, aren't +you?" she began disconnectedly. "And you've +always been older than I am, and stronger than I +am, and wiser than I am. And you've always<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[236]</a></span> +gone ahead in school and play and everything, and +learned what you wanted to and then come back—and +gotten me. And it always made everything—oh, +so much easier for me—and I thought it was a +magic scheme that simply couldn't fail to work. +But I'm afraid I'm not quite as smart as I used to +be—I can't seem to catch up with you this time."</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?" said Drew.</p> + +<p>She began to fidget with her gloves. "Do you +know what month it is?" she asked abruptly.</p> + +<p>"Why, yes," said Drew, just a bit drearily. +"It's December. What of it?"</p> + +<p>Her eyes blurred, but she kept them fixed steadily +on her husband. "Why, don't you remember," she +gasped, "that when we were married I promised +you faithfully that I would love you within six +months? The six months were up in November—but +I find I'm not quite ready—yet. You'll have +to give me a little more time," she pleaded. +"You'll have to renew my love-loan. Will you?"</p> + +<p>Drew slammed down his law books and forced +his mouth into a grin. "I'd forgotten all about +that arrangement," he said. "Of course I'll renew +what you call your 'love-loan.' Really and truly I +didn't expect you to love me before a full year was +up. Heart-wounds don't ever even begin to heal +until their first anniversaries are passed—all the +Christmases and birthdays and Easters. And,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[237]</a></span> +really, I'd quite as soon anyway that you didn't love +me till Spring," he added casually. "I'm so hideously +busy and worried just now with business +things."</p> + +<p>She gave him an odd little look that barely grazed +his face and settled flutteringly on the book in his +hand. It was a ponderous-looking treatise on "The +Annulment of Marriage." Her heart began to +pound furiously. "Drew!" she blurted out, "I +simply can't stand things any longer. I shall go +mad. I've tried and tried and tried to be good, and +it's no use. I must be stupid. I must be a fool. +<span class="smcap">But I want to go home!</span>"</p> + +<p>"All right," said Drew very quietly, "you—can—go—home."</p> + +<p>In another instant, without good-by or regret, she +had flashed out of the office and was racing down +the stairs. Halfway to the street she missed her +handkerchief, and started reluctantly back to get it. +The office door was locked, but she tiptoed round +to a private side entrance and opened the door very +cautiously and peeped in.</p> + +<p>Prostrate across his great, cluttered desk, Drew, +the serene, the laughing, the self-sufficient, lay sobbing +like a woman.</p> + +<p>Startled as though she had seen a ghost, the girl +backed undetected out of the door, and closed it +very softly behind her, nor did she stop tiptoeing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[238]</a></span> +until she had reached the street floor. Then, dropping +down weak-kneed upon the last step, she sat +staring out into the dingy patch of snow that flared +now and then through the swinging doorway. +Somewhere out in that vista Aleck Reese was waiting +and watching for her. Two or three of her husband's +business acquaintances paused and accosted +her. "Anything the matter?" they probed.</p> + +<p>"Oh, no," she answered brightly. "I'm just +thinking."</p> + +<p>After a while she jumped up abruptly and stole +back through a box-cluttered hall to the rear door +of the building, and slid out unnoticed into a side +street, gathering her great fur coat—Drew's latest +gift—closer and closer around her shivering body. +The day was gray and bleak and scarily incomplete, +like the work of some amateur creator who had +slipped up on the one essential secret of how to +make the sun shine. The jingliest sound of sleigh-bells, +the reddest flare of holiday shop windows, +could not cheer her thoughts away from the stinging, +shuddering memory of Drew's crumpled shoulders, +the gasping catch of his breath, the strange +new flicker of gray at his temples. Over and over +to herself she kept repeating dully: "I've hurt +Drew just the way that Aleck hurt me. It mustn't +be. It mustn't be—it mustn't! There's got to +be some way out!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[239]</a></span></p> + +<p>Then most unexpectedly, at the first street corner +she was gathered up joyously by a crowd of her +young married chums who were starting off in an +automobile for their sewing-club in Ruth's own old-home +suburb fifteen miles away. It was a long +time since she had played very freely with women, +and the old associations caught her interest with a +novel charm. Showered with candy, gay with +questions, happy with laughter, the party whizzed +up at last to the end of its journey, and tumbled +out rosy with frost and mischief to join the women +who had already arrived. From every individual +corner of the warm, lazy sewing-room some one +seemed to jump up and greet Ruth's return. "Oh, +you pampered young bride!" they teased, and "Will +you look at the wonderful fur coat and hat that +have happened to Ruth!" Even the sad-faced, widowed +little dressmaker who always officiated professionally +at the club wriggled out of her seat and +brought her small boy 'way across the room to stroke +the girl's sumptuous mink-brown softness.</p> + +<p>"Why, am I so very wonderful?" stammered +Ruth, staring down with her hands in her pockets at +the great fur length and breadth of her.</p> + +<p>"Well, if I had a coat like that," scoffed a shrill +voice from the sofa, "I should think that it was the +most wonderful thing in life that could happen to +me."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[240]</a></span></p> + +<p>Standing there scorching herself in the fire-glow, +Ruth looked up suddenly with a fierce sort of intentness. +"You wise old married people," she +cried, "tell me truly what really is the most wonderful +thing in life that can happen to a woman?"</p> + +<p>"Goodness, is it a new riddle?" shouted her hostess, +and instantly a dozen noisy answers came rollicking +into the contest. "Money!" cried the extravagant +one. "A husband who goes to the club +every night!" screamed the flirt. "Health!" +"Curls!" "Dresden china!" "Single blessedness!" +the suggestions came piling in. Only the dressmaker's +haggard face whitened comprehendingly to +the hunger underneath Ruth's laughing eyes. Staring +scornfully at the heaping luxuries all around +her, the shabby, widow-marked woman snatched up +her child and cuddled it to her breast. "The most +wonderful thing in life that can happen to a +woman?" she quoted passionately. "I'll tell you +what it is. It's being able to hope that your son +will be <i>exactly</i> like his father."</p> + +<p>"Exactly like his father?" The shrewd sting +and lash of the words ripped through Ruth's senses +like the scorch of a red-hot fuse. Strength, tenderness, +patience, love, loyalty flamed up before her +with such dazzling brilliance that she could scarcely +fathom the features behind them, and the room +whirled dizzily with sudden excessive heat. "Exactly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[241]</a></span> +like his father." A dozen feminine voices +caught up the phrase and dropped it blisteringly. +The wife of the town's <i>bon vivant</i> winced a trifle. +The most radiant bride of the year jabbed her fingers +accidentally with her scissors. Some one +started to sigh and laughed instead. A satirical +voice suggested, "Well, but of course there's got +to be some improvement in every generation."</p> + +<p>Smothering for air, Ruth reached up bunglingly +and fastened her big fur collar and started for the +door. "Oh, no," she protested to every one's detaining +hands, "honestly I didn't intend to stay. +I've got to hurry over to the house and get some +things before dark," and, pleading several equally +legitimate excuses, she bolted out into the snowy +fields to take the quickest possible short cut to her +Big Brother's house.</p> + +<p>Every plowing step drove her heart pounding +like an engine, and every lagging footfall started +her scared thoughts throbbing louder than her heart. +Hurry as fast as she could, stumbling over drift-hidden +rocks or floundering headlong into some hollow, +she could not seem to outdistance the startling, +tumultuous memory of the little dressmaker's passion-glorified +eyes staring scornfully down on the +slowly sobering faces of the women around her. +The vision stung itself home to the girl like sleet +in her eyes.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[242]</a></span></p> + +<p>"O-h!" she groaned. "What a wicked thing +Life is—wasting a man like Drew on a girl—like +me. 'To be able to hope that your son will be +exactly like his father!'" Her heart jumped. +Merciful heavens! If Happiness were really—only +as simple a thing as that—just to look in your +husband's eyes and find them good. Years and +years hence, perhaps, she herself might have a son—with +all his father's blessed, winsome virtues. +Her eyes flooded suddenly with angry tears. "Oh, +could Fate possibly, possibly be so tricky as to make +a woman love her son because he <i>was</i> like his father, +and yet all, all the long years make that woman just +miss loving the father himself?"</p> + +<p>With a little frightened gasp she began to run. +"If I only can get to the house," she reasoned, +"then everything will be all right. And I'll never +leave it again."</p> + +<p>Half an hour later, panting and flushing, she +twisted her latch-key through the familiar home +door. No one was there to greet her. From attic +to cellar the whole house was deserted. At first +the emptiness and roominess seemed to ease and +rest her, but after a little while she began to get lonesome, +and started out to explore familiar corners, +and found them unfamiliar. "What an ugly new +wall-paper!" she fretted; "and what a silly way to +set the table!" Her old room smote upon her with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[243]</a></span> +strange surprise—not cunningly, like one's funny +little baby clothes, but distastefully, like a last year's +outgrown coat. In the large, light pantry a fresh +disappointment greeted her. "What an insipid +salad!" she mourned. "It isn't half as nice as +the salad Drew makes." Cookies, cakes, doughnuts +failed her successively. "And I used to think +they were the best I ever tasted," she puzzled. In +the newly upholstered parlor a queer unrest sickened +her. "Why, the house doesn't seem quite to—fit +me any more," she acknowledged, and bundled +herself into her coat again, and stuffed her +pockets with apples, and started off more gladly for +the barn.</p> + +<p>As she pushed back the heavy sliding doors a +horse whinnied, possibly for welcome, but probably +for oats. Teased by the uncertainty, the girl threw +back her head and laughed. "Hello, all you animals," +she cried; "I have come home. Isn't it +fine?"</p> + +<p>Up from the floor of his pen the lamb rose clatteringly +like a mechanical toy, and met the glad +news with a peculiarly disdainful "B-a-a-a!" +Back to the sheltering wood-pile her old friends +the kittens—little cats now—fled from her with +precipitous fear. The white-nosed cow reared back +with staring eyes. The pet horse snapped at her +fingers instead of the apple. The collie dog, to be<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[244]</a></span> +sure, came jumping boisterously, but the jumpiness +was unmistakably because he was "Carlo," and not +because she was "Ruth." And yet only six months +before every animal on the place had looked like +her with that strange, absurd mimicry of human expression +that characterizes the faces of all much-cherished +birds or beasties. And now even the collie +dog had reverted to the plain, blank-featured +canine street type—and the pet horse looked like +the hired man.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 368px;"> +<img src="images/gs06.jpg" width="368" height="500" alt=""Hello, all you animals," she cried" title="" /> +<span class="caption">"Hello, all you animals," she cried</span> +</div> + +<p>The girl's forehead puckered up into a bewildered +sort of frown. "I don't quite seem to belong anywhere," +she concluded. The thought was unpleasant. +Worst of all, the increasing, utterly unexplainable +sob in her throat made her feel very reluctant +to go back into the house and wait for her Brother +and the Housekeeper and the inevitable questions. +Dallying there on the edge of the wheelbarrow, +munching her red-cheeked apples, it was almost eight +o'clock before her mind quickened to a solution of +her immediate difficulties. She would hide in the +hay all night, there in the sweetness and softness +of last summer's beautiful grass, and think out her +problems and decide what to do.</p> + +<p>Deep in the hay she burrowed out a nest, and +lined it with the biggest buffalo robe and the thickest +carriage rug. Then one by one she carried up +the astonished kittens, and the heavy, fat lamb, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[245]</a></span> +the scrambling collie dog to keep her company, and +snuggled herself down, warm and content, to drowse +and dream amidst the musty cobwebs, and the short, +sharp snap of straws, and the soothing sighs of the +sleepy cow, and the stamp, stamp of the horse, and +all the extra, indefinite, scary, lonesome night noises +that keep your nerves exploding intermittently like +torpedoes and start your common sense scouring +like a silver polish at all the tarnished values of your +everyday life.</p> + +<p>Midnight found her lying wide awake and starry-eyed, +with her red lips twisted into an oddly inscrutable +smile. Close in her left hand the collie +dog nestled his grizzly nose. Under her right arm +the woolly lamb slumbered. Over her quiet feet the +little cats purred with fire-gleaming faces.</p> + +<p>Attracted by the barking of his new bulldog, Big +Brother came out in the early morning and discovered +her in the hay.</p> + +<p>"Well, for heaven's sake!" he began. "Where +did you come from? Where does Drew think you +are? He's been telephoning here all night trying +to find you. I guess he's scared to death. Great +Scott! what's the matter? What are you hiding +out here for? Have you had any trouble with +Drew?"</p> + +<p>She slid down out of her nest with the jolliest +sort of a laugh. "Of course I haven't had any<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[246]</a></span> +trouble with Drew. I just wanted to come home. +That's all. Drew buys me everything else," she +dimpled, "but he simply won't buy me any hay—and +I'm such a donkey."</p> + +<p>Big Brother shrugged his shoulders. "You're +just as foolish as ever," he began, and then finished +abruptly with "What a perfectly absurd way to do +your hair! It looks like fury."</p> + +<p>An angry flush rose to her cheeks, and she reached +up her hands defensively. "It suits Drew all +right," she retorted.</p> + +<p>Big Brother laughed. "Well, come along in the +house and get your breakfast and telephone Drew."</p> + +<p>The funniest sort of an impulse smote suddenly +upon Ruth's mind. "I don't want any breakfast," +she protested, "and I don't want any telephone. +I'm going home this minute to surprise Drew. +We were going to have broiled chicken, and a new +dining-room table, and a pot of primroses as big as +your head. Shall I have time to wash my face before +the car comes?"</p> + +<p>Ten minutes after that she was running like mad +to the main street. An hour later the big, whizzing +electric car that was speeding her back to the city +crashed headlong at a curve into another brittling, +splintering mass of screams and blood and broken +glass and shivering woodwork.</p> + +<p>When she came to her senses she was lying in her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[247]</a></span> +blood-stained furs on some one's piazza floor, and +the horrid news of the accident must have traveled +very quickly, for a great crowd of people was +trampling round over the snowy lawn, and Big +Brother and Aleck Reese and the old family doctor +seemed to have dropped down right out of the snow-whirling +sky. Just as she opened her eyes, Aleck +Reese, haggard with fear and dissipation, was +kneeling down trying to slip his arms under her.</p> + +<p>With the mightiest possible effort she lifted her +forefinger warningly.</p> + +<p>"Don't you dare touch me," she threatened. "I +promised Drew—"</p> + +<p>The doctor looked up astonished into her wide-open +eyes. "Now, Ruth," he begged, "don't you +make any fuss. We've got to get you into a carriage. +We'll try not to hurt you any more than is +absolutely necessary."</p> + +<p>Her shattered nerves failed her utterly. "What +nonsense!" she sobbed. "You don't have to hurt +me at all. My own man never hurts me at all. I +tell you I want my own man."</p> + +<p>"But we can't find Drew," protested the doctor.</p> + +<p>Then the blood came gushing back into her eyes +and some wicked brute took her bruised knees, and +her wrenched back, and her broken collar bone, and +her smashed head, and jarred them all up together +like a bag of junk, and she gave one awful, blood-curdling<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[248]</a></span> +yell—and a horse whinnied—and everything +in the world stopped happening like a run-down +clock.</p> + +<p>When Time began to tick normally again, she +found herself lying with an almost solid cotton face +in a pleasant, puffy bed that seemed to rock, and +roll, and tug against her straining arm that clutched +its fingers like an anchor into somebody's perfectly +firm, kind hand. As far away as a voice on a +shore, tired, hoarse, desperately incessant, some one +was signaling reassurance to her: "You're all +right, honey, You're all right, honey."</p> + +<p>After a long time her fingers twittered in the +warm grasp. "Who are you?" she stammered +perplexedly.</p> + +<p>"Just your 'own man,'" whispered Drew.</p> + +<p>The lips struggling out from the edge of the +bandage quivered a little. "My 'own man'?" she +repeated with surprise. "Who was the tattletale +that told you?" She began to shiver suddenly +in mental or physical agony. "Oh, I remember it +all now," she gasped. "Was the little boy killed +who sat in the corner seat?"</p> + +<p>"Why, I don't know," said Drew, and his voice +rasped unexpectedly with the sickening strain of +the past few hours.</p> + +<p>At the sound she gave a panic-stricken sob. "I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[249]</a></span> +believe I'm dead myself, Drew," she cried, "and +you're trying to keep it from me. Where am I? +Tell me instantly where I am."</p> + +<p>Drew's laugh rang out before he could control +it. "You're here in your own little room," he assured +her.</p> + +<p>"Prove it," she whimpered hysterically. "Tell +me what's on my bureau."</p> + +<p>He jumped up and walked across the room to +make sure. "Why, there's a silver-backed mirror, +and a box of violet powder, and a package of safety +pins."</p> + +<p>"Pshaw!" she said. "Those might be on any +angel's bureau. What else do you see?"</p> + +<p>He fumbled a minute among the glass and silver +and gave a quick sigh of surprise. "Here's your +wedding ring."</p> + +<p>"Bring it to me," she pleaded, and took the tiny +golden circlet blindly from his hand and slipped it +experimentally once or twice up and down her finger. +"Yes, that's it," she assented, and handed it +back to him. "Hurry—quick—before anybody +comes."</p> + +<p>"What do you want?" faltered Drew.</p> + +<p>She reached up wilfully and yanked the bandage +away from the corner of one eye.</p> + +<p>"Why, put the ring back on my finger where<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[250]</a></span> +it belongs!" she said. "We're going to begin all +over again. Play that I am your wife!" she demanded +tremulously.</p> + +<p>Drew winced like raw flesh. "You are my +wife," he cried. "You are! You are! You +are!"</p> + +<p>With all the strength that was left to her she +groped out and drew his face down to her lips.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I've invented a lots better game than that," +she whispered. "If we're going to play any game +at all—let's—play—that—I—love—you!"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[253]</a></span></p> +<h2>HEART OF THE CITY</h2> + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 162px;"> +<img src="images/drop_t.png" width="162" height="164" alt="T" title="" /> +</div><div class='unindent'><br />HE dining-room was green, as +green could be. Under the orange-colored +candle-light, the +walls, rugs, ceiling, draperies, +ferns, glowed verdant, mysterious, +intense, like night woods arching +round a camp fire. Into this fervid, pastoral +verdure the round white table, sparkling with silver, +limpid with wine-lights, seemed to roll forth resplendent +and incongruous as a huge, tinseled snowball.</div> + +<p>Outside, like fire engines running on velvet +wheels, the automobiles went humming along the +pavement. Inside, the soft, narrow, ribbony voice +of a violin came whimpering through the rose-scented +air.</p> + +<p>It was the midst of dinner-party time. In the +oak-paneled hallway a shadowy, tall clock swallowed +gutturally on the verge of striking nine.</p> + +<p>The moment was distinctly nervous. The <i>entrée</i> +course was late, and the Hostess, gesticulating +tragically to her husband, had slipped one chalky<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[254]</a></span> +white shoulder just a fraction of an inch too far +out of its jeweled strap. The Host, conversing +every second with exaggerated blandness about the +squirrels in Central Park, was striving frantically +all the while with a desperately surreptitious, itchy +gesture to signal to his mate. Worse than this, +a prominent Sociologist was audibly discussing the +American penal system with a worried-looking lady +whose brother was even then under indictment for +some banking fraud. Some one, trying to kick the +Sociologist's ankle bone, had snagged his own foot +gashingly through the Woodland Girl's skirt ruffle, +and the Woodland Girl, blush-blown yet with country +breezes, clear-eyed as a trout pool, sweet-breathed +as balsam, was staring panic-stricken +around the table, trying to locate the particular +man's face that could possibly connect boot-wise +with such a horridly profane accident. The sudden, +grotesque alertness of her expression attracted +the laggard interest of the young Journalist at her +left.</p> + +<p>"What brought you to New York?" the Journalist +asked abruptly. "You're the last victim +in from the country, so you must give an account +of yourself. Come 'fess up! What brought you +to New York?"</p> + +<p>The Journalist's smile was at least as conscientious +as the smile of daylight down a city airshaft,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[255]</a></span> +and the Woodland Girl quickened to the brightening +with almost melodramatic delight, for all previous +conversational overtures from this neighbor +had been about actors that she had never heard of, +or operas that she could not even pronounce, and +before the man's scrutinizing, puzzled amazement +she had felt convicted not alone of mere rural ignorance, +but of freckles on her nose.</p> + +<p>"What brought me to New York?" she repeated +with vehement new courage. "Do you +really want to know? It's quite a speech. What +brought me to New York? Why, I wanted to see +the 'heart of the city.' I'm twenty years old, and +I've never in all my life been away from home before. +Always and always I've lived in a log bungalow, +in a wild garden, in a pine forest, on a green +island, in a blue lake. My father is an invalid, +you know, one of those people who are a little +bit short of lungs but inordinately long of brains. +And I know Anglo-Saxon and Chemistry and Hindoo +History and Sunrises and Sunsets and Mountains +and Moose, and such things. But I wanted +to know People. I wanted to know Romance. I +wanted to see for myself all this 'heart of the +city' that you hear so much about—the great, +blood-red, eager, gasping heart of the city. So I +came down here last week to visit my uncle and +aunt."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[256]</a></span></p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 304px;"> +<img src="images/gs07.jpg" width="304" height="500" alt=""The lone, accentuated figure of a boy violinist"" title="" /> +<span class="caption">"The lone, accentuated figure of a boy violinist"</span> +</div> + +<p>Her mouth tightened suddenly, and she lowered +her voice with ominous intensity. "But there <i>isn't</i> +any heart to, your city—no!—there is no heart +at all at the center of things—just a silly, pretty, +very much decorated heart-shaped box filled with +candy. If you shake it hard enough, it may rattle, +but it won't throb. And I hate—hate—hate +your old city. It's utterly, hopelessly, irremediably +jejune, and I'm going home to-morrow!" As +she leaned toward the Journalist, the gold locket +on her prim, high-necked gown swung precipitously +forth like a wall picture in a furious little earthquake.</p> + +<p>The Journalist started to laugh, then changed +his mind and narrowed his eyes speculatively toward +something across the room. "No heart?" +he queried. "No Romance?"</p> + +<p>The Woodland Girl followed his exploring gaze. +Between the plushy green <i>portières</i> a dull, cool, +rose-colored vista opened forth refreshingly, with +a fragment of bookcase, the edge of a stained +glass window, the polished gleam of a grand piano, +and then—lithe, sinuous, willowy, in the shaded +lamplight—the lone, accentuated figure of a boy +violinist. In the amazing mellow glow that smote +upon his face, the Woodland Girl noted with a +crumple at her heart the tragic droop of the boy's +dark head, the sluggish, velvet passion of his eyes,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[257]</a></span> +the tortured mouth, the small chin fairly worn and +burrowed away against his vibrant instrument. +And the music that burst suddenly forth was like +scalding water poured on ice—seething with anguish, +shuddering with ecstasy, flame at your heart, +frost at your spine.</p> + +<p>The Girl began to shiver. "Oh, yes, I know," +she whispered. "He plays, of course, as though +he knew all sorrows by their first names, but that's +Genius, isn't it, not Romance? He's such a little +lad. He can hardly have experienced much really +truly emotion as yet beyond a—stomach ache—or +the loss of a Henty book."</p> + +<p>"A stomach ache! A Henty book!" cried the +Journalist, with a bitter, convulsive sort of mirth. +"Well, I'm ready to admit that the boy is scarcely +eighteen. But he happens to have lost a wife and +a son within the past two months! While some +of us country-born fellows of twenty-eight or thirty +were asking our patient girls at home to wait even +another year, while we came over to New York +and tried our fortunes, this little youngster of +scarcely eighteen is already a husband, a father, and +a widower.</p> + +<p>"He's a Russian Jew—you can see that—and +one of our big music people picked him up +over there a few months ago and brought him +jabberingly to America. But the invitation didn't<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[258]</a></span> +seem to include the wife and baby—genius and +family life aren't exactly guaranteed to develop +very successfully together—and right there on +the dock at the very last sailing moment the little +chap had to choose between a small, wailing family +and a great big, clapping New York—just temporarily, +you understand, a mere matter of immediate +expediency; and families are supposed to +keep indefinitely, you know, and keep sweet, too, +while everybody knows that New York can go +sour in a single night, even in the coldest weather. +And just as the youngster was trying to decide, +wavering first one way and then the other, and +calling on high every moment to the God of all the +Russias, the old steamer whistle began to blow, +and they rustled him on board, and his wife and +the kid pegged back alone to the province where +the girl's father lived, and they got snarled up on +the way with a band of Cossack soldiers, and the +little chap hasn't got any one now even as far off +as Russia to hamper his musical career.... +So he's playing jig-tunes to people like us that +are trying to forget our own troubles, such as how +much we owe our tailors or our milliners. But +sometimes they say he screams in the night, and +twice he has fainted in the midst of a concert.</p> + +<p>"No heart in the city? No Romance? Why, +my dear child, this whole city fairly teems with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[259]</a></span> +Romance. The automobiles throb with it. The +great, roaring elevated trains go hustling full of it. +There's Romance—Romance—Romance from +dawn to dark, and from dark to dawn again. The +sweetness of the day-blooming sunshine, the madness +of the night-blooming electric lights, the +crowds, the colors, the music, the perfume—why, +the city is <i>Romance-mad!</i> If you stop anywhere +for even half an instant to get your breath, Romance +will run right over you. It's whizzing past +you in the air. It's whizzing past you in the street. +It's whizzing past you in the sensuous, ornate theaters, +in the jaded department stores, in the calm, +gray churches. Romance?—Love?</p> + +<p>"The only trouble about New York Romance +lies just in the fact that it is so whizzingly premature. +You've simply got to grab Love the minute +before you've made up your mind—because the +minute after you've made up your mind, it won't +be there. Grab it—or lose it. Grab it—or lose +it. That's the whole Heart-Motto of New York. +Sinner or Saint—<span class="smcap">rush</span>—<span class="smcap">rush</span>—<span class="smcap">rush</span>—like +Hell!"</p> + +<p>"Grab it—or lose it. Grab it, or—l-o-s-e it." +Like the impish raillery of a tortured devil, the violin's +passionate, wheedling tremolo seemed to catch +up the phrase, and mouth it and mock it, and tear +it and tease it, and kiss it and curse it—and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[260]</a></span> +<span class="smcap">smash</span> it at last into a great, screeching crescendo +that rent your eardrums like the crash of steel +rails.</p> + +<p>With strangely parched lips, the Woodland Girl +stretched out her small brown hand to the fragile, +flower-stemmed glass, and tasted for the first time +in her life the sweety-sad, molten-gold magic of +champagne. "Why, what is it?" she asked, with +the wonder still wet on her lips. "Why, what +is it?"</p> + +<p>The Journalist raised his own glass with staler +fingers, and stared for a second through narrowing +eyes into the shimmering vintage. "What is +it?" he repeated softly. "This particular brand? +The Italians call it '<i>Lacrymæ Christi</i>.' So even +in our furies and our follies, in our cafés and carousals, +in our love and all our laughter—we drink—you +see—the—'Tears of Christ.'" He +reached out suddenly and covered the Girl's half-drained +glass with a quivering hand. "Excuse +me," he stammered. "Maybe—our thirst is +partly of the soul; but '<i>Lacrymæ Christi</i>' was +never meant for little girls like you. <i>Go back to +your woods!</i>"</p> + +<p>Scuttle as it might, the precipitate, naked passion +in his voice did not quite have time to cover itself +with word-clothes. A little gasping breath escaped. +And though the Girl's young life was as<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[261]</a></span> +shiningly empty as an unfinished house, her brain-cells +were packed like an attic with all the inherent +experiences of her mother's mother's mother, and +she flinched instinctively with a great lurch of her +heart.</p> + +<p>"Oh, let's talk about something—dressy," she +begged. "Let's talk about Central Park. Let's +talk about the shops. Let's talk about the subway." +Her startled face broke desperately into +a smile. "Oh, don't you think the subway is perfectly +dreadful," she insisted. "There's so much +underbrush in it!" Even as she spoke, her shoulders +hunched up the merest trifle, and her head +pushed forward, after the manner of people who +walk much in the deep woods. The perplexity in +her eyes spread instantly to her hands. Among the +confusing array of knives and forks and spoons +at her plate, her fingers began to snarl nervously +like a city man's feet through a tangle of blackberry +vines.</p> + +<p>With a good-natured shrug of his shoulders, the +Journalist turned to his more sophisticated neighbor, +and left her quite piteously alone once more. +An enamored-looking man and woman at her right +were talking transmigration of souls, but whenever +she tried to annex herself to their conversation +they trailed their voices away from her in a sacred, +aloof sort of whisper. Across the table the people<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[262]</a></span> +were discussing city politics in a most clandestine +sort of an undertone. Altogether it was almost +half an hour before the Journalist remembered to +smile at her again. The very first flicker of his +lips started her red mouth mumbling inarticulately.</p> + +<p>"Were you going to say something?" he asked.</p> + +<p>She shook her head drearily. "No," she stammered. +"I've tried and tried, but I can't think +of anything at all to say. I guess I don't know any +secrets."</p> + +<p>The Journalist's keen eyes traveled shrewdly for +a second round the cautious, worldly-wise table, +and then came narrowing back rather quizzically +to the Woodland Girl's flushing, pink and white +face.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I don't know," he smiled. "You look to +me like a little girl who might have a good many +secrets."</p> + +<p>She shook her head. "No," she insisted, "in +all the whole wide world I don't know one single +thing that has to be whispered."</p> + +<p>"No scandals?" teased the Journalist.</p> + +<p>"No!"</p> + +<p>"No love affairs?"</p> + +<p>"No!"</p> + +<p>The Journalist laughed. "Why, what do you +think about all day long up in your woods?" he +quizzed.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[263]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Anglo-Saxon and Chemistry and Hindoo History +and Sunsets and Mountains and Moose," she +repeated glibly.</p> + +<p>"Now you're teasing me," said the Journalist.</p> + +<p>She nodded her head delightedly. "I'm trying +to!" she smiled.</p> + +<p>The Journalist turned part way round in his +chair, and proffered her a perfectly huge olive as +though it had been a crown jewel. When he spoke +again, his voice was almost as low as the voice of +the man who was talking transmigration of souls. +But his smile was a great deal kinder. "Don't +you find any Romance at all in your woods?" he +asked a bit drawlingly.</p> + +<p>"No," said the Girl; "that's the trouble. Of +course, when I was small it didn't make any difference; +indeed, I think that I rather preferred it +lonesome then. But this last year, somehow, and +this last autumn especially—oh, I know you'll +think I'm silly—but two or three times in the +woods—I've hoped and hoped and hoped—at +the turn of a trail, or the edge of a brook, or the +scent of a camp fire—that I might run right into +a real, live Hunter or Fisherman. And—one +night I really prayed about it—and the next morning +I got up early and put on my very best little +hunting suit—all coats and leggings and things +just like yours, you know—and I stayed out all<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[264]</a></span> +day long—tramping—tramping—tramping, and +I never saw <i>any one</i>. But I did get a fox. Yes!—and +then—"</p> + +<p>"And then what?" whispered the Journalist very +helpfully.</p> + +<p>The Girl began to smile, but her lips were quite +as red as a blush. "Well—and—then," she continued +softly, "it occurred to me all of a sudden +that the probable reason why the Man-Who-Was-Meant-for-Me +didn't come was because he—<i>didn't +know I was there!</i>" She began to laugh, +toying all the while a little bit nervously with her +ice-cream fork. "So I thought that perhaps—if +I came down to New York this winter—and +then went home again, that maybe—not probably +you know, but just possibly—some time +in the spring or summer—I might look up suddenly +through the trees and he <i>would</i> be there! +But I've been ten days in New York and I haven't +seen one single man whom I'd exactly like to meet +in the woods—in my little hunting suit."</p> + +<p>"Wouldn't you be willing to meet me?" pried +the Journalist injudiciously.</p> + +<p>The Girl looked up and faltered. "Why, of +course," she hurried, "I should be very glad to see +you—but I had always sort of hoped that the +man whom I met in the woods wouldn't be bald."</p> + +<p>The Journalist choked noisily over his salted<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[265]</a></span> +almonds. His heightened color made him look +very angry.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I trust I wasn't rude," begged the Woodland +Girl. Then as the Journalist's galloping +laughter slowed down into the gentlest sort of a +single-foot smile, her eyes grew abruptly big and +dark with horror. "Why, I never thought of it," +she stammered, "but I suppose that what I have +just said about the man in the woods and my coming +to New York is—'husband hunting.'"</p> + +<p>The Journalist considered the matter very carefully. +"N—o," he answered at last, "I don't +think I should call it 'husband hunting' nor yet, +exactly, 'the search for the Holy Grail'; but, really +now, I think on the whole I should call it more of +a sacrament than a sport."</p> + +<p>"O—h," whispered the Girl with a little sigh of +relief.</p> + +<p>It must have been fully fifteen minutes before +the Journalist spoke to her again. Then, in the +midst of his salad course, he put down his fork +and asked quite inquisitively: "Aren't there +any men at all up in your own special Maine +woods?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes," the Girl acknowledged with a little +crinkle of her nose, "there's Peter."</p> + +<p>"Who's Peter?" he insisted.</p> + +<p>"Why, Peter," she explained, "is the Philadelphia<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[266]</a></span> +boy who tutors with my father in the summers."</p> + +<p>Her youthfulness was almost as frank as fever, +and, though taking advantage of this frankness +seemed quite as reprehensible as taking advantage of +any other kind of babbling delirium, the Journalist +felt somehow obliged to pursue his investigations.</p> + +<p>"Nice boy?" he suggested tactfully.</p> + +<p>The Girl's nose crinkled just a little bit tighter.</p> + +<p>The Journalist frowned. "I'll wager you two +dozen squirrels out of Central Park," he said, "that +Peter is head over heels in love with you!"</p> + +<p>The Girl's mouth twisted a trifle, but her eyes +were absolutely solemn. "I suppose that he is," +she answered gravely, "but he's never taken the +trouble to tell me so, and he's been with us three +summers. I suppose lots of men are made like +that. You read about it in books. They want to +sew just as long—long—long a seam as they +possibly can without tying any knot in the thread. +Peter, I know, wants to make perfectly Philadelphia-sure +that he won't meet any girl in the winters +whom he likes better."</p> + +<p>"I think that sort of thing is mighty mean," interposed +the Journalist sympathetically.</p> + +<p>"Mean?" cried the Girl. "Mean?" Her +tousley yellow hair seemed fairly electrified with astonishment, +and her big blue eyes brimmed suddenly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[267]</a></span> +with uproarious delight. "Oh, of course," she +added contritely, "it may be mean for the person +who sews the seam, but it's heaps of fun for the +cloth, because after awhile, you know, Pompous +Peter will discover that there isn't any winter girl +whom he likes better, and in the general excitement +of the discovery he'll remember only the long, long +seam—three happy summers—and forget altogether +that he never tied any knot. And then! +And then!" her cheeks began to dimple. "And +then—just as he begins triumphantly to gather me +in—all my yards and yards and yards of beautiful +freedom fretted into one short, puckery, worried +ruffle—then—Hooray—swish—slip—slide—<i>out +comes the thread</i>—and Mr. Peter falls +right over bump-backward with surprise. Won't +it be fun?"</p> + +<p>"Fun?" snapped the Journalist. "What a horrid, +heartless little cynic you are!"</p> + +<p>The Girl's eyebrows fairly tiptoed to reach his +meaning. "Cynic?" she questioned. "You surely +don't mean that I am a cynic? Why, I think men +are perfectly splendid in every possible way that—doesn't +matter to a woman. They can build +bridges and wage wars, and spell the hardest, homeliest +words. But Peter makes life so puzzling," +she added wryly. "Everybody wants me to marry +Peter; everybody says 'slow but sure,' 'slow but<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[268]</a></span> +sure.' But it's a lie!" she cried out hotly. "Slow +is <i>not</i> sure. It is not! It is not! The man who +isn't excited enough to <i>run</i> to his goal is hardly +interested enough to walk. And yet"—her forehead +crinkled all up with worry—"and yet—you +tell me that 'quick' isn't sure, either. <i>What is +sure?</i>"</p> + +<p>"Nothing!" said the Journalist.</p> + +<p>She tossed her head. "All the same," she retorted, +"I'd rather have a man propose to me +three years before, rather than three years after, +I'd made up my mind whether to accept him or +not."</p> + +<p>"Don't—marry—Peter," laughed the Journalist.</p> + +<p>"Why not?" she asked—so very bluntly that +the Journalist twisted a bit uneasily.</p> + +<p>"Oh—I—don't—know," he answered cautiously. +Then suddenly his face brightened. +"Any trout fishing up in your brooks about the +first of May?" he asked covertly.</p> + +<p>Again the knowledge of her mother's mother's +mother blazed red-hot in the Girl's cheeks. +"Y—e—s," she faltered reluctantly, "the trout-fishing +is very generous in May."</p> + +<p>"Will Peter be there?" persisted the Journalist.</p> + +<p>Her eyes began to shine again with amusement. +"Oh, no," she said. "Peter never comes until<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[269]</a></span> +July." With mock dignity she straightened herself +up till her shoulder almost reached the Journalist's. +"I was very foolish," she attested, "even +to mention Peter, or mankind—at all. Of course, +I'm commencing to realize that my ideas about +men are exceedingly countrified—'disgustingly +countrified,' my aunt tells me. Why, just this last +week at my aunt's sewing club I learned that the +only two real qualifications for marriage are that a +man should earn not less than a hundred dollars a +week, and be a perfectly kind hooker."</p> + +<p>"A perfectly kind hooker?" queried the Journalist.</p> + +<p>"Why, yes," she said. "Don't you know—now—that +all our dresses fasten in the back?" +Her little tinkling, giggling laugh rang out with +startling incongruity through the formal room, and +her uncle glanced at her and frowned with the +slightest perceptible flicker of irritation. She +leaned her face a wee bit closer to the Journalist. +"Now, uncle, for instance," she confided, "is not +a particularly kind hooker. He's accurate, you +understand, but not exactly kind."</p> + +<p>The Journalist started to smile, but instantly +her tip-most finger ends brushed across his sleeve. +"Oh, please, don't smile any more," she pleaded, +"because every time you smile you look so pleasant +that some lady sticks out a remark like a hand<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[270]</a></span> +and grabs you into her own conversation." But +the warning came too late. In another moment +the Journalist was most horridly involved with the +people on his left in a prosy discussion regarding +Japanese servants.</p> + +<p>For another interminable length of time the +Woodland Girl sat in absolute isolation. Some of +the funerals at home were vastly more social, she +thought—people at least inquired after the health +of the survivors. But now, even after she had +shredded all her lettuce into a hundred pieces and +bitten each piece twice, she was still quite alone. +Even after she had surreptitiously nibbled up all +the cracker crumbs around her own plate and the +Journalist's plate, she was still quite alone. Finally, +in complete despair, she folded her little, +brown, ringless hands and sat and stared frankly +about her.</p> + +<p>Across the sparkly, rose-reeking table a man as +polished as poison ivy was talking devotedly to a +white-faced Beauty in a most exciting gown that +looked for all the world like the Garden of Eden +struck by lightning—black and billowing as a +thunder cloud, zigzagged with silver, ravished with +rose-petals, rain-dropped with pearls. Out of the +gorgeous, mysterious confusion of it the Beauty's +bare shoulders leaped away like Eve herself fleeing +before the storm. But beyond the extravagant<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[271]</a></span> +sweep of gown and shoulder the primitive likeness +ended abruptly in one of those utterly well-bred, +worldly-wise, perfected young faces, with that subtle, +indescribable sex-consciousness of expression +which makes the type that men go mad over, and +the type that older women tersely designate as looking +just a little bit "too kissed."</p> + +<p>But the Woodland Girl did not know the +crumpled-rose-leaf stamp of face which characterizes +the coquette. Utterly fascinated, tremulous +with excitement, heartsick with envy, she reached +out very softly and knocked with her finger on the +Journalist's plate to beg readmission to his mind.</p> + +<p>"Oh, who is that beautiful creature?" she whispered.</p> + +<p>"Adele Reitzen," said the Journalist, "your +uncle's ward."</p> + +<p>"My own uncle's ward?" The Woodland Girl +gave a little gasp. "But why does she worry so +in her eyes every now and then?" she asked +abruptly.</p> + +<p>Even as she asked, Adele Reitzen began to cough. +The trouble started with a trivial clearing of her +throat, caught up a disjointed swallow or two, and +ended with a rack that seemed to rip like a brutal +knife right across her silver-spangled lungs. Somebody +patted her on the back. Somebody offered +her a glass of water. But in the midst of the choking<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[272]</a></span> +paroxysm she asked to be excused for a moment +and slipped away to the dressing-room. The +very devoted man seemed rather piteously worried +by the incident, and the Hostess looked straight +into his eyes and shook her head ominously.</p> + +<p>"I hope you are planning a southern wedding trip +next week," she said. "I don't like that cough +of Adele's. I've sat at three dinner parties with +her this week, and each individual night she has +had an attack like this and been obliged to leave the +table."</p> + +<p>In the moment's lull, the butler presented a yellow +telegram on a shiny, Sheffield tray, and the +Hostess slipped her pink fingers rustlingly through +the envelope and brightened instantly. "Oh, +here's a surprise for you, Chloe," she called to the +Woodland Girl. "Peter is coming over to-night +to see you." Like a puckering electric tingle the +simple announcement seemed to run through the +room, and a little wise, mischievous smile spread +from face to face among the guests. In another +instant everybody turned and peeped at the Woodland +Girl, and the Woodland Girl felt her good +cool, red blood turn suddenly to bubbling, boiling +water, and steam in horrid, clammy wetness across +her forehead and along the prickling palms of her +hands, and the Journalist laughed right out loud, +and the whole green, definite room swam dizzily<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[273]</a></span> +like the flaunting scarlet messiness of a tropical +jungle.</p> + +<p>Every nook and corner of the house, indeed, was +luxuriously heated, but when Adele Reitzen came +sauntering back to her seat, pungent around her, +telltale as an alien perfume, lurked the chill, fresh +aroma of the wintry, blustering street. Only the +country girl's smothering lungs noted the astonishing +fact. Like a little caged animal scenting the +blessed outdoors, her nostrils began to crinkle, and +she straightened up with such abrupt alertness that +she loomed to Adele Reitzen's startled senses like +the only visible person at the table, and for just +the fraction of a heart-beat the two girls fathomed +down deep and understandingly into each other's +eyes, before Adele Reitzen fluttered her white +lids with a little piteous gesture of appeal.</p> + +<p>Breathlessly the Woodland Girl turned to the +Journalist, and touched his arm. "New York <i>is</i> +interesting, isn't it!" she stammered. "I've decided +just this minute to stay another week."</p> + +<p>"Oh, ho," said the Journalist. "So you love it +better than you did an hour ago?"</p> + +<p>"No!" cried the Woodland Girl. "I love it +worse. I love it worse every moment like a—ghost +story, but I'm going to stick it out a week +longer and see how it ends. And I've learned one +clue to New York's plot this very night. I've<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[274]</a></span> +learned that most every face is a 'haunted house.' +The mouths slam back and forth all the time like +pleasant doors, and the jolliest kind of speeches +come prancing out, and all that—but in the eyes +ghosts are peering out the windows every minute."</p> + +<p>"Cheerful thought," said the Journalist, taking +off his glasses. "Who's the ghost in my eyes?"</p> + +<p>The Woodland Girl stared at him wonderingly. +"The ghost in your eyes?" she blundered. "Why—I +guess—it's 'the patient girl at home' whom +you asked to wait 'even another year.'"</p> + +<p>Like two fever spots the red flared angrily on the +Journalist's cheek bones.</p> + +<p>Not even the Journalist spoke to her again.</p> + +<p>Finally, lonesome as a naughty child, she followed +the dozen dinner guests back into the huge +drawing-room, and wandered aimlessly around +through the incomprehensible mysteries of Chinese +idols and teakwood tabourets and soft, mushy +Asiatic rugs. Then at last, behind a dark, jutting +bookcase, in a corner most blissfully safe and secret +like a cave, she stumbled suddenly upon a great, +mottled leopard skin with its big, humpy head, and +its sad glass eyes yearning out to her reproachfully. +As though it had been a tiny, lost kitten, she gave +a wee gasp of joy, and dropped down on the floor +and tried to cuddle the huge, felt-lined, fur bulk +into her lap. Just as the clumsy face flopped across<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[275]</a></span> +her knees, she heard the quick swish of silk, and +looked up to see Adele Reitzen bending over her.</p> + +<p>The older girl's eyes were tortured with worry, +and her white fingers teased perpetually at the jeweled +watch on her breast. "Chloe Curtis," she +whispered abruptly, "will you do something for +me? Would you be afraid? You are visiting here +in the house, so no one would question your disappearance. +Will you go up to the dressing-room—quick—and +get my black evening coat—the one +with the gold embroidery and the big hood—and +go out to the street corner where the cars stop—and +tell the man who is waiting there—that I +couldn't—simply couldn't—get out again? +Would you be afraid?"</p> + +<p>The Woodland Girl jumped to her feet. At that +particular instant the lump in her throat seemed the +only really insurmountable obstacle in the whole +wide world. "Would I be afraid?" she scoffed. +"Afraid of what? Of New York? Of the electric +lights? Of the automobiles? Of the cross policemen? +Afraid of nothing!" Her voice lowered +suddenly. "Is it—Love?" she whispered.</p> + +<p>The older girl's face was piteous to see. +"Y—e—s," she stammered. "It is Love."</p> + +<p>The Woodland Girl's eyes grew big with wonder. +"But the other man?" she gasped. "You are +going to be married next week!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[276]</a></span></p> + +<p>Adele Reitzen's eyes blurred. "Yes," she repeated, +"I am going to be married next week." A +little shiver went flickering across her shoulders.</p> + +<p>The Woodland Girl's heart began to plunge and +race. "What's the matter with the man out on +the street corner?" she asked nervously.</p> + +<p>Adele Reitzen caught her breath. "He's a civil +engineer," she said. "His name is Brian Baird. +He's just back from Central America. I met him +on the steamer once. He was traveling second +cabin. My—family—won't—let—me—have—him."</p> + +<p>The Woodland Girl threw back her head and +laughed, and smothered her laugh contritely with +her hand. "Your family won't let you have him?" +she mumbled. "What a funny idea! What +has your family got to do about it?" Her breath +began to quicken, and she reached out suddenly and +clutched Adele Reitzen's shoulder. "Do you know +where my uncle's musty old law library is?" she +hurried. "It's downstairs, you know, close to the +store room—nobody ever uses it. You go down +there just as fast as you possibly can, and wait +there, and I'll be back in five minutes with the—Love +Man."</p> + +<p>Before Adele Reitzen's feebler courage could protest, +the Woodland Girl was scurrying up the short +flight to the dressing-room and pawing like a prankish<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[277]</a></span> +terrier through the neatly folded evening coats +that snuggled across the bed. Tingling with excitement, +she arrayed herself finally in the luxuriantly +muffling black and gold splendor, and started cautiously +down the long, creaky front stairs.</p> + +<p>Like the inimitable, familiar thrill of little wild, +phosphorescent eyes looming suddenly out of the +black night-woods at home, the adventure challenged +her impetuous curiosity. Bored puzzlingly +by the big city's utter inability to reproduce the +identical, simple lake-and-forest emotionalism that +was the breath of life to her, she quickened now +precipitately to the possible luring mystery in human +eyes. Through the dark mahogany stripes of +the balustrade, the drawing-room candles flared and +sputtered like little finger-pinches of fluid flame, +and the violin's shuddering voice chased after her, +taunting, "Hurry! Hurry! Or it won't be there!" +Beyond the lights and music, and the friendly creaking +stairs, the strange black night opened forth like +the scariest sort of a bottomless pit; but as yet, in +all the girl's twenty coltish years nothing except +headache and heart-beat had ever made her feel perfectly +throbbing-positive that she was alive. She +could spare the headache, but she could not spare the +heart-beat. Paddling with muscle-strained shoulder +and heaving breast across a November-tortured lake, +or huddling under forbidden pine trees in a rackety<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[278]</a></span> +August thunder storm, or floundering on broken +snowshoes into the antlered presence of an astounded +moose—Fun and Fear were synonymous +to her.</p> + +<p>Once on the street, like water to thirst, the cold +night air freshened and vivified her. Over her head +the electric lights twinkled giddily like real stars. +On either side of her the huge, hulking houses +reared up like pleasant imitation mountains. Her +trailing cloak slipped now and then from her clutching +fingers, but she trudged along toward the corner +with just one simple, supreme sense of pleasurable +excitement—somewhere out of the unfathomed +shadows a real, live Adventure was going +to rise up and scare her.</p> + +<p>But the man, when he came, did not scare her one +hundredth part as much as she scared him, though +he jumped at her from the snuggling fur robe of a +stranded automobile, and snatched at her arm with +an almost bruising intensity.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Adele," he cried huskily, "I thought you +had failed me again."</p> + +<p>The Woodland Girl threw back her somber hood +and stood there all blonde and tousle-haired and +astonishing under the electric light. "I'm not your +Adele," she explained breathlessly. "I'm just +Chloe Curtis. Adele sent me out to tell you that +she absolutely couldn't—couldn't come. You<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[279]</a></span> +yourself would have seen that it was horridly impossible. +But you are to go back to the house now +with me—to my uncle's old unused library and see +Adele yourself for as much as fifteen minutes. No +one—oh, I'm sure that no one—could persuade +a woman to be brave—on a street corner; but I +think that perhaps if you had a chance to see +Adele all alone, she would be very—extraordinarily +brave."</p> + +<p>Anger, resentment, confusion, dismay flared like +successive explosions in the man's face, and faded +again, leaving his flesh utter ash gray.</p> + +<p>"It was plucky of you to come," he muttered +grimly, "but I haven't quite reached the point yet—thank +you—where I go sneaking round people's +unused rooms to meet any one!"</p> + +<p>"Is it so very different from sneaking round +street corners?" said the Woodland Girl.</p> + +<p>The man's head lifted proudly. "I don't go +'sneaking' round street corners," he answered simply. +"All Outdoors <i>belongs</i> to me! But I won't +go secretly to any house that doesn't welcome me."</p> + +<p>The Woodland Girl began to stamp her foot. +"But the house does welcome you," she insisted. +"It's my visity-house, and you are to come there as +my friend."</p> + +<p>In her ardor she turned and faced him squarely +under the light, and winced to see how well worth<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[280]</a></span> +facing he was—for the husband of a coward. +There was no sleek New York about him, certainly, +but rather the merge of all cities and many countries, +a little breath of unusualness, a touch of mystery, +a trifling suggestion, perhaps, of more dusty +roads than smug pavements, twenty-eight or thirty +years, surely, of adventurous youth. Impulsively +she put out her hand to him. "Oh, please come," +she faltered. "I—think you are so nice."</p> + +<p>With a little laugh that had no amusement in it, +nor pleasure, nor expectation, nor any emotion that +the Woodland Girl had ever experienced, he stood +and stared at her with some sudden impulse. +"Does Adele really want me to come?" he asked +trenchantly.</p> + +<p>"Why yes," insisted the Woodland Girl. "It's +life or death for you and Adele."</p> + +<p>Ten minutes later, standing on guard at the edge +of the library door, the Woodland Girl heard, for +the first time in her life, the strange, low, vibrant, +mysterious mate-tone of a human voice. If she had +burrowed her head in a dozen pillows, she could not +have failed to sense the amazing wonder of the +sound, though the clearer-worded detail of hurried +plans and eager argument and radiant acquiescence +passed by her unobserved. "But I must be perfectly +sure that you love me," persisted the man's voice.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[281]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You and—you only," echoed the woman's passion.</p> + +<p>Then suddenly, like a practical joke sprung by a +half-witted Fate, the store room door opened with +casual, exploring pleasantness, and the Journalist +and Adele Reitzen's promised husband and big Peter +himself stepped out into the hallway.</p> + +<p>Before the surprised greeting in two men's faces +the Woodland Girl retreated step by step, until at +last with a quick turn she whirled back into the +dingy, gas-lit library—her chalky face, her staring +eyes proclaiming only too plainly the calamity which +she had no time to stuff into words.</p> + +<p>Close behind her followed the three smiling, unsuspicious +intruders. Even then the incident might +have passed without gross awkwardness if the +Woodland Girl's uncle and aunt had not suddenly +joined the company. From the angry, outraged +flush on the two older faces it was perfectly evident +that these two, at least, had been waylaid by kitchen +gossip.</p> + +<p>Brian Baird laughed. Like a manly lover goaded +and hectored and cajoled too long into unworthy +secrecy, his pulses fairly jumped to meet the frank, +forced issue. But with a quick, desperate appeal +Adele Reitzen silenced the triumphant speech on his +lips. "Let me manage it!" she whispered, so vehemently<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[282]</a></span> +that the man yielded to her, and stepped +back against the fireplace, and spread his arms with +studied, indolent ease along the mantel, like a rustic +cross tortured out of a supple willow withe. One +of his hands played teasingly with a stale spray of +Christmas greens. Nothing but the straining, +white-knuckled grip of his other hand modified the +absolute, wilful insolence of his pose.</p> + +<p>As for Adele, her face was ghastly.</p> + +<p>With crude, uncontrolled venom the Woodland +Girl's aunt plunged into the emergency. "Adele," +she cried shrilly, "I think you owe your <i>fiancé</i> an +explanation! You promised us faithfully last year +that you would never, never see Mr. Baird again—and +now to-night our chauffeur saw you steal out to +the street corner to meet him—like a common +shop-girl. And you dare to bring him back—to +my house! What have you to say for yourself?"</p> + +<p>For the fraction of a moment Adele Reitzen's +superb beauty straightened up to its full majestic +height, and all the love-pride that was in her white, +white flesh flamed gloriously in her face. Then her +sleek, prosperous, arrogant city lover stepped suddenly +forward where the yellow light struck bleakly +across his shrewd, small eyes and his thin, relentless +mouth.</p> + +<p>"I should be very glad, indeed, to hear what you<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[283]</a></span> +have to say," he announced, and his voice was like +a nicked knife blade.</p> + +<p>Flush by flush by flush the red glory fled from +Adele Reitzen's face. Her throat began to flutter. +Her knees crumpled under her. Fear went over her +like a gray fog.</p> + +<p>With one despairing hand she reached back to the +Woodland Girl. "Oh, tell them it was you," she +whispered hotly. "Oh, tell them it was you." Her +scared face brightened viciously. "It <i>was</i> you—you +know! Tell them—oh, tell them anything—only +save me!"</p> + +<p>The Woodland Girl's eyes were big with horror. +She started to speak, she started to protest, but before +the jumbled words could leave her lips Adele +Reitzen turned to the others and blurted out hysterically:</p> + +<p>"Surely I can't be expected to keep even a love-secret +under these—distressing circumstances. <i>It +was Chloe who went out to the street corner to-night—like +a common shop-girl—to meet Brian +Baird. She wore my cloak on purpose to disguise +her.</i>"</p> + +<p>Like the blaring scream of a discordant trumpet, +the treacherous, flatted truth crashed into the Woodland +Girl's startled senses, and the man in the shape +of a sagging willow cross started up and cried out, +"My God!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[284]</a></span></p> + +<p>For a second the Woodland Girl stood staring +into his dreadful, chaotic face, then she squared her +shoulders and turned to meet the wrathful, contemptuous +surprise in her uncle's and aunt's features.</p> + +<p>"So it was you," sneered the uncle, "embroiling +our decent household in a common, vulgar intrigue?"</p> + +<p>"So it was you," flamed her aunt, "you who have +been posing all these days as an Innocent?"</p> + +<p>Frantic with perplexity, muddled with fear, torn +by conflicting chivalries, the Woodland Girl stared +back and forth from Adele Reitzen's agonized plea +to the grim, inscrutable gleam in Brian Baird's eyes. +As though every living, moving verb had been +ripped out of that night's story, and all the inflexible +nouns were printing themselves slam-bang one on +top of another—Roses, Wine, Music, Silver, Diamonds, +Fir-Balsam telescoped each other in her +senses.</p> + +<p>"Your father sent you down here," persisted her +aunt brutally, "on the private plea to me that he +was planning to be married again—but I can readily +see that perhaps no one would exactly want +you."</p> + +<p>The Woodland Girl's heart began to pound.</p> + +<p>"We—are—waiting," prodded her uncle's icy +voice.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[285]</a></span></p> + +<p>Suddenly the Girl's memory quickened. Once, +long ago, her father had said to her: "Little +Daughter, if you are ever in fear and danger by sea +or land—or city, which is neither sea nor land—turn +always to that man, and to that man only, +whom you would trust in the deep woods. Put +your imagination to work, not your reason. You +have no reason!"</p> + +<p>Desperately she turned to Peter. His face, +robbed utterly of its affection, was all a-shock with +outraged social proprieties, merging the merest bit +unpleasantly into the racy appreciation of a unique +adventure. Panic-stricken, she turned to the Journalist. +Already across the Journalist's wine-flushed +face the pleasant, friendly smile was souring into +worldly skepticism and mocking disillusionment.</p> + +<p>She shut her eyes. "O Big Woods, help me!" +she prayed. "O Cross Storm, warn me! O Rough +Trail, guide me!"</p> + +<p>Behind her tightly scrunched lids her worried +brain darkened like a jumbled midnight forest. +Jaded, bedraggled, aching with storm and terror, +she saw herself stumbling into the sudden dazzling +splurge of a stranger's camp fire. Was it a man +like Peter? Was it the Journalist? She began to +shiver. Then her heart gave a queer, queer jump, +and she opened her eyes stark wide and searched +deep into Brian Baird's livid face. One of his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[286]</a></span> +hands still strained at the wooden mantel. The +other still bruised the pungent balsam tip between its +restive fingers. His young hair was too gray about +his temples. His shoulders were too tired with +life's pack burdens. His eyes had probably grown +more bitter that night than any woman's lips could +ever sweeten again. And yet—</p> + +<p>Down from the far-away music room floated the +quavering, passionate violin wail of the boy who had +dared to temporize with Fate. Up from the close-nudging +street crashed the confusing slap of hoofs +and the mad whir of wheels racing not so much for +the Joy of the Destination as for the Thrill of the +Journey. She gave a little gasping sob, and Brian +Baird stooped forward incredulously, as though +from the yellow glare of his camp fire he had only +just that instant sensed the faltering footfall of a +wayfarer in acute distress, and could scarcely distinguish +even yet through the darkness the detailed +features of the apparition.</p> + +<p>For a second, startled eyes defied startled eyes, and +then suddenly, out of his own meager ration of +faith or fortune or immediate goodness, the man +straightened up, and <i>smiled</i>—the simple, honest, +unquestioning camp-fire smile—the smile of food +and blanket, the smile of welcome, the smile of shelter, +the signal of the gladly-shared crust—and the +Woodland Girl gave a low, wild cry of joy, and ran<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[287]</a></span> +across the room to him, and wheeled back against +him, close, tight, with her tousled hair grazing his +haggard cheek and her brown hands clutching hard +at the sweep of his arms along the mantel.</p> + +<p>"Adele Reitzen is right," she cried out triumphantly. +"This is my—man!"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[291]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE PINK SASH</h2> + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 165px;"> +<img src="images/drop_n.png" width="165" height="164" alt="N" title="" /> +</div><div class='unindent'><br />O man could have asked the question +more simply. The whole +gaunt, gigantic Rocky Mountain +landscape seemed indeed most peculiarly +conducive to simple emotions.</div> + +<p>Yet Donas Guthrie's original remark had been +purely whimsical and distinctly apropos of nothing +at all. The careless knocking of his pipe against +the piazza's primitive railing had certainly not prepared +the way for any particularly vital statement.</p> + +<p>"Up—to—the—time—he's—thirty," +drawled the pleasant, deep, distinctly masculine +voice, "up—to—the—time—he's—thirty, no +man has done the things that he's really wanted to +do—but only the things that happened to come his +way. He's forced into business to please his father, +and cajoled into the Episcopal Church to gratify his +mother, and bullied into red neckties to pacify his +sister Isabel. But once having reached the grown-up, +level-headed, utterly independent age of thirty, +a man's a fool, I tell you, who doesn't sit down deliberately,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[292]</a></span> +and roll up his sleeves, and square his +jaw, and list out, one by one, the things that <i>he</i> +wants in the presumable measure of lifetime that's +left him—and go ahead and get them!"</p> + +<p>"Why, surely," said the young woman, without +the slightest trace of surprise. Something in her +matter-of-fact acquiescence made Donas Guthrie +smile a trifle shrewdly.</p> + +<p>"Oh! So you've got your own list all made +out?" he quizzed. Around the rather tired-looking +corners of Esther Davidson's mouth the tiniest possible +flicker of amusement began to show.</p> + +<p>"No, not all made out," she answered frankly. +"You see, I wasn't thirty—until yesterday."</p> + +<p>Stooping with cheerful unconcern to blow a little +fluff of tobacco ash from his own khaki-colored +knees to hers, Guthrie eyed her delightedly from +under his heavy brows.</p> + +<p>"Oh, this is working out very neatly and pleasantly," +he mused, all agrin. "Ever since you joined +our camping party at Laramie, jumping off the train +as white-faced and out of breath as though you'd +been running to catch up with us all the way from +Boston—indeed, ever since you first wrote me at +Morristown, asking full particulars about the whole +expedition and begging us to go to the Sierra Nevadas +instead and blotted 'Sierra' twice and crossed +it out once—and then in final petulance spelled it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[293]</a></span> +with three 'r's,' I've been utterly consumed with +curiosity to know just how old you are."</p> + +<p>"Thirty years—and one morning," said the +young woman—absent-mindedly.</p> + +<p>"W-h-e-w!" gasped Guthrie. "But that's a +ripe old age! Surely, you've no time to lose!"</p> + +<p>Rummaging through his pockets with mock intensity +he thrust into her hands, at last, a small pad +of paper and a pencil.</p> + +<p>"Now quick!" he insisted. "Make out your +list before it's too late to profit by it!"</p> + +<p>The woman was evidently perfectly willing to +comply with every playful aspect of his mood, but it +was equally evident that she did not intend to be +hurried about it. Quite perversely she began to +dally with the pencil.</p> + +<p>"But, you see, I don't know exactly just what +kind of a list you mean," she protested.</p> + +<p>"Oh, shucks!" laughed the man. "Here, give +me the paper! Now—head it like this: 'I, Esther +Davidson, spinster, <i>æt.</i> thirty years and a few minutes +over, do hereby promise and attest that no matter +how unwilling to die I may be when my time +comes, I shall, at least, not feel that life has defrauded +me if I have succeeded in achieving and +possessing the following brief list of experiences +and substances.' There!" he finished triumphantly. +"Now do you see how easy and business-like it all<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[294]</a></span> +is? Just the plainest possible rating of the things +you'd like to have before you're willing to die."</p> + +<p>Cautiously Esther Davidson took the paper from +his hand and scanned it with slow-smiling eyes.</p> + +<p>"The—things—I'd—like to have—before +I'm—willing—to—die," she mused indolently. +Then suddenly into her placid face blazed an astonishing +flame of passion that vanished again as +quickly as it came. "My God!" she said. "The +things I've <i>got</i> to have before I'm willing to die!"</p> + +<p>Stretching the little paper taut across her knees, +she began to scribble hasty, impulsive words and +phrases, crossing and recrossing, making and erasing, +now frowning fiercely down on the unoffending +page, now staring off narrow-eyed and smilingly +speculative into the blue-green spruce tops.</p> + +<p>It was almost ten minutes before she spoke again. +Then: "How do you spell amethyst?" she asked +meditatively.</p> + +<p>The man gave a groan of palpable disgust. +"Oh, I say," he reproached her. "You're not +playing fair! This was to be a really <i>bona fide</i> +statement you know."</p> + +<p>Without looking up the young woman lifted her +hand and gesticulated across the left side of her +mannish, khaki-colored flannel shirt.</p> + +<p>"Cross my heart!" she affirmed solemnly. +"This is a perfectly 'honest-injun' list!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[295]</a></span></p> + +<p>Then she tore up everything she had written and +began all over again, astonishingly slowly, astonishingly +neatly, on a fresh sheet of paper.</p> + +<p>"Of course, at first," she explained painstakingly, +"you think there are just about ten thousand things +that you've simply got to have, but when you really +stop to sort them out, and pick and choose a bit, +and narrow them all down to actual essentials; narrow +them all down to just the 'Passions of the +Soul,' as it were, why, then, there really aren't so +many after all! Only one, two, three, four, five, +six, seven, eight," she counted on her fingers. "At +first, for instance," she persisted frankly, "it seemed +to me that I could never, never die happy until I had +possessed a very large—oh, I mean an inordinately +large amethyst brooch that simply wallowed in +pearls, but honestly now as a real treasure-trove, I +can see that I'd infinitely rather be able to remember +that once upon a time I'd—stroked a lion's +face; just one, long, slow, soft-furred, yellow stroke +from the browny-pink tip of his nose to the extremest +shaggy end of his mane—and he hadn't bitten +me!"</p> + +<p>"My Heavens!" gasped the man. "Are you +crazy? What kind of a list have you been making +out anyway?"</p> + +<p>A little acridly she thrust both her list and her +hands into the side pockets of her riding skirt.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[296]</a></span></p> + +<p>"What kind of a list did you think I would make +out?" she asked sharply. "Something all about +machinery? And getting a contract for city paving +stones? Or publicly protesting the new football +rules? Goodness! Does it have to be a 'wise' +list? Does it have to be a worthy list? Something +that would really look commendable in a church +magazine? This was all your idea, you know! +You asked me, didn't you, to write out, just for fun, +the things I'd got to have before I'd be willing to +die?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, come now," laughed the man. "Please +don't get stuffy about it. You surprised me so +about stroking the lion's face that I simply had to +chaff you a little. Truly, I care a great deal about +seeing that list. When you got off the train that +day it rattled me a confounded lot to see that your +camping togs were cut out of exactly the same piece +of cloth that mine were. Professor Ellis and his +wife and Doctor Andrews jollied me a good bit +about it in fact, but—hang it all—it's beginning +to dawn on me rather cozily, though I admit +still embarrassingly, that maybe your mind and +mine are cut out of the same piece of cloth, too. +Please let me see what you've written!"</p> + +<p>With a grimace that was half reluctance, half defiance, +the young woman pulled the paper from her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[297]</a></span> +pocket, smoothed it out on her knees for an instant +and handed it to him.</p> + +<p>"Oh, very well, then," she said. "Help yourself +to the only authentic list of my 'Heart's Desires.'" +Then suddenly her whole face brightened +with amusement and she shook a sun-browned finger +threateningly at him. "Now remember," she +warned him, "I don't have to justify this list, no +matter how trivial it sounds, no matter how foolish +even; it is excuse enough for it—it is dignity +enough for it, that it happens to be so."</p> + +<p>"Yes, surely," acknowledged the man.</p> + +<p>Either consciously or unconsciously—then—he +took off his battered slouch hat and placed it softly +on the seat beside him. The act gave the very faintest +possible suggestion of reverence to the joke. +Then, rather slowly and hesitatingly, after the manner +of a man who is not specially accustomed to +reading aloud, he began:</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/gs08.jpg" width="400" height="386" alt=""Is—a—pink—sash—exactly a—a—passion?"" title="" /> +<span class="caption">"Is—a—pink—sash—exactly a—a—passion?"</span> +</div> + +<p>"Things That I, Esther Davidson, Am Really +Obliged to Have Before I'm Willing to Die: No. +1. A solid summer of horseback riding on a rusty +brown pony among really scary mountains. No. 2. +A year's work at Oxford in Social Economics. No. +3. One single, solitary sunset view of the Bay of +Naples. No. 4. A very, very large oil-painting portrait +of a cloud—a great white, warm, cotton-batting<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[298]</a></span> +looking, summer Sunday afternoon sort of +a cloud—I mean; the kind that you used to see as a +child when all 'chock full' of chicken and ice +cream and serene thoughts about Heaven, you lay +stretched out flat on the cool green grass and stared +right up into the face of God, and never even +guessed what made you blink so. No. 5. The ability +to buy one life-saving surgical operation for +some one who probably wouldn't otherwise have +afforded it. No. 6. A perfectly good dinner. No. +7. A completely happy Christmas. No. 8. A pink +sash. That's all."</p> + +<p>With really terrifying gravity, the man put down +the finished page and lifted his searching eyes to the +woman's flushing, self-conscious face.</p> + +<p>"Is—a—pink—sash—exactly a—a—passion?" +he probed in much perplexity.</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes!" nodded the young woman briskly. +"Oh, yes, indeed! It's an obsession in my life. +It's a groove in my brain. In the middle of the +night I wake and find myself sitting bolt upright in +bed saying it. The only time I ever took ether I +prattled persistently concerning it. When a Spring +sunshine is so marvelous that it makes me feel faint, +when the Vox Humana stop in a church-organ snarls +my heart-strings like an actual hand, when the great +galloping, tearing fire-engine horses come clanging<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[299]</a></span> +like mad around the street corner, it's the one +definite idea that explodes in my consciousness. It +began way back when I was a tiny six-year-old child +at a Maine woods 'camp meeting.' Did you ever +see a really primitive 'camp meeting'? All fir-balsam +trees and little rustic benches and pink calicoes +and Grand Army suits and high cheek-bones +and low insteps and—lots of noise? Rather inspiring +too, sometimes, or at least soul excitative. +It might do a good deal to any high-strung six-year-old +kiddie. Anyway, I saw the old village drunkard +jump up and wave his arms and wail ingenuously: +'I want to be a Christian!' And a palsied crone +beside me moaned and sobbed 'I want to be baptized!' +And even my timid, gentle mother leaped +impetuously to her feet and announced quite publicly +to every one 'I want to be washed in the +Blood of the Lamb!' And all about me I saw +frenzied neighbors and strangers dashing about making +these uncontrollable, confidential proclamations. +And suddenly, to my meager, indefinite baby-brain, +there rushed such an exultancy of positive personal +conviction that my poor little face must have been +literally transfigured with it, for my father lifted me +high to his tight-coated shoulders and cried out +ecstatically: 'A little child shall lead them! Hear! +Hear!' And with an emphasis on the personal pronoun<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[300]</a></span> +which I hate to remember even at this remote +date, I screamed forth at the top of my lungs: 'I +want—a pink sash!'"</p> + +<p>"And didn't you get it?" said Donas Guthrie.</p> + +<p>The young woman crooked one eyebrow rather +comically. "N-o," she said, "I never got it!"</p> + +<p>"But you could get it any time now," argued the +man.</p> + +<p>Helplessly she threw out the palms of her hands +and the unexpected gesture displayed an amazing +slimness and whiteness of wrist.</p> + +<p>"Stupid!" she laughed. "What would I do +with a pink sash now?" Ruthlessly her quick eyes +traveled down the full length of her scant, rough +skirt to the stubbed toes of her battered brown riding +boots. "Dust on the highway and chalk in the +classroom and 'grown-up-ness' everywhere!" she +persisted dully. "That's the real tragedy of growing +up—not that we outgrow our original desires, +but that retaining those desires, we outgrow the +ability to find satisfaction in them. People ought +to think of that, you know, when they thwart a +child's ten-cent passion for a tin trumpet. Fifty +years later, when that child is a bank president, it +may drive him almost crazy to have a toy-shop with +a whole window-full of tin trumpets come and cuddle +right next door to his bank—and nothing that +the man can do with them!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[301]</a></span></p> + +<p>Like a little gray veil the tired look fell again +over her face. The man saw it and shuddered.</p> + +<p>"Psychology is my subject at Varndon College, +you know," she continued listlessly, "and so I suppose +I'm rather specially interested in freakish +mental things. Anyway—pink sashes or Noah's +arks or enough sugar in your cocoa—I have a +theory that no child ever does outgrow its ungratified +legitimate desires; though subsequent maturity +may bring him to the point where his original desire +has reached such astounding proportions that the +original object can no longer possibly appease it."</p> + +<p>Reminiscently, her narrowing eyes turned back +their inner vision to the far-away grotesque incident +of the camp meeting. "It isn't as though a child +asked for a thing the very first time that he thought +of it," she protested a trifle pathetically. "An idea +has been sown and has grown and germinated in his +mind a pretty long time before he gets up his courage +to speak to anybody about it. Oh, I tell you, +sir, the time to grant anybody a favor is the day the +favor is asked, for that day is the one psychological +moment of the world when supply and demand are +keyed exactly to each other's limits, and can be +mated beatifically to grow old, or die young, together. +But after that day—!</p> + +<p>"Why, even with grown people," she added +hastily. "Did you ever know a marriage to turn<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[302]</a></span> +out to be specially successful where the man had +courted a reluctant woman for years and years before +she finally yielded to him? It's perfectly astonishing +how soon a wife like that is forced to +mourn: 'Why did he court me so long and so furiously +if he really cared as little as this? I'm just +exactly the same person that I was in the beginning!'—Yes, +that's precisely the trouble. In the +long time that she has kept her man waiting, she +has remained just exactly the same small object that +she was in the beginning, but the man's hunger for +her has materialized and spiritualized and idealized +a thousandfold beyond her paltry capacity to satisfy +it."</p> + +<p>"That's a funny way to look at it," mused Donas +Guthrie.</p> + +<p>"Is it?" said the young woman, a trifle petulantly. +"It doesn't seem funny to me!"</p> + +<p>Then to Guthrie's infinite astonishment and embarrassment +the tears welled up suddenly into her +eyes and she turned her head abruptly away and began +to beat a nervous tattoo with one hand on the +flimsy piazza railing.</p> + +<p>In the moment's awkward silence that ensued, the +little inn's clattery kitchen wafted up its pleasant, +odorous, noon-day suggestion of coffee and bacon.</p> + +<p>"W-h-e-w!" gloated Guthrie desperately, "but +that smells good!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[303]</a></span></p> + +<p>"It doesn't smell good to me," said the young +woman tartly.</p> + +<p>With a definite thud the tilting leg of Guthrie's +chair came whacking down on the piazza floor.</p> + +<p>"Why, you inconsistent little gourmand!" he exclaimed. +"Then why did you give 'one perfectly +good dinner' a place on your list of necessities?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know," whispered the young woman, +a trifle tremulously. Then abruptly she burst out +laughing, and the face that she turned to Guthrie +again was all deliciously mussed up like a child's, +with tears and smiles and breeze-blown wisps of +hair.</p> + +<p>"That dinner item was just another silly thing," +she explained half bashfully, half defiantly. "It's +only that although I practically never eat much of +anything on ordinary occasions, whenever I get into +any kind of danger, whenever the train runs off the +track, or the steamer threatens to sink, or my car +gets stuck in the subway, I'm seized with the +most terrific gnawing hunger—as though—as +though—" Furiously the red flushed into her face +again. "Well—eternity sounds so l-long," she +stammered, "and I have a perfect horror, somehow—of +going to Heaven—on an empty stomach."</p> + +<p>In mutual appreciation of a suddenly relaxed tension, +the man's laughter and the woman's rang out<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[304]</a></span> +together throughout the dooryard and startled a +grazing pony into a whimpering whinny of sympathy.</p> + +<p>"I knew you'd think my list was funny," protested +the young woman. "I knew perfectly well +that every single individual item on it would astonish +you."</p> + +<p>Meditatively Donas Guthrie refilled his pipe and +evidently illuminated both the tobacco and the situation +with the same match.</p> + +<p>"It isn't the things that are on your list that astonish +me," he remarked puffingly. "It's the +things that aren't on it that have given me the bit of +a jolt."</p> + +<p>"Such as what?" frowned the young woman, +sliding jerkily out to the edge of her chair.</p> + +<p>"Why, I'd always supposed that women were inherently +domestic," growled Guthrie. "I'd always +somehow supposed that Love and Home would figure +pretty largely on any woman's 'List of Necessities.' +But you! For Heaven's sake, haven't you +ever even thought of man in any specific relation to +your own life?"</p> + +<p>"No, except in so far as he might retard my accomplishment +of the things on my list," she answered +frankly. Out of the gray film of pipe-smoke, +her small face loomed utterly serene, utterly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[305]</a></span> +honest, utterly devoid of coquetry or self-consciousness.</p> + +<p>"Any man would be apt to 'retard' your desire +to stroke a lion's face," said Guthrie grimly. "But +then," with a flicker of humor, "but then I see +you've omitted that item from your revised list. +Your only thought about man then," he continued +slowly, "is his probable tendency to interfere with +your getting the things out of life that you most +want."</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Oh, this is quite a novel idea to me," said Guthrie, +all a-smile again. "You mean then—if I +judge your premises correctly—you mean then +that if on the contrary you found a man who would +really facilitate the accomplishment of your 'heart's +desires,' you'd be willing to think a good deal about +him?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes!" said the young woman.</p> + +<p>"You mean then," persisted Guthrie, "you mean +then, just for the sake of the argument, that if I, +for instance, could guarantee for you every single +little item on this list, you'd be willing to marry +even me?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>Altogether unexpectedly Guthrie burst out laughing.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[306]</a></span></p> + +<p>Instantly a little alarmed look quickened in the +young woman's sleepy eyes. "Does it seem cold-blooded +to you?" she asked anxiously.</p> + +<p>"No, not exactly 'cold' blooded, but certainly a +little cooler blooded than any man would have dared +to hope for," smiled Guthrie.</p> + +<p>The frowning perplexity deepened in the young +woman's face. "You surely don't misunderstand +me?" she pleaded. "You don't think I'm mercenary +or anything horrid like that? Suppose I do +make a man's aptitude for gratifying my eight particular +whims the supreme test of his marital attractiveness +for me—it's not, you must understand, +by the sign of his material ability in the matter +that I should recognize the Man Who Was +Made for Me—but by the sign of his spiritual willingness."</p> + +<p>"O—h!" said Guthrie very leisurely. Then, +with a trifle more vigor, he picked up the small list +again and scanned it carefully.</p> + +<p>"It—wouldn't—be—such—a hard—list to—fulfil!" +he resumed presently. "'A summer +in the mountains?' You're having that now. +'Oxford?' 'Glimpse of Naples?' 'Cloud Picture?' +'Surgical Operation?' 'Pink Sash?' +'Good Dinner?' 'Christmas?' Why there's +really nothing here that I couldn't provide for you, +myself, if you'd only give me time."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[307]</a></span></p> + +<p>With mischievous unconcern he smiled at the +young woman. With equally mischievous unconcern +the young woman smiled back at him.</p> + +<p>"What an extraordinary conversation we've had +this morning," she said. As though quite exhausted +by the uniqueness of it, she slid a little further down +into her seat and turned her cheek against the firm +support of the chair-back.</p> + +<p>"What an extraordinary understanding it has +brought us to!" exclaimed the man, scanning her +closely.</p> + +<p>"I don't see anything particularly—understandy +about it," denied the young woman wearily.</p> + +<p>It was then that Donas Guthrie asked his simple +question, boring his khaki-colored elbows into his +khaki-colored knees.</p> + +<p>"Little Psychology Teacher," he said very gently, +"Little Psychology Teacher, Dr. Andrews says that +you've got typhoid fever. He's feared it now for +some time, and you know it's against his orders—your +being up to-day. So as long as I've proved +myself here and now, by your own test, the Man-Whom-You-Were-Looking-For, +I suggest that you +and I be—married this afternoon—before that +itinerant shiny-shouldered preacher out in the corral +escapes us altogether—and then we'll send the rest +of the party on about their business, and you and +Dr. Andrews and Hanlon's Mary and I will camp<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[308]</a></span> +right down here where we are—and scrap the old +typhoid fever to its finish. Will you, Little Psychology +Teacher?"</p> + +<p>Lifting her white hands to her throbbing temples +the young woman turned her astonished face jerkily +toward him.</p> + +<p>"What—did—you—say?" she gasped.</p> + +<p>"I said: 'Will you marry me this afternoon?'" +repeated Guthrie.</p> + +<p>Bruskly she pushed that part of the phrase +aside. "What did you really say?" she insisted. +"What did Dr. Andrews say?"</p> + +<p>"Dr. Andrews says that you've got typhoid +fever," repeated Guthrie.</p> + +<p>Inertly she blinked her big brown eyes for an instant. +Then suddenly her hands went groping out +to the arms of her chair. Her face was horror-stricken. +"Why didn't he tell me, himself?"</p> + +<p>"Because I asked him to let me tell you," said +Guthrie quietly.</p> + +<p>"When did he tell you?" she persisted.</p> + +<p>"Just before I came up on the piazza," said Guthrie.</p> + +<p>"How did he tell you?" she demanded.</p> + +<p>"How did he tell me?" mused Guthrie wretchedly. +After all, underneath his occasional whimsicality +he was distinctly literal-minded. "How +did he tell me? Why I saw them all powwowing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[309]</a></span> +together in the corral, and Andrews looked up sort +of queer and said: 'Say, Guthrie, that little Psychology +friend of yours has got typhoid fever. +What in thunder are we going to do?"</p> + +<p>The strained lines around Esther Davidson's +mouth relaxed for a second.</p> + +<p>"Well, what in thunder am I going to do?" she +joked heroically. But the effort at flippancy was +evidently quite too much for her. In another instant +her head pitched forward against the piazza +railing and her voice, when she spoke again, was +almost indistinguishable.</p> + +<p>"And you knew all this an hour ago!" she accused +him incoherently. "Knew my predicament—knew +my inevitable weakness and fear and mortification—knew +me a stranger among strangers. +And yet you came up here to jolly me inconsequently—about +a million foolish things!"</p> + +<p>"It was because at the end of the hour I hoped +to be something to you that would quite prevent +your feeling a 'stranger among strangers,'" said +Guthrie very quietly. "I have asked you to marry +me this afternoon, you must remember."</p> + +<p>The young woman's lip curled tremulously. +"You astonish me!" she scoffed. "I had always +understood that men did not marry very easily. +Quick to love, slow to marry, is supposed to be +your most striking characteristic—and here are<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[310]</a></span> +you asking marriage of me, and you haven't even +loved me yet!"</p> + +<p>"You women do not seem to marry any too +easily," smiled Guthrie gazing nervously from his +open watch to the furthest corner of the corral, +where the preacher's raw-boned pony, nose in air, +was stubbornly refusing to take his bit.</p> + +<p>"Indeed we do marry—perfectly easily—when +we once love," retorted the woman contentiously! +"It's the love part of it that we are reluctant +about!"</p> + +<p>"But I haven't asked you to love me," protested +the man with much patience. "I merely asked you +to marry me."</p> + +<p>The woman's jaw dropped. "Out of sympathy +for my emergency, out of mistaken chivalry, you're +asking me to marry you, and not even pretending +that you love me?" she asked in astonishment.</p> + +<p>"I haven't had time to love you yet. I've only +known you such a little while," said the man quite +simply. Almost sternly he rose and began to pace +up and down the narrow confines of the little piazza. +"All I know is," he asserted, "that the very first +moment you stepped off the train at Laramie, I +knew you were the woman whom I was—going to +love—sometime."</p> + +<p>Very softly he slid back into the rustic seat he +had just vacated, and taking the woman's small<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[311]</a></span> +clenched hands in his began to smooth out her fingers +like poor crumpled ribbons.</p> + +<p>"Now, Little Psychology Teacher," he said, "I +want you to listen very, very carefully to everything +I say. Do you like me all right?"</p> + +<p>"Y—e—s."</p> + +<p>"Better than you like Andrews or Ellis or even +the old Judge?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes!"</p> + +<p>"Ever since we all started out together on the +Trail you've just sort of naturally fallen to my lot, +haven't you? Whenever you needed your pony's +girth tightened, or whenever you wanted a drink +of water, or whenever the big canyons scared you, +or whenever the camp fire smoked you, you've just +sort of naturally turned to me, haven't you? And +it would be fair enough, wouldn't it, to say that at +least I've never made any situation worse for you? +So that if anything ugly or awkward were going +to happen—perhaps you really would rather have +me around than any one else?"</p> + +<p>"Yes—surely."</p> + +<p>"Maybe even, when we've been watching Ellis +and his Missis riding ahead, all hand in hand and +smile in smile, you've wondered a bit, woman-like, +how it would seem, for instance, to be riding along +hand in hand and smile in smile with me?"</p> + +<p>"P-o-s-s-i-b-l-y."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[312]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Never had any special curiosity about how it +would seem to go hand and hand with—Andrews?"</p> + +<p>"Foolish!"</p> + +<p>"Hooray!" cried Guthrie. "That's all that I +really needed to know! Oh, don't feel bashful about +it. It surely is an absolutely impersonal compliment +on your part. It isn't even you that I'm +under obligations to for the kindness, but Nature +with a great big capital 'N.' Somehow I always +have had an idea that you women instinctively do +divide all mankind into three classes: first, Those +Whom You Couldn't Possibly Love; second, +Those Whom You Could Possibly Love, and third, +the One Man of the World Whom You Actually +Do Love. And unless this mysterious Nature with +a capital 'N' has already qualified a man for the +second class, God himself can't promote that man +into the third class. So it seems to me that every +fellow could save himself an awful lot of misunderstanding +and wasted time if he'd do just what I've +done—make a distinctly preliminary proposal to +his lady; not 'Do you love me?' which might take +her fifteen years to decide, but: 'Could you love +me?' which any woman can tell the first time she +sees you. And if she can't possibly love you, that +settles everything neatly then and there, but if she +can possibly, why, with Nature once on his side, a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[313]</a></span> +man's a craven who can't put up a mighty good +scrap for his coveted prize. Doesn't this all make +sense to you?"</p> + +<p>Cannily the young woman lifted her eyes to his +and fathomed him mutely for an instant. Then:</p> + +<p>"Perfectly good 'sense' but no feeling," she answered +dully.</p> + +<p>"It's only 'sense' that I'm trying to make," acknowledged +Guthrie. "Now look here, you Little +Teacher Person, I'm going to talk to you just as +bluntly as I would to another fellow. You are in +a hole—the deuce of a hole! You have got typhoid +fever, and it may run ten days and it may +run ten weeks! And you are two thousand miles +from home—among strangers! And no matter +how glad I personally may be that you did push on +and join us, sick or well, from every practical standpoint, +of course, it surely was heedless and ill-considered +of you to start off in poor health on a trip +like this and run the risk of forcing perfectly unconcerned +strangers to pay for it all. Personally, +you seem so much to belong to me already that it +gives me goose-flesh to think of your having to put +yourself under obligations to any purely conscientious +person. Mrs. Ellis, of course, will insist, out of common +humanity, upon giving up her trip and staying +behind with you, but Mrs. Ellis, Little Teacher, is +on her honeymoon, and Ellis couldn't stay behind—it's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[314]</a></span> +his party—he'd have to go on with his +people—and you'd never be able to compensate +anybody for a broken honeymoon, and the Judge's +youngster couldn't nurse a sick kitten, and the +two women teachers from New York have been +planning seven years for this trip, they told me, +and we couldn't decently take it away from them. +But you and I, Little Psychology Lady, are not +strangers to each other. Hanlon's Mary here at +the ranch house, rough as she is, has at least the +serving hands of a woman, and Andrews belongs +naturally to the tribe which is consecrated to inconveniences, +and both can be compensated accordingly. +And I would have married you, anyway, +before another year was out! Yes, I would!"</p> + +<p>Apparently ignoring everything that he had said, +she turned her face scowlingly toward the sound of +hammering that issued suddenly through the piazza +door.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Glory!" she complained. "Are they making +my coffin already?"</p> + +<p>With a little laugh, Guthrie relinquished her limp +fingers, and jumping up, took another swift turn +along the piazza, stopping only to bang the door +shut again. When he faced her once more the +twinkle was all gone from his eyes.</p> + +<p>"You're quite right, what you said about men," +he resumed with desperate seriousness. "We are<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[315]</a></span> +a heap sight quicker in our susceptibilities than in +our mentalities! Therefore, no sane man ever does +marry till his brain has caught up with his emotions! +But sometimes, you know, something happens +that hustles a man's brain along a bit, and this +time my brain seems fairly to have jumped to its +destination and clean-beaten even the emotions in +the race. In cool, positive judgment I tell you I +want to marry you this afternoon."</p> + +<p>"You've confessed yourself, haven't you, that +you've no severer ideal for marriage than that a +man should be generous enough to give your personality, +no matter how capricious, a chance to +breathe? Haven't I qualified sufficiently as that +amiable man? More than that, I'm free to love +you; I'm certainly keen to serve you; I'm reasonably +well able to provide for you, and you naturally +have a right to know that I've led a decent life. +It's ten good years now since I was thirty and +first found nerve enough to break away from the +stifling business life I hated and get out into the +open, where there's surely less money but infinitely +more air. And in ten years I've certainly found +considerable chance to fulfil a few of the items in +my own little 'List of Necessities.' I've seen Asia +and I've seen Africa, and I've written the book +I've always wanted to write on North American +mountain structures.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[316]</a></span></p> + +<p>"But there's a lot more that I crave to do. +Maybe I've got a bit of a 'capricious personality' +myself! Maybe I also have been hunting for the +mate who would give my personality a chance to +breathe. Certainly I've never wanted any home +yet, except when the right time came, the arms of +the right woman. And I guess you must be she, +because you're the first woman I've ever seen whom +I'd trust to help me just as hard to play my chosen +games as I'd help her to play hers! I tell you—I +want—very much—to marry you this afternoon."</p> + +<p>"Why do you dally with me so? Isn't it your +own argument that there's only just one day in the +love-life of a man and woman when the question +and the answer mate exactly, and the books are balanced +perfectly even for the new start together? +Demand and supply, debit and credit, hunger and +food? You, wild for help, and I wild to help you! +What difference does it make what you call it? +Isn't this our day?"</p> + +<p>"For a man who's usually as silent as you are, +don't you think you're talking a good deal, considering +how sick you said I was?" asked the young +woman, not unmirthfully.</p> + +<p>Guthrie's square jaws snapped together like a +trap. "I was merely trying to detain you," he +mumbled, "until Hanlon had finished knocking the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[317]</a></span> +windows out of your room. We're going to give +you all the air you can breathe, anyway."</p> + +<p>A little sullenly he started for the stairs. Then +just at the door he turned unexpectedly and his face +was all smiles again.</p> + +<p>"Little Psychology Teacher," he said, "I have +made you a formal, definite offer of marriage. And +in just about ten minutes from now I am coming +back for my answer."</p> + +<p>When he did return a trifle sooner than he had +intended, he met her in the narrow upper hallway, +with hands outstretched, groping her way unsteadily +toward her room. As though her equilibrium was +altogether disturbed by his sudden advent, she reeled +back against the wall.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Donas Guthrie," she said, "I'm feeling +pretty wobbly! Mr. Donas Guthrie," she said, "I +guess I'm pretty sick."</p> + +<p>"It's a cruel long way down the hall," suggested +Guthrie. "Wouldn't you like me to carry +you?"</p> + +<p>"Yes—I—would," sighed the Little Psychology +Teacher.</p> + +<p>Even to Guthrie's apprehensive mind, her weight +proved most astonishingly light. The small head +drooping limply back from the slender neck seemed +actually the only heavy thing about her, yet there +were apparently only two ideas in that head.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[318]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I'm afraid of Hanlon's Mary, and I don't like +Dr. Andrews—very—specially—much," she kept +repeating aimlessly. Then halfway to her room +her body stiffened suddenly.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Donas Guthrie," she asked. "Do you +think I'm probably going to die?"</p> + +<p>"N-a-w!" said Guthrie, his nose fairly crinkling +with positiveness.</p> + +<p>"But they don't give you much of anything to +eat in typhoid, do they?" she persisted hectically.</p> + +<p>"I suppose not," acknowledged Guthrie.</p> + +<p>With disconcerting unexpectedness she began to +cry—a soft, low, whimpery cry like a sleepy +child's.</p> + +<p>"If any day should come when—they think—that +I am going to die," she moaned, "who will +there be to see that I do get—something awfully +good to eat?"</p> + +<p>"I'll see to it," said Guthrie, "if you'll only put +me in authority."</p> + +<p>As though altogether indifferent to anything that +he might say, her tension relaxed again and without +further parleying she let Guthrie carry her +across the threshold of her room and set her down +cautiously in the creaky rocking chair. The eyes +that lifted to his were as vague and turbid as brown +velvet.</p> + +<p>"There's one good thing about typhoid," she<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[319]</a></span> +moaned. "It doesn't seem to hurt any, does it? +In fact, I think I rather like it. It feels as warm +and snug and don't-care as a hot lemonade at bed +time. But what?" brightening suddenly, "but what +was it you asked me to think about? I feel sort of +confused—but it was something, I remember, that +I was going to argue with you about."</p> + +<p>"It was what I said about marrying me," +prompted Guthrie.</p> + +<p>"Oh, y-e-s," smiled the Little Psychology Teacher. +Hazily for a moment she continued staring at him +with her fingers prodded deep into her temples. +Then suddenly, like a flower blasted with heat, she +wilted down into her chair, groping blindly out with +one hand toward the sleeve of his coat.</p> + +<p>"Whatever you think best to do about it," she +faltered, "I guess you'd better arrange pretty +quickly—'cause I think—I'm—going—out."</p> + +<p>This is how it happened that Mr. and Mrs. Donas +Guthrie and Dr. Andrews stayed behind at the +ranch house with Hanlon and Hanlon's Mary, and +a piebald pony or two, and a herd of Angora goats, +and a pink geranium plant, and the strange intermittent +smell of a New England farmhouse which +lurked in Hanlon's goods and chattels even after +thirty years, and three or four stale, tattered magazines—and +typhoid fever.</p> + +<p>It was typhoid fever that proved essentially the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[320]</a></span> +most incalculable companion of them all. Hanlon's +austerity certainly never varied from day to day, +nor the inherent sullenness of Hanlon's Mary.</p> + +<p>The meager sick-room, stripped to its bare pine +skin of every tawdry colored print and fluttering +cheese-cloth curtain, faced bluntly toward the west—a +vital little laboratory in which the unknown +quantity of a woman's endurance and the fallible +skill of one man, the stubborn bravery of another, +and the quite inestimable will of God were to be +fused together in a desperate experiment to precipitate +Life rather than Death.</p> + +<p>So October waxed into November, and so waxed +misgiving into apprehension, and apprehension into +actual fear. In any more cheerful situation it +would have been at least interesting to have watched +the infuriated expletives issue from Andrew's +perennially smiling lips.</p> + +<p>"Oh, hang not having anything to work with!" +he kept reiterating and reiterating. "Hang being +shut off like this on a ranch where there aren't anything +but sheep and goats and one old stingy cow +that Hanlon's Mary guards with her life 'cause the +lady's only a school teacher, but a baby is a baby.' +Hang Hanlon's Mary! And hang not being altogether +able to blame her! And hang not knowing, +anyway, just what nanny-goat's milk would do for +a typhoid patient! And hang—"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[321]</a></span></p> + +<p>But before the expletives, and through the expletives, +and after the expletives, Andrews was all +hero, working, watching, experimenting, retrenching, +humanly comprehensive, more than humanly +vigilant.</p> + +<p>So, with the brain of a doctor and the heart of +a lover, the two men worked and watched and +waited through the tortuous autumn days and nights, +blind to the young dawn stealing out like a luminous +mist from the night-smothered mountains; deaf to +the flutter of sun-dried leaves in the radiant noon-time; +dull to the fruit-scented fragrance of the early +twilight, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, sensing +nothing, except the flicker of a pulse or the rise of +a temperature.</p> + +<p>And then at last there came a harsh, wintry feeling +day, when Andrews, stepping out into the +hall, called Guthrie softly to him and said, still +smiling:</p> + +<p>"Guthrie, old man, I don't think we're going to +win this game!"</p> + +<p>"W-h-a-t?" gasped Guthrie.</p> + +<p>With his mouth still curling amiably around his +words, Andrews repeated the phrase. "I said, I +don't think we're going to win this game. No, +nothing new's happened. She's simply burning +out. Can't you understand? I mean she's probably—going +to die!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[322]</a></span></p> + +<p>Out of the jumble of words that hurtled through +Guthrie's mind only four slipped his lips.</p> + +<p>"But—she's—my—wife!" he protested.</p> + +<p>"Other men's wives have died before this," said +Andrews still smiling.</p> + +<p>"Man," cried Guthrie, "if you smile again, I'll +break your head!"</p> + +<p>With his tears running down like rain into the +broadening trough of his smile, Andrews kept right +on smiling. "You needn't be so cross about it," +he said. "You're not the only one who likes her! +I wanted her myself! You're nothing but a tramp +on the face of the earth—and I could have given +her the snuggest home in Yonkers!"</p> + +<p>With their arms across each other's shoulders they +went back into the sick room.</p> + +<p>Rousing from her lethargy, the young woman +opened her eyes upon them with the first understanding +that she had shown for some days. +Inquisitively she stared from Guthrie's somber eyes +to Andrews' distorted cheerfulness.</p> + +<p>Taking instant advantage of her unwonted rationality, +Andrews blurted out the question that +was uppermost in his professional responsibility.</p> + +<p>"Don't you think, maybe, your people ought to +know about your being sick?" he said. "Now, if +you could give us any addresses."</p> + +<p>For a second it really seemed as though the question<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[323]</a></span> +would merely safely ignite her common +sense.</p> + +<p>"Why yes, of course," she acquiesced. "My +brother."</p> + +<p>Then suddenly, without any warning, her most +dangerous imagination caught fire.</p> + +<p>"You mean," she faltered, "that—I—am—not—going +to get well?"</p> + +<p>Before either man was quick enough to contradict +her, the shock had done its work. Piteously +she turned her face to the pillow.</p> + +<p>"Never—never—to—go—to—Oxford?" +she whispered in mournful astonishment. "Never—even—to—see +my—Bay of Naples?—Never +to—have a—a—perfectly happy Christmas?" +A little petulantly then her brain began to +clog. "I think I—might at least have had—the +pink sash!" she complained. Then, equally suddenly +her strength rallied for an instant and the +eyes that she lifted to Guthrie's were filled with a +desperate effort at raillery. "Bring on your—anchovies +and caviar," she reminded him, "and the +stuffed green peppers—and remember I don't like +my fillet too well done—and—"</p> + +<p>Five minutes later in the hallway Andrews +caught Guthrie just as he was chasing downstairs +after Hanlon.</p> + +<p>"What are you going to do?" he asked curiously.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[324]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I am going to send Hanlon out to the telegraph +station," said Guthrie. "I'm going to wire to +Denver for a pink sash!"</p> + +<p>"What she was raving about?" quizzed Andrews. +"Are you raving too?"</p> + +<p>"It's the only blamed thing in the whole world +that she's asked for that I can get her," said Guthrie.</p> + +<p>"It'll take five days," growled Andrews.</p> + +<p>"I know it!"</p> + +<p>"It won't do her any good."</p> + +<p>"I can't help that!"</p> + +<p>"She'll—be gone before it gets here."</p> + +<p>"You can't help that!"</p> + +<p>But she wasn't "gone," at all before it came. +All her vitalities charred, to be sure, like a fire-swept +woodland, but still tenacious of life, still +fighting for reorganization, a little less feverish, a +little stronger-pulsed, she opened her eyes in a puzzled, +sad sort of little smile when Guthrie shook +the great, broad, shimmering gauze-like ribbon +ticklingly down across her wasted hands, and then +apparently drowsed off to sleep again. But when +both men came back to the room a few moments +later, almost half the pink sash was cuddled under +her cheek. And Hanlon's Mary came and peered +through the doorway, with the whining baby still +in her arms, and reaching out and fretting a piece<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[325]</a></span> +of pink fringe between her hardy fingers, sniffed +mightily.</p> + +<p>"And you sent my man all the way to the wire," +she asked, "and grubbed him three whole days +waitin' round, just for that?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, sure," said Guthrie.</p> + +<p>"G-a-w-d!" said Hanlon's Mary.</p> + +<p>And, the next week the patient was even better, +and the next week, better still. Then, one morning +after days and days of seemingly interminable +silence and stupor, she opened her eyes perfectly +wide and asked Guthrie abruptly:</p> + +<p>"Whom did I marry? You or Dr. Andrews?"</p> + +<p>And Guthrie in a sudden perversity of shock and +embarrassment lied grimly:</p> + +<p>"Dr. Andrews!"</p> + +<p>"I didn't either!—it was you!" came the immediate, +not too strong, but distinctly temperish +response.</p> + +<p>Something in the new vitality of the tone made +Guthrie stop whatever he was doing and eye her +suspiciously.</p> + +<p>"How long have you been conscious like this?" +he queried in surprise.</p> + +<p>The faintest perceptible flicker of mischief +crossed her haggard face.</p> + +<p>"Three—days," she acknowledged.</p> + +<p>"Then why—?" began Guthrie.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[326]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Because I—didn't know—just what to call +you," she faltered.</p> + +<p>After that no power on earth apparently could +induce any further speech from her for another +three days. Solemn and big-eyed and totally unfathomable, +she lay watching Guthrie's every gesture, +every movement. From the door to the chair, +from the chair to the window, from the window +back to the chair, she lay estimating him altogether +disconcertingly. Across the hand that steadied her +drinking glass, she studied the poise of his lean, firm +wrist. Out from the shadow-mystery of her heavy +lashes, she questioned the ultimate value of each +frown or smile.</p> + +<p>And then, suddenly—just as abruptly as the first +time she had spoken:</p> + +<p>"What day is it?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"It's Christmas," said Guthrie softly.</p> + +<p>"O-h!—O-h!—O-h!" she exclaimed, very +slowly. Then with increasing interest and wonder, +"Is there snow on the ground?" she whispered.</p> + +<p>"No," said Guthrie.</p> + +<p>"Is it full moon to-night?" she questioned.</p> + +<p>"No," said Guthrie.</p> + +<p>"Is there any small, freckle-faced, alto-voiced +choir boy in the house, trotting around humming +funny little tail-ends of anthems and carols, while +he's buckling up his skates?" she stammered.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[327]</a></span></p> + +<p>"No," said Guthrie.</p> + +<p>"Are there any old, white-haired loving people +cuddled in the chimney corner?" she persisted.</p> + +<p>"No," said Guthrie.</p> + +<p>"Isn't there—any Christmas tree?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"Aren't there even any presents?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"Oh!" she smiled. "Isn't it funny!"</p> + +<p>"What's funny?" asked Guthrie perplexedly.</p> + +<p>The eyes that lifted to his were brimming full of +a strange, wistful sort of astonishment. "Why, +it's funny," she faltered, "it's funny—that without—any +of these things—that I thought were so +necessary to it—I've found my 'perfectly happy +Christmas.'"</p> + +<p>Then, almost bashfully, her wisp-like fingers +went straying out toward the soft silken folds of +the precious pink sash which she kept always close +to her pillow.</p> + +<p>"If—you—don't—mind," she said, "I +think I'll cut my sash in two and give half of it +to Hanlon's Mary to make a dress for her baby."</p> + +<p>The medicine spoon dropped rather clatteringly +out of Guthrie's hand.</p> + +<p>"But I sent all the way to Denver for it," he +protested.</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes, I know all about that," she acknowledged.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[328]</a></span> +"But—what—can—a great big girl—like +me—do with a—pink sash?"</p> + +<p>"But you said you wanted it!" cried Guthrie. +"Why, it took a man and a pony and a telegraph +station five entire days to get it, and they had to +flag the express train specially for it—and—and—"</p> + +<p>A little wearily she closed her eyes and then +opened them again blinkingly.</p> + +<p>"I'm pretty tired, now," she said, "so I don't +want to talk about it—but don't you—understand? +I've revised my whole list of necessities. +Out of the wide—wide—world—I find that I +don't really want anything—except—just—you!"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[331]</a></span></p> +<h2>WOMAN'S ONLY BUSINESS</h2> + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 162px;"> +<img src="images/drop_t.png" width="162" height="164" alt="T" title="" /> +</div><div class='unindent'><br />HE men at the club were horridly +busy that night discussing the +silly English law about marrying +your dead wife's sister. The talk +was quite rabid enough even before +an English High-churchman +infused his pious venom into the subject-matter. +When the argument was at its highest and the +drinks were at their lowest, Bertus Sagner, the +biology man at the university, jumped up from his +seat with blazing eyes and said "<span class="smcap">rats!</span>"—not anything +long and Latin, not anything obscure and +evasive, not even "rodents," but just plain +"<span class="smcap">rats!</span>" The look on his face was inordinately +disgusted, or indeed more than disgusted, unless +disgust is perhaps an emotion that may at times +be served red-hot. As he broke away from the +gabbling crowd and began to hunt noisily round +the room for his papers, I gathered up my own +chemistry notebook and started after him. I was a +new man in town and a comparative stranger. But<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[332]</a></span> +Sagner and I had been chums once long ago in +Berlin.</div> + +<p>At the outside door he turned now and eyed me +a bit shamefacedly. "Barney, old man," he said, +"are you going my way? Well, come along." +The broad-shouldered breadth of the two of us +blocked out the light from the shining chandelier +and sent our clumsy feet fairly stumbling down the +harsh granite steps. The jarring lurch exploded +Sagner's irritation into a short, sharp, damny growl, +and I saw at once that his nerves were raw like a +woman's.</p> + +<p>As we turned into the deep-shadowed, spooky-black +college roadway, the dormitories' yellow +lights and laughter flared forth grotesquely like the +Fruit of the Tree of Knowledge cut up for a Jack-o'-Lantern. +At the edge of the Lombardy poplars +I heard Sagner swallowing a little bit overhard.</p> + +<p>"I suspect that I made rather a fool of myself +back there," he confided abruptly, "but if there's +anything under the day or night sky that makes me +mad, it's the idiotic babble, babble, babble, these +past few weeks about the 'dead wife's sister' law."</p> + +<p>"What's your grouch?" I asked. "You're +not even a married man, let alone a widower."</p> + +<p>He stopped suddenly with a spurting match and +a big cigar and lighted up unconsciously all the extraordinary<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[333]</a></span> +frowning furrows of his face. The +match went out and he struck another, and that +match went out and he struck another—and another, +and all the time it seemed to me as though +just the flame in his face was hot enough to kindle +any ordinary cigar. After each fruitless, breeze-snuffed +effort he snapped his words out like so +many tiny, tempery torpedoes. "Of—all—the—rot!" +he ejaculated. "Of—all—the nonsense!" +he puffed and mumbled. "A—whole—great, +grown-up empire fussing and brawling about +a 'dead wife's sister.' A dead wife! What does +a dead wife care who marries her sister? Great +heavens! If they really want to make a good moral +law that will help somebody, why—don't—they—make—a—law—that +will forbid a man's +flirting with his living wife's sister?"</p> + +<p>When I laughed I thought he would strike me, +but after a husky second he laughed, too, through +a great blue puff of smoke and a blaze like the +headlight of an engine. In another instant he had +vaulted the low fence and was starting off across +lots for his own rooms, but before I could catch +up with him he whirled abruptly in his tracks and +came back to me.</p> + +<p>"Will you come over to the Lennarts' with me +for a moment?" he asked. "I was there at dinner +with them to-night and I left my spectacles."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[334]</a></span></p> + +<p>Very willingly I acquiesced, and we plunged off +single file into the particular darkness that led to +Professor Lennart's rose-garden. Somewhere remotely +in my mind hummed and halted a vague, +evasive bit of man-gossip about Lennart's amazingly +pretty sister-in-law. Yet Sagner did not look +exactly to me like a man who was going courting. +Even in that murky darkness I could visualize perfectly +from Sagner's pose and gait the same strange, +bleak, facial furnishings that had attracted me so +astoundingly in Berlin—the lean, flat cheeks +cleaned close as the floor of a laboratory; the ugly, +short-cropped hair; the mouth, just for work; the +nose, just for work; the ears, just for work—not +a single, decorative, pleasant thing from crown to +chin except those great, dark, gorgeous, miraculously +virgin eyes, with the huge, shaggy eyebrows +lowering down prudishly over them like two common +doormats on which every incoming vision must +first stop and wipe its feet. Once in a café in +Berlin I saw a woman try to get into Sagner's +eyes—without stopping. Right in the middle of +our dinner I jumped as though I had been shot. +"Why, what was <i>that?</i>" I cried. "What was +<i>that?</i>"</p> + +<p>"What was what?" drawled Sagner. Try as +I might the tiniest flicker of a grin tickled my lips. +"Oh, nothing," I mumbled apologetically. "I just<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">[335]</a></span> +thought I heard a door slam-bang in a woman's +face."</p> + +<p>"What door?" said Sagner stupidly. "What +woman?"</p> + +<p>Old Sagner was deliciously stupid over many +things, but he dissected the darkness toward Professor +Lennart's house as though it had been his +favorite kind of cadaver. Here, was the hardening +turf, compact as flesh. There, was the tough, tight +tendon of the ripping ground pine. Farther along +under an exploring match a great vapid peony +loomed like a dead heart. Somewhere out in an +orchard the May-blooms smelled altogether too +white. Almost at the edge of the Lennarts' piazza +he turned and stepped back to my pace and began +talking messily about some stale biological specimen +that had just arrived from the Azores.</p> + +<p>College people, it seemed, did not ring bells for +one another, and the most casual flop of Sagner's +knuckles against the door brought Mrs. Lennart almost +immediately to welcome us. "Almost immediately," +I say, because the slight, faltering delay in +her footfall made me wonder even then whether it +was limb or life that had gone just a little bit lame. +But the instant the hall light struck her face my +hand clutched down involuntarily on Sagner's +shoulder. It was the same, same face whose +brighter, keener, shinier pastelled likeness had been<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_336" id="Page_336">[336]</a></span> +the only joyous object in Sagner's homesick German +room. With almost embarrassing slowness +now we followed her lagging steps back to the +library.</p> + +<p>It was the first American home that I had seen +for some years, and the warmth of it, and the +color, and the glow, and the luxurious, deep-seated +comfort, mothered me like the notes of an old, old +song. Between the hill-green walls the long room +stretched like a peaceful valley to the very edge of +the huge, gray field-stone fireplace that blocked the +final vista like a furious breastwork raised against +all the invading tribes of history. Red books and +gold frames and a chocolate-colored bronze or two +caught up the flickering glint from the apple-wood +fire, and out of some shadowy corner flanked by +a grand piano a young girl's contralto voice, +sensuous as liquid plush, was lipping its magic way +up and down the whole wonderful, molten scale.</p> + +<p>The corner was rather small, but out of it loomed +instantly the tall, supple figure of Professor Lennart +with his thousand-year-old brown eyes and his +young gray hair. We were all big fellows, but +Lennart towered easily three inches over anybody +else's head. Professionally, too, he had outstripped +the rest of us. People came gadding from +all over the country to consult his historical criticisms +and interpretations. And I hardly know how<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_337" id="Page_337">[337]</a></span> +to express the man's vivid, luminous, incandescent +personality. Surely no mother in a thousand would +have chosen to have her son look like me, and I +hope that no mother in a million would really have +yearned to have a boy look like Sagner, but any +mother, I think, would gladly have compromised +on Lennart. I suppose he was handsome. Rising +now, as he did, from the murkiest sort of a shadow, +the mental and physical radiance of him made me +want to laugh right out loud just for sheer pleasure.</p> + +<p>Following closely behind his towering bulk, the +girl with the contralto voice stepped out into the +lamplight, and I made my most solemn and profound +German bow over her proffered hand before +the flaming mischief in her finger tips sent my eyes +staring up into her astonishing face.</p> + +<p>I have never thought that American women are +extraordinarily beautiful, but rather that they wear +their beauty like a thinnish sort of veil across the +adorable, insistent expressiveness of their features. +But this girl's face was so thick with beauty that +you could not tell in one glance, or even two glances, +or perhaps three, whether she had any expression +at all. Kindness or meanness, brightness or dullness, +pluck or timidity, were absolutely undecipherable +in that physically perfect countenance. +She was very small, and very dark, and very active,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_338" id="Page_338">[338]</a></span> +with hair like the color of eight o'clock—daylight +and darkness and lamplight all snarled up together—and +lips all crude scarlet, and eyes as absurdly +big and round as a child's good-by kiss. Yet never +for one instant could you have called her anything +so impassive as "attractive." "Attracting" is the +only hasty, ready-made word that could possibly fit +her. Personally I do not like the type. The prettiest +picture postal that ever was printed could not +lure me across the borders of any unknown country. +When I travel even into Friendship Land I +want a good, clear face-map to guide my explorations.</p> + +<p>There was a boy, too, in the room—the Lennarts' +son—a brown-faced lad of thirteen whose +algebraic séance with his beloved mother we had +most brutally interrupted.</p> + +<p>Professor Lennart's fad, as I have said, was history. +Mrs. Lennart's fad was presumably housekeeping. +The sister-in-law's fad was unmistakably +men. Like an electric signboard her fascinating, +spectacular sex-vanity flamed and flared from her +coyly drooped eyes to her showy little feet. Every +individual gesture signaled distinctly, "I am an +extraordinarily beautiful little woman." Now it +was her caressing hand on Lennart's shoulder; now +it was her maddening, dazzling smile hurled like a +bombshell into Sagner's perfectly prosy remark<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_339" id="Page_339">[339]</a></span> +about the weather, now it was her teasing lips +against the boy's tousled hair; now it was her tip-toeing, +swaying, sweet-breathed exploration of a +cobweb that the linden trees had left across my +shoulder.</p> + +<p>Lennart was evidently utterly subjugated. Like +a bright moth and a very dull flame the girl chased +him unceasingly from one chair, or one word, or +one laugh to another. A dozen times their hands +touched, or their smiles met, or their thoughts mated +in distinctly personal if not secret understanding. +Once when Mrs. Lennart stopped suddenly in the +midst of my best story and asked me to repeat what +I had been saying, I glanced up covertly and saw +the girl kissing the tip of her finger a little bit over-mockingly +to her brother-in-law. Never in any +country but America could such a whole scene have +been enacted in absolute moral innocence. It made +me half ashamed and half very proud of my country. +In continental Europe even the most trivial, +innocent audacity assumes at once such utterly preposterous +proportions of evil. But here before my +very eyes was the most dangerous man-and-woman +game in the world being played as frankly and ingenuously +and transiently as though it had been +croquet.</p> + +<p>Through it all, Sagner, frowning like ten devils, +sat at the desk with his chin in his hands, staring—staring<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_340" id="Page_340">[340]</a></span> +at the girl. I suppose that she thought he +was fascinated. He was. He was fairly yearning +to vivisect her. I had seen that expression before +in his face—reverence, repulsion, attraction, distaste, +indomitable purpose, blood-curdling curiosity—<span class="smcap">science</span>.</p> + +<p>When I dragged him out of the room and down +the steps half an hour later my sides were cramped +with laughter. "If we'd stayed ten minutes +longer," I chuckled, "she would have called you +'Bertie' and me 'Boy.'"</p> + +<p>But Sagner would not laugh.</p> + +<p>"She's a pretty girl all right," I ventured again.</p> + +<p>"Pretty as h—," whispered Sagner.</p> + +<p>As we rounded the corner of the house the long +French window blazed forth on us. Clear and +bright in the lamplight stood Lennart with his right +arm cuddling the girl to his side. "Little sister," +he was saying, "let's go back to the piano and have +some more music." Smiling her kindly good night +we saw Mrs. Lennart gather up her books and start +off limpingly across the hall, with the devoted boy +following close behind her.</p> + +<p>"Then she's really lame?" I asked Sagner as +we swung into the noisy gravel path.</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes," he said; "she got hurt in a runaway +accident four years ago. Lennart doesn't know +how to drive a <i>goat!</i>"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_341" id="Page_341">[341]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Seems sort of too bad," I mused dully.</p> + +<p>Then Sagner laughed most astonishingly. "Yes, +sort of too bad," he mocked me.</p> + +<p>It was almost ten o'clock when we circled back +to the college library. Only a few grinds were +there buzzing like June-bugs round the low-swinging +green lamps. Even the librarian was missing. +But Madge Hubert, the librarian's daughter, was +keeping office hours in his stead behind a sumptuous +old mahogany desk. At the very first college party +that I had attended, Madge Hubert had been pointed +out to me with a certain distinction as being the +girl that Bertus Sagner was <i>almost</i> in love with. +Then, as now, I was startled by the surprising +youthfulness of her. Surely she was not more than +three years ahead of the young girl whom we had +left at Professor Lennart's house. With unmistakable +friendly gladness she welcomed Sagner to +the seat nearest her, and accorded me quite as much +chair and quite as much smile as any new man in +a university town really deserved. In another moment +she had closed her book, pushed a full box of +matches across the table to us, and switched off the +electric light that fairly threatened to scorch her +straight blond hair.</p> + +<p>One by one the grinds looked up and nodded and +smiled, and puckered their vision toward the clock, +and "folded their tents like the Arabs and silently<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_342" id="Page_342">[342]</a></span> +stole away," leaving us two men there all alone with +the great silent room, and the long, rangy, echoing +metal book-stacks, and the duddy-looking portraits, +and the dopy-acting busts, and the sleek gray library +cat—and the girl. Maybe Sagner came every +Wednesday night to help close the library.</p> + +<p>Certainly I liked the frank, almost boyish manner +in which the two friends included me in their +friendship by seeming to ignore me altogether.</p> + +<p>"What's the matter, Bertus?" the girl began +quite abruptly. "You look worried. What's the +matter?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing is ever the matter," said Sagner.</p> + +<p>The girl laughed, and began to build a high, tottering +paper tower out of a learned-looking pack of +catalogue cards. Just at the moment of completion +she gave a sharp little inadvertent sigh and the +tower fluttered down.</p> + +<p>"What's the matter with <i>you?</i>" quizzed Sagner.</p> + +<p>"Nothing is ever the matter with me, either," she +mocked smilingly.</p> + +<p>Trying to butt into the silence that was awkward +for me, if not for them, I rummaged my brain for +speech, and blurted out triumphantly, "We've just +come from Professor Lennart's."</p> + +<p>"Just come from Professor Lennart's?" she repeated +slowly, lifting her eyebrows as though the +thought was a little bit heavy.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_343" id="Page_343">[343]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Yes," said Sagner bluntly. "I've been there +twice this evening."</p> + +<p>With a rather playful twist of her lips the girl +turned to me. "What did you think of 'Little Sister'?" +she asked.</p> + +<p>But before I could answer, Sagner had pushed +me utterly aside once more and was shaking his +smoke-stained finger threateningly in Madge Hubert's +face. "Why—didn't—you—come—to +the—Lennarts'—to—dinner—to-night—as—you—were—invited?" +he scolded.</p> + +<p>The girl put her chin in her hand and cuddled her +fingers over her mouth and her nose and part of +her blue eyes.</p> + +<p>"I don't go to the Lennarts' any more—if I can +help it," she mumbled.</p> + +<p>"Why not?" shouted Sagner.</p> + +<p>She considered the question very carefully, then +"Go ask the other girls," she answered a trifle +hotly. "Go ask any one of them. We all stay +away for exactly the same reason."</p> + +<p>"<span class="smcap">What is the reason?</span>" thundered Sagner in +his most terrible laboratory manner.</p> + +<p>When Sagner speaks like that to me, I always +grab hold of my head with both hands and answer +just as fast as I possibly can, for I remember only +too distinctly all the shining assortment of different +sized knives and scalpels in his workshop and I have<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_344" id="Page_344">[344]</a></span> +always found that a small, narrow, quick question +makes the smallest, narrowest, quickest, soon-overest +incision into my secret.</p> + +<p>But Madge Hubert only laughed at the laboratory +manner.</p> + +<p>"Say 'Please,'" she whispered.</p> + +<p>"Please!" growled Sagner, with his very own +blood flushing all over his face and hands.</p> + +<p>"Now—what is it you want to know?" she +asked, frittering her fingers all the time over that +inky-looking pack of catalogue cards.</p> + +<p>Somehow, strange as it may seem, I did not feel +an atom in the way, but rather that the presence +of a third person, and that person myself, gave +them both a certain daring bravado of speech that +they would scarcely have risked alone with each +other.</p> + +<p>"What do I want to know?" queried Sagner. +"I want to know—in fact—I'm utterly mad to +know—just what your kind of woman thinks of +'Little Sister's' kind of woman."</p> + +<p>With a startled gesture Madge Hubert looked back +over her shoulder toward a creak in the literature +book-stack, and Sagner jumped up with a great air +of mock conspiracy, and went tip-toeing all around +among the metal corridors in search of possible +eavesdroppers, and then came flouncing back and +stuffed tickly tissue paper into the gray cat's ears.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_345" id="Page_345">[345]</a></span></p> + +<p>Then "Why don't you girls go to the Lennarts' +any more?" he resumed with quickly recurrent +gravity.</p> + +<p>For a moment Madge Hubert dallied to shuffle +one half of her pack of cards into the other half. +Then she looked up and smiled the blond way a +white-birch tree smiles in the sunshine.</p> + +<p>"Why—we don't go any more because we don't +have a good time," she confided. "After you've +come home from a party once or twice and cried +yourself to sleep, it begins to dawn on you very +gradually that you didn't have a very good time. +We don't like 'Little Sister.' She makes us feel +ashamed."</p> + +<p>"Oh!" said Sagner, rather brutally. "You are +all jealous!"</p> + +<p>But if he had expected for a second to disconcert +Madge Hubert he was most ingloriously mistaken.</p> + +<p>"Yes," she answered perfectly simply. "We +are all jealous."</p> + +<p>"Of her beauty?" scowled Sagner.</p> + +<p>"Oh, no," said Madge Hubert. "Of her innocence."</p> + +<p>Acid couldn't have eaten the fiber out of Madge +Hubert's emotional honesty. "Why, yes," she +hurried on vehemently, "among all the professors' +daughters here in town there isn't one of us who is +innocent enough to do happily even once the things<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_346" id="Page_346">[346]</a></span> +that 'Little Sister' does every day of her life. +You are quite right. We are all furiously jealous."</p> + +<p>With sudden professional earnestness she ran her +fingers through the catalogue cards and picked out +one and slapped it down in front of Sagner. +"There!" she said. "That's the book that explains +all about it. It says that jealousy is an emotion +that is aroused only by business competition, +which accounts, of course, for the fact that, socially +speaking, you very rarely find any personal enmity +between men. There are so many, many different +kinds of businesses for men, that interests very +seldom conflict—so that the broker resents <i>only</i> +the broker, and the minister resents <i>only</i> the minister, +and the merchant resents <i>only</i> the merchant. +Why, Bertus Sagner," she broke off abruptly, "you +fairly idolize your chemistry friend here, and Lennart +for history, and Dudley for mathematics, and +all the others, and you glory in their achievements, +and pray for their successes. But if there were +another biology man here in town, you'd tear him +and his methods tooth and nail, day and night. +Yes, you would!—though you'd cover your hate +a foot deep with superficial courtesies and 'professional +etiquette.'"</p> + +<p>She began to laugh. "Oh, the book is very +wise," she continued more lightly. "It goes on to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_347" id="Page_347">[347]</a></span> +say that woman's only business in the whole +wide world is <span class="smcap">love</span>—that Love is really the one +and only, the Universal Profession for Women—so +that every mortal feminine creature, from the +brownest gypsy to the whitest queen, is in brutal, +acute competition with her neighbor. It's funny, +isn't it!" she finished brightly.</p> + +<p>"Very funny," growled Sagner.</p> + +<p>"So you see," she persisted, "that we girls are +jealous of 'Little Sister' in just about the same +way in which an old-fashioned, rather conservative +department store would be jealous of the first ten-cent +store that came to town." A sudden rather +fine white pride paled suddenly in her cheeks. "It +isn't, you understand," she said, "it isn't because +the ten-cent store's rhinestone comb, or +tinsel ribbon, or slightly handled collar really +competes with the other store's plainer but possibly +honester values, but—because in the long run +the public's frittered taste and frittered small +change is absolutely bound to affect the general receipts +of the more conservative store."</p> + +<p>"And it isn't," she added hastily, "it isn't, +you know, because we're not used to men. There +isn't one of us—from the time we were sixteen +years old—who hasn't been quite accustomed +to entertain anywhere from three to a +dozen men every evening of her life. But we<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_348" id="Page_348">[348]</a></span> +can't entertain them the way 'Little Sister' does." +A hot, red wave of mortification flooded her face. +"We tried it once," she confessed, "and it didn't +work. Just before the last winter party seven of +us girls got together and deliberately made up our +minds to beat 'Little Sister' at her own game. +Wasn't it disgusting of us to start out actually and +deliberately with the intention of being just a little +wee bit free and easy with men?"</p> + +<p>"How did it work?" persisted Sagner, half agrin.</p> + +<p>The color flushed redder and redder into Madge +Hubert's cheeks.</p> + +<p>"I went to the party with the new psychology +substitute," she continued bravely, "and as I stepped +into the carriage I called him 'Fred'—and he +looked as though he thought I was demented. But +fifteen minutes afterward I heard 'Little Sister' +call him 'Psyche'—and he laughed." She began +to laugh herself.</p> + +<p>"But how did the party come out?" probed Sagner, +going deeper and deeper.</p> + +<p>The girl sobered instantly. "There were seven +of us," she said, "and we all were to meet at the +house of one of the girls at twelve o'clock and compare +experiences. Three of us came home at ten +o'clock—crying. And four of us didn't turn up +till half-past one—laughing. But the ones who<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_349" id="Page_349">[349]</a></span> +came home crying were the only ones who really +had any fun out of it. The game was altogether +too easy—that was the trouble with it. But the +four who came home laughing had been bored to +death with their <i>un</i>-successes."</p> + +<p>"Which lot were you in?" cried Sagner.</p> + +<p>She shook her head. "I won't tell you," she +whispered.</p> + +<p>With almost startling pluck she jumped up suddenly +and switched the electric light full blast into +her tense young face and across her resolute shoulders.</p> + +<p>"Look at me!" she cried. "Look at me! As +long as men are men—what have I that can possibly, +possibly compete with a girl like 'Little Sister'? +Can I climb up into a man's face every time +I want to speak to him? Can I pat a man's shoulder +every time he passes me in a room? Can I +hold out my quivering white hand and act perfectly +helpless in a man's presence every time that I want +to step into a carriage, or out of a chair? Can I +cry and grieve and mope into a man's arms at a +dance just because I happen to cut my finger on +the sharp edge of my dance-order? Bah! If a +new man came to town and made not one single +man-friend but called all of us girls by our first +names the second time he saw us, and rolled his +eyes at us, and fluttered his hands, you people would<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_350" id="Page_350">[350]</a></span> +call him the biggest fool in Christendom—but you +flock by the dozens and the hundreds and the millions +every evening to see 'Little Sister.' And +great, grown-up, middle-aged boys like <i>you</i>, Bertus +Sagner, flock <i>twice</i> in the same evening!"</p> + +<p>With astounding irrelevance Sagner burst out +laughing. "Why, Madge," he cried, "you're perfectly +superb when you're mad. Keep it up. +Keep it up. I didn't know you had it in you! +Why, you dear, gorgeous girl—<span class="smcap">why aren't you +married</span>?"</p> + +<p>Like a scarlet lightning-bolt spiked with two-edged +knives the red wrath of the girl descended +then and there on Sagner's ugly head. +With her heaving young shoulders braced like a +frenzied creature at bay, against a great, silly, +towering tier of "Latest Novels," she hurled her +flaming, irrevocable answer crash-bang into Sagner's +astonished, impertinent face.</p> + +<p>"You want to know why I'm not married?" +she cried. "You want to know why I'm not married? +Well, I'll tell you—why—I'm—not +married, Bertus Sagner, and I'll use yourself for an +illustration—for when I do come to marry, it is +written in the stars that I must of necessity marry +your kind, a mature, cool, calculating, emotionally-tamed +man, a man of brain as well as brawn, a +man of fame if not of fortune, a man bred intellectually,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_351" id="Page_351">[351]</a></span> +morally, socially, into the same wonderfully +keen, thinky corner of the world where I was +born—nothing but a woman.</p> + +<p>"For four years, Bertus Sagner, ever since I +was nineteen years old, people have come stumbling +over each other at college receptions to stare at me +because I am 'the girl that Bertus Sagner, the big +biologist, is <i>almost</i> in love with.' And you <i>are</i> +'almost' in love with me, Bertus Sagner. You +can't deny it! And what is more, you will stay +'almost' in love with me till our pulses run down +like clocks, and our eyes burn out like lamps, and +the Real Night comes. If I remain here in this +town, even when I am middle-aged—people will +come and stare at me—because of you. And +when I am old, and you are gone—altogether, +people will still be talking about it. 'Almost in +love' with me. Yes, Bertus Sagner, but if next +time you came to see me, I should even so much as +dally for a second on the arm of your chair, and +slip my hand just a little bit tremulously into yours, +and brush my lips like the ghost of a butterfly's +wing across your love-starved face, you would +probably find out then and there in one great, blinding, +tingling, crunching flash that you <span class="smcap">love me +now</span>! But I don't want <i>you</i>, Bertus Sagner, nor +any other man, at that price. The man who +was made for me will love me first and get his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_352" id="Page_352">[352]</a></span> +petting afterward. There! Do you understand +now?"</p> + +<p>As though Sagner's gasp for breath was no more +than the flutter of a book-leaf, she plunged on, +"And as for Mrs. Lennart—"</p> + +<p>Sagner jumped to his feet. "We weren't talking +about Mrs. Lennart," he exclaimed hotly.</p> + +<p>It has always seemed to me that very few things +in the world are as quick as a woman's anger. But +nothing in the world, I am perfectly positive, is +as quick as a woman's amusement. As though an +anarchist's bomb had exploded into confetti, Madge +Hubert's sudden laughter sparkled through the +room.</p> + +<p>"Now, Bertus Sagner," she teased, "you just +sit down again and listen to what I have to say."</p> + +<p>Sagner sat down.</p> + +<p>And as casually as though she were going to pour +afternoon tea the girl slipped back into her own +chair, and gave me a genuinely mirthful side-glance +before she resumed her attack on Sagner.</p> + +<p>"You were, too, talking about Mrs. Lennart," +she insisted. "When you asked me to tell you +exactly what a girl of my kind thinks of a girl like +'Little Sister,' do you suppose for a second I didn't +understand that the thing you really wanted to find +out was whether Mrs. Lennart was getting hurt +or not in this 'Little Sister' business? Oh, no,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_353" id="Page_353">[353]</a></span> +Mrs. Lennart hasn't been hurt for a long, long +time—several months perhaps. I think she looks +a little bit bored now and then, but not hurt."</p> + +<p>"Lennart's a splendid fellow," protested Sagner.</p> + +<p>"He's a splendid fool," said Madge Hubert. +"And after a woman once discovers that her husband +is a fool I don't suppose that any extra illustrations +on his part make any particular difference +to her."</p> + +<p>"Why, you don't—really think," stammered +Sagner, "that there's any actual harm in Lennart's +perfectly frank infatuation with 'Little Sister'?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, no," said Madge Hubert, "of course there's +no real harm in it at all. It's only that Mrs. Lennart +has got to realize once for all that the special +public that she has catered to so long and faithfully +with honest values and small profit, has really got +a ten-cent taste! Most men have. And it isn't, +you know, because Professor Lennart really wants +or needs all these ten-cent toys and favors, but because +he probably never before in all his studious, +straight, idealistic life saw glittering nonsense so +inordinately cheap and easy to get. Talk about +women being 'bargain-hunters'!</p> + +<p>"But, of course, it's all pretty apt to ruin Mrs. +Lennart's business. Anybody with half a heart +could see that her stock is beginning to run down.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_354" id="Page_354">[354]</a></span> +She hasn't put in a new idea for months. She's +wearing last year's clothes. She's thinking last +year's thoughts. Even that blessed smile of hers +is beginning to get just a little bit stale. You can't +get what you want from her any more. Dust and +indifference have already begun to set in. How +will it end? Oh, I'll tell you how it will end. +Pretty soon now college will be over and the men +will scatter in five hundred different directions, and +'Little Sister' will be smitten suddenly with conscientious +scruples about the 'old folks at home,' +and will pack up her ruffles and her fraternity pins +and go back to the provincial little town that has +made her what she is. And Professor Lennart will +mope around the house like a lost soul—for as +much as five days—moaning, 'Oh, I wish "Little +Sister" was here to-night to sing to me,' and 'I +wish "Little Sister" was going to be here to-morrow +to go canoeing with me,' and 'I wish "Little +Sister" could see this moonlight,' and 'I wish "Little +Sister" could taste this wild-strawberry pie.' +And then somewhere about the sixth day, when he +and Mrs. Lennart are at breakfast or dinner or +supper, he'll look up suddenly like a man just freed +from a delirium, and drop his cup, or his knife, or +his fork 'ker-smash' into his plate, and cry out, +'My Heavens, Mary! But it's pretty good just for +<i>you</i> and <i>me</i> to be alone together again!'"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_355" id="Page_355">[355]</a></span></p> + +<p>"And what will Mrs. Lennart say?" interposed +Sagner hastily, with a great puff of smoke.</p> + +<p>For some unaccountable reason Madge Hubert's +eyes slopped right over with tears.</p> + +<p>"What will Mary Lennart say?" she repeated. +"Mary Lennart will say: 'Excuse me, dear, but +I wasn't listening. I didn't hear what you said. +I was trying to remember whether or not I'd put +moth-balls in your winter suit.' Though he live to +be nine hundred and sixty-two, Harold Lennart's +love-life will never rhyme again. But prose, of +course, is a great deal easier to live than verse."</p> + +<p>As though we had all been discussing the latest +foreign theory concerning microbes, Sagner jumped +up abruptly and began to rummage furiously +through a pile of German bulletins. When he had +found and read aloud enough things that he didn't +want, he looked up and said nonchalantly, "Let's +go home."</p> + +<p>"All right," said Madge Hubert.</p> + +<p>"Maybe you hadn't noticed that I was here," I +suggested, "but I think that perhaps I should like +to go home, too."</p> + +<p>As we banged the big, oaken, iron-clamped door +behind us, Madge Hubert lingered a second and +turned her white face up to the waning, yellow +moonlight. "I think I'd like to go home through +the dark woods," she decided.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_356" id="Page_356">[356]</a></span></p> + +<p>Silently we all turned down into the soft, padded +path that ran along the piny shore of our little +college lake. Sagner of course led the way. +Madge Hubert followed close. And I tagged along +behind as merrily as I could. Twice I saw the girl's +shoulders shudder.</p> + +<p>"Don't you like the woods, Miss Hubert?" I +called out experimentally.</p> + +<p>She stopped at once and waited for me to catch +up with her. There was the very faintest possible +suggestion of timidity in the action.</p> + +<p>"Don't you like the woods?" I repeated.</p> + +<p>She shook her head. "No, not especially," she +answered. "That is, not all woods. There's such +a difference. Some woods feel as though they had +violets in them, and some woods feel as though they +had—Indians."</p> + +<p>I couldn't help laughing. "How about these +woods?" I quizzed.</p> + +<p>She gave a little gasp. "I don't believe there +are violets in any woods to-night," she faltered.</p> + +<p>Even as she spoke we heard a swish and a crackle +ahead of us and Sagner came running back. +"Let's go round the other way," he insisted.</p> + +<p>"I won't go round the other way," said Madge +Hubert. "How perfectly absurd! What's the +matter?"</p> + +<p>Even as she argued we stepped out into the open<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_357" id="Page_357">[357]</a></span> +clearing and met Harold Lennart and "Little Sister" +singing their way home hand in hand through +the witching night. For an instant our jovial greetings +parried together, and then we passed. Not till +we had reached Madge Hubert's doorstep did I +lose utterly the wonderful lilting echo of that +young contralto voice with the man's older tenor +ringing in and out of it like a shimmery silver +lining.</p> + +<p>Ten minutes later in Sagner's cluttered workroom +we two men sat and stared through our pipe-smoke +into each other's evasive eyes.</p> + +<p>"Madge didn't—hesitate at all—to tell me +a thing or two to-night, did she?" Sagner began +at last, gruffly.</p> + +<p>I smiled. The relaxation made me feel as though +my mouth had really got a chance at last to sit +down.</p> + +<p>"Am I so very old?" persisted Sagner. "I'm +not forty-five."</p> + +<p>I shrugged my shoulders.</p> + +<p>Pettishly he reached out and clutched at a scalpel, +cleansed it for an instant in the flame, and +jabbed the point of it into his wrist. The red blood +spurted instantly.</p> + +<p>"There!" he cried out triumphantly. "I have +blood in me! It isn't embalming fluid at all."</p> + +<p>"Oh, quit your fooling, you old death-digger," I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_358" id="Page_358">[358]</a></span> +said. And then with overtense impulse I asked, +"Sagner, man, do you really understand Life?"</p> + +<p>Sagner's jaw-bones stiffened instantly. "Oh, +yes," he exclaimed. "Oh, yes, of course I understand +Life. That is," he added, with a most unusual +burst of humility, "I understand everything, +I think, except just why the gills of a fish—but, +oh, bother, you wouldn't know what I meant; and +there's a new French theory about odylic forces +that puzzles me a little, and I never, never have +been able to understand the particular mental +processes of a woman who violates the law of +species by naming her firstborn son for any man +but his father. I'm not exactly criticising the fish," +he added vehemently, "nor the new odylic theory, +nor even the woman; I'm simply stating baldly and +plainly the only three things under God's heaven +that I can't quite seem to fathom."</p> + +<p>"What's all this got to do with Mary Lennart?" +I asked impatiently.</p> + +<p>"Nothing at all to do with Mary Lennart," he +answered proudly. "Mary Lennart's son is named +Harold." He began to smoke very hard. "Considering +the real object of our being put here in the +world," he resumed didactically, "it has always +seemed to me that the supreme test of character lay +in the father's and mother's mental attitude toward +their young."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_359" id="Page_359">[359]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Couldn't you say 'toward their children'?" I +protested.</p> + +<p>He brushed my interruption aside. "I don't +care," he persisted, "how much a man loves a +woman or how much a woman loves a man—the +man who deserts his wife during her crucial hour +and goes off on a lark to get out of the fuss, and +the woman who names her firstborn son for any +man except his father, may qualify in all the available +moral tenets, but they certainly have slipped +up somehow, mentally, in the Real Meaning of +things. Thank God," he finished quickly, "that +neither Harold Lennart nor Mary has failed the +other like that—no matter what else happens." +His face whitened. "I stayed with Harold Lennart +the night little Harold was born," he whispered +rather softly.</p> + +<p>Before I could think of just the right thing to +say, he jumped up awkwardly and strode over to +the looking-glass, and puffed out his great chest +and stood and stared at himself.</p> + +<p>"I wish I had a son named Bertus Sagner," he +said.</p> + +<p>"It's all right, of course, to have him named +after you," I laughed, "but you surely wouldn't +choose to have him look like you, would you?"</p> + +<p>He turned on me with absurd fierceness. "I +wouldn't marry any woman who didn't love me<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_360" id="Page_360">[360]</a></span> +enough to want her son to look like me!" he exclaimed.</p> + +<p>I was still laughing as I picked up my hat. I +was still laughing as I stumbled and fumbled down +the long, black, steep stairs. Half an hour later in +my pillows I was still laughing. But I did not get +to sleep. My mind was too messy. After all, +when you really come to think of it, a man's brain +ought to be made up fresh and clean every night +like a hotel bed. Sleep seems to be altogether too +dainty a thing to nest in any brain that strange +thoughts have rumpled. Always there must be the +white sheet of peace edging the blanket of forgetfulness. +And perhaps on one or two of life's +wintrier nights some sort of spiritual comforter +thrown over all.</p> + +<p>It was almost a week before I saw any of the +Lennarts again. Then, on a Saturday afternoon, +as Sagner and I were lolling along the road toward +town we met Lennart and "Little Sister" togged +out in a lot of gorgeous golf duds. Lennart was +delighted to see us, and "Little Sister" made Sagner +get down on his knees and tie her shoe lacings +twice. I escaped with the milder favor of a pat on +the wrist.</p> + +<p>"We're going out to the Golf Club," beamed +Lennart, "to enter for the tournament."</p> + +<p>"Oh," said Sagner, turning to join them.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_361" id="Page_361">[361]</a></span> +"Shall we find Mrs. Lennart out at the club? Is +she going to play?"</p> + +<p>A flicker of annoyance went over Lennart's face. +"Why, Sagner," he said, "how stupid you are! +Don't you know that Mary is lame and couldn't +walk over the golf course now to save her life?"</p> + +<p>As Sagner turned back to me, and we passed on +out of hearing, I noted two red spots flaming hectically +in his cheeks.</p> + +<p>"It seems to me," he muttered, "that if I had +crippled or incapacitated my wife in any way so +that she couldn't play golf any more, I wouldn't +exactly take another woman into the tournament. +I think that singles would just about fit me under +the circumstances."</p> + +<p>"But Lennart is such a 'splendid fellow,'" I +quoted wryly.</p> + +<p>"He's a splendid fool," snapped Sagner.</p> + +<p>"Why, you darned old copy-cat," I taunted. +"It was Miss Hubert who rated him as a 'splendid +fool.'"</p> + +<p>"Oh," said Sagner.</p> + +<p>"Oh, yourself," said I.</p> + +<p>Involuntarily we turned and watched the two +bright figures skirting the field. Almost at that +instant they stopped, and the girl reached up with +all her clinging, cloying coquetry and fastened a +great, pink wild rose into the lapel of the man's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_362" id="Page_362">[362]</a></span> +coat. Sagner groaned. "Why can't she keep her +hands off that man?" he muttered; then he +shrugged his shoulders with a grim little gesture of +helplessness. "If a girl doesn't know," he said, +"that it's wrong to chase another woman's man +she's too ignorant to be congenial. If she does +know it's wrong, she's too—vicious. But never +mind," he finished abruptly, "Lennart's foolishness +will soon pass. And meanwhile Mary has her boy. +Surely no lad was ever so passionately devoted to +his mother. They are absolutely inseparable. I +never saw anything like it." He began to smile +again.</p> + +<p>Then, because at a turn of the road he saw a +bird that reminded him of a beast that reminded +him of a reptile, he left me unceremoniously and +went back to the laboratory.</p> + +<p>Feeling a bit raw over his desertion, I gave up +my walk and decided to spend the rest of the afternoon +at the library.</p> + +<p>At the edge of the reading-room I found Madge +Hubert brandishing a ferocious-looking paper-knife +over the perfectly helpless new magazines. With +a little cry of delight she summoned me to her by +the wave of a <i>Science Monthly</i>. Looking over her +shoulder I beheld with equal delight that the canny +old Science paper had stuck in Sagner's great, ugly +face for a frontispiece. At arm's length, with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_363" id="Page_363">[363]</a></span> +opening and narrowing eyes, I studied the perfect, +clever likeness: the convict-cropped hair; the surly, +aggressive, relentlessly busy features; the absurd, +overwrought, deep-sea sort of eyes. "Great +Heavens, Miss Hubert," I said, "did you ever see +such a funny-looking man?"</p> + +<p>The girl winced. "Funny?" she gasped. +"Funny? Why, I think Bertus Sagner is the most +absolutely fascinating-looking man that I ever saw +in my life." She stared at me in astonishment.</p> + +<p>To hide my emotions I fled to the history room. +Somewhat to my surprise Mrs. Lennart and her +little lad were there, delving deep into some thrilling +grammar-school problem concerning Henry the +Eighth. I nodded to them, thought they saw me, +and slipped into a chair not far behind them. There +was no one else in the room. Maybe my thirst for +historical information was not very keen. Certainly +every book that I touched rustled like a dead, +stale autumn leaf. Maybe the yellow bird in the +acacia tree just outside the window teased me a little +bit. Anyway, my eyes began only too soon to +stray from the text-books before me to the little +fluttering wisp of Mrs. Lennart's hair that tickled +now and then across the lad's hovering face. I +thought I had never seen a sweeter picture than +those two cuddling, browsing faces. Surely I had +never seen one more entrancingly serene.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_364" id="Page_364">[364]</a></span></p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 312px;"> +<img src="images/gs09.jpg" width="312" height="500" alt=""Oh, I wish I had a sister," fretted the boy" title="" /> +<span class="caption">"Oh, I wish I had a sister," fretted the boy</span> +</div> + +<p>Then suddenly I saw the lad push back his books +with a whimper of discontent.</p> + +<p>"What is it?" asked his mother. I could hear +her words plainly.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I wish I had a sister," fretted the boy.</p> + +<p>"Why?" said the mother in perfectly happy surprise.</p> + +<p>The lad began to drum on the table. "Why do +I want a sister?" he repeated a trifle temperishly. +"Why, so I could have some one to play with and +walk with and talk with and study with. Some one +jolly and merry and frisky."</p> + +<p>"Why—what about <i>me?</i>" she quizzed. Even +at that moment I felt reasonably certain that she +was still smiling.</p> + +<p>The little lad looked bluntly up into her face. +"Why you are—<i>so old!</i>" he said quite distinctly.</p> + +<p>I saw the woman's shoulders hunch as though +her hands were bracing against the table. Then +she reached out like a flash and clutched the little +lad's chin in her fingers. If a voice-tone has any +color, hers was corpse-white. "I never—let—<i>you</i>—know—that—you—were—too—<i>young!</i>" +she almost hissed.</p> + +<p>And I shut my eyes.</p> + +<p>When I looked up again the woman was gone, +and the little lad was running after her with a +queer, puzzled look on his face.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_365" id="Page_365">[365]</a></span></p> + +<p>Life has such a strange way of foreshortening +its longest plots with a startling, snapped-off ending. +Any true story is a tiny bit out of rhetorical +proportion.</p> + +<p>The very next day, under the railroad trestle that +hurries us back and forth to the big, neighboring +city, we found Mrs. Lennart's body in a three-foot +pool of creek water. It was the little lad's birthday, +it seems, and he was to have had a supper +party, and she had gone to town in the early afternoon +to make a few festive purchases. A package +of tinsel-paper bonbons floated safely, I remember, +in the pool beside her. For some inexplainable +reason she had stepped off the train at the wrong +station and, realizing presumably how her blundering +tardiness would blight the little lad's pleasure, +she had started to walk home across the trestle, +hoping thereby to beat the later train by as much +as half an hour. The rest of the tragedy was +brutally plain. Somehow between one safe, +friendly embankment and another she had slipped +and fallen. The trestle was ticklish walking for +even a person who wasn't lame.</p> + +<p>Like a slim, white, waxen altar candle snuffed +out by a child's accidental, gusty pleasure-laugh, we +brought her home to the sweet, green, peaceful library, +with its resolute, indomitable hearthstone.</p> + +<p>Out of all the crowding people who jostled me in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_366" id="Page_366">[366]</a></span> +the hallway I remember only—Lennart's ghastly, +agonized face.</p> + +<p>"Go and tell Sagner," he said.</p> + +<p>Even as I crossed the campus the little, fluttery, +flickery, hissing word "suicide" was in the air. +From the graduates' dormitory I heard a man's +voice argue, "But why did she get off deliberately +at the wrong station?" Out of the president's +kitchen a shrill tone cackled, "Well, she ain't been +herself, they say, for a good many weeks. And +who wonders?"</p> + +<p>In one corner of the laboratory, close by an open +window, I found Sagner working, as I had expected, +in blissful ignorance.</p> + +<p>"What's the matter?" he asked bluntly.</p> + +<p>I was very awkward. I was very clumsy. I +was very frightened. My face was all condensed +like a telegram.</p> + +<p>"Madge Hubert was right," I stammered. +"Mrs. Lennart's—business—has gone into the +hands of a—receiver."</p> + +<p>The glass test tube went brittling out of Sagner's +fingers. "Do you mean that she is—dead?" +he asked.</p> + +<p>I nodded.</p> + +<p>For the fraction of a moment he rolled back his +great, shaggy brows, and lifted his face up wide-eyed +and staring to the soft, sweet, dove-colored,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_367" id="Page_367">[367]</a></span> +early evening sky. Then his eyelids came scrunching +down again perfectly tight, and I saw one side +of his ugly mouth begin to smile a little as a man +might smile—as he closes the door—when the +woman whom he loves comes home again. Then +very slowly, very methodically, he turned off all +the gas-burners and picked up all the notebooks, +and cleansed all the knives, and just as I thought +he was almost ready to go with me he started back +again and released a fair, froth-green lunar moth +from a stifling glass jar. Then, with his arm across +my cringing shoulders, we fumbled our way down +the long, creaky stairs. And all the time his heart +was pounding like an oil-soused engine. But I had +to bend my head to hear the questions that crumbled +from his lips.</p> + +<p>As we crunched our way across the Lennarts' +garden with all the horrible, rackety noise that the +living inevitably make in the presence of the dead, +we ran into Lennart's old gardener crouching there +in the dusk, stuffing cold, white roses into a huge +market basket. Almost brutally Sagner clutched +the old fellow by the arm. "Dunstan," he demanded, +"how—did—this—thing—happen?"</p> + +<p>The old gardener shook with fear and palsy. +"There's some," he whispered, "as says the lady-dear +was out of her mind. A-h, no," he protested, +"a-h, no. She may ha' been out of her heart, but<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_368" id="Page_368">[368]</a></span> +she weren't never out of her mind. There's +some," he choked, "as calls it suicide, there's +some," he gulped, "as calls it accident. I'm a +rough-spoke man and I don' know the tongue o' +ladies, but it weren't suicide, and it weren't accident. +If it had be'n a man that had done it, you'd +'a' called it just a 'didn't-give-a-damn.'"</p> + +<p>As we neared the house Sagner spoke only once. +"Barney," he asked quite cheerfully, "were you +ever rude to a woman?"</p> + +<p>My hands went instinctively up to my head. +"Oh, yes," I hurried, "once in the Arizona desert +I struck an Indian squaw."</p> + +<p>"Does it hurt?" persisted Sagner.</p> + +<p>"You mean 'Did it hurt?'" I answered a bit +impatiently. "Yes, I think it hurt her a little, but +not nearly as much as she deserved."</p> + +<p>Sagner reached forward and yanked me back +by the shoulder. "I mean," he growled, "do you +remember it now in the middle of the night, and +are you sorry you did it?"</p> + +<p>My heart cramped. "Yes," I acknowledged, +"I remember it now in the middle of the night. +But I am distinctly not sorry that I did it."</p> + +<p>"Oh," muttered Sagner.</p> + +<p>With the first creaking sound of our steps in the +front hall "Little Sister" came gliding down the +stairway with the stark-faced laddie clutching close<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_369" id="Page_369">[369]</a></span> +at her sash. All the sparkle and spangle were gone +from the girl. Her eyes were like two bruises on +the flesh of a calla lily. Slipping one ice-cold +tremulous hand into mine she closed down her other +frightened hand over the two. "I'm so very glad +you've come," she whispered huskily. "Mr. Lennart +isn't any comfort to me at all to-night—and +Mary was the only sister I had." Her voice caught +suddenly with a rasping sob. "You and Mr. Sagner +have always been so kind to me," she plunged +on blindly, with soft-drooping eyelids, "and I shall +probably never see either of you again. We are all +going home to-morrow. And I expect to be married +in July to a boy at home." Her icy fingers +quickened in mine like the bloom-burst of a sun-scorched +Jacqueminot.</p> + +<p>"You—expect—to—be—married—in—July +to—a—boy—at—home?" cried Sagner.</p> + +<p>The awful slicing quality in his voice brought +Lennart's dreadful face peering out through a slit +in the library curtains.</p> + +<p>"Hush!" I signaled warningly to Sagner. But +again his venomous question ripped through the +quiet of the house.</p> + +<p>"You—expected—all—the—time—to—be—married—in—July?"</p> + +<p>"Why, yes," said the girl, with the faintest dimpling +flicker of a smile. "Won't you congratulate<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_370" id="Page_370">[370]</a></span> +me?" Very softly she drew her right hand away +from me and held it out whitely to Sagner.</p> + +<p>"Excuse me," said Sagner, "but I have just—washed—my—hands."</p> + +<p>"What?" stammered the girl. "W-h-a-t?"</p> + +<p>"Excuse—me," said Sagner, "but I have just—washed +my hands."</p> + +<p>Then, bowing very, very low, like a small boy at +his first dancing-school, Sagner passed from the +house.</p> + +<p>When I finally succeeded in steering my shaking +knees and flopping feet down the long front steps +and the pleasant, rose-bordered path, I found Sagner +waiting for me at the gateway. Under the +basking warmth of that mild May night his teeth +were chattering as with an ague, and his ravenous +face was like the face of a man whose soul is utterly +glutted, but whose body has never even so +much as tasted food and drink.</p> + +<p>I put both my hands on his shoulders. "Sagner," +I begged, "if there is anything under God's +heaven that you want to-night—go and get it!"</p> + +<p>He gave a short, gaspy laugh and wrenched himself +free from me. "There is nothing <i>under</i> +God's heaven—to-night—that I want—except +Madge Hubert," he said.</p> + +<p>In another instant he was gone. With a wh-i-r +and a wh-i-s-h and a snow-white fragrance, his trail<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_371" id="Page_371">[371]</a></span> +cut abruptly through the apple-bush hedge. Then +like a huge, black, sweet-scented sponge the darkening +night seemed to swoop down and wipe him right +off the face of the earth.</p> + +<p>Very softly I knelt and pressed my ear to the +ground. Across the young, tremulous, vibrant +greensward I heard the throb-throb-throb of a +man's feet—<i>running</i>.</p> +<p> </p> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p> </p> + +<div class='tnote'><h3>Transcriber's Note:</h3> +<p>Obvious punctuation errors were corrected.</p> +<p><a href="#Page_257">Page 257</a>, two lines of text were transposed. The original read:</p> + +<div class='poem2'> +one of our big music people picked him up<br /> +jabberingly to America. But the invitation didn't<br /> +over there a few months ago and brought him<br /> +seem to include the wife and baby--genius and<br /> +</div> + +<div class='unindent'>The middle two lines were traded.</div> + +<p>The remaining corrections made are indicated by dotted lines under the corrections. Scroll the mouse over the word and the original text will <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'apprear'">appear</ins>.</p></div> + +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SICK-A-BED LADY***</p> +<p>******* This file should be named 34829-h.txt or 34829-h.zip *******</p> +<p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:<br /> +<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/4/8/2/34829">http://www.gutenberg.org/3/4/8/2/34829</a></p> +<p>Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed.</p> + +<p>Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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