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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:15:05 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:15:05 -0700 |
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diff --git a/489-h/489-h.htm b/489-h/489-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5c73223 --- /dev/null +++ b/489-h/489-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,8019 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> +<HTML> +<HEAD> + +<META HTTP-EQUIV="Content-Type" CONTENT="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"> + +<TITLE> +The Project Gutenberg E-text of One Basket, by Edna Ferber +</TITLE> + +<STYLE TYPE="text/css"> +BODY { color: Black; + background: White; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; + text-align: justify } + +PRE { font-size: 12pt } + +P {text-indent: 4% } + +P.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +P.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: small } + +P.letter {text-indent: 0%; + font-size: small ; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +P.finis { text-align: center ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +</STYLE> + +</HEAD> + +<BODY> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of One Basket, by Edna Ferber + +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 www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: One Basket + +Author: Edna Ferber + +Posting Date: October 10, 2008 [EBook #489] +Release Date: April, 1996 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ONE BASKET *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Keller. HTML version by Al Haines. + + + + + +</pre> + + +<BR><BR> + +<H1 ALIGN="center"> +ONE BASKET +</H1> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +THIRTY-ONE SHORT STORIES +</H2> + +<BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +BY +</H3> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +EDNA FERBER +</H2> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<PRE> + INTRODUCTION ix + <A HREF="#woman">THE WOMAN WHO TRIED TO BE GOOD</A> 1 + <A HREF="#dog">THE GAY OLD DOG</A> 11 + <A HREF="#marriage">THAT'S MARRIAGE</A> 29 + <A HREF="#farmer">FARMER IN THE DELL</A> 49 + <A HREF="#morso">UN MORSO DOO PANG</A> 68 + <A HREF="#distance">LONG DISTANCE</A> 89 + <A HREF="#maternal">THE MATERNAL FEMININE</A> 94 + .... remainder not included +</PRE> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="woman"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Woman Who Tried to Be Good [1913] +</H3> + +<P> +Before she tried to be a good woman she had been a very bad woman—so +bad that she could trail her wonderful apparel up and down Main Street, +from the Elm Tree Bakery to the railroad tracks, without once having a +man doff his hat to her or a woman bow. You passed her on the street +with a surreptitious glance, though she was well worth looking at—in +her furs and laces and plumes. She had the only full-length mink coat +in our town, and Ganz's shoe store sent to Chicago for her shoes. Hers +were the miraculously small feet you frequently see in stout women. +</P> + +<P> +Usually she walked alone; but on rare occasions, especially round +Christmastime, she might have been seen accompanied by some silent, +dull-eyed, stupid-looking girl, who would follow her dumbly in and out +of stores, stopping now and then to admire a cheap comb or a chain set +with flashy imitation stones—or, queerly enough, a doll with yellow +hair and blue eyes and very pink cheeks. But, alone or in company, her +appearance in the stores of our town was the signal for a sudden jump +in the cost of living. The storekeepers mulcted her; and she knew it +and paid in silence, for she was of the class that has no redress. She +owned the House with the Closed Shutters, near the freight depot—did +Blanche Devine. +</P> + +<P> +In a larger town than ours she would have passed unnoticed. She did +not look like a bad woman. Of course she used too much make-up, and as +she passed you caught the oversweet breath of a certain heavy scent. +Then, too, her diamond eardrops would have made any woman's features +look hard; but her plump face, in spite of its heaviness, wore an +expression of good-humored intelligence, and her eyeglasses gave her +somehow a look of respectability. We do not associate vice with +eyeglasses. So in a large city she would have passed for a +well-dressed, prosperous, comfortable wife and mother who was in danger +of losing her figure from an overabundance of good living; but with us +she was a town character, like Old Man Givins, the drunkard, or the +weak-minded Binns girl. When she passed the drug-store corner there +would be a sniggering among the vacant-eyed loafers idling there, and +they would leer at each other and jest in undertones. +</P> + +<P> +So, knowing Blanche Devine as we did, there was something resembling a +riot in one of our most respectable neighborhoods when it was learned +that she had given up her interest in the house near the freight depot +and was going to settle down in the white cottage on the corner and be +good. All the husbands in the block, urged on by righteously indignant +wives, dropped in on Alderman Mooney after supper to see if the thing +could not be stopped. The fourth of the protesting husbands to arrive +was the Very Young Husband who lived next door to the corner cottage +that Blanche Devine had bought. The Very Young Husband had a Very +Young Wife, and they were the joint owners of Snooky. Snooky was +three-going-on-four, and looked something like an angel—only healthier +and with grimier hands. The whole neighborhood borrowed her and tried +to spoil her; but Snooky would not spoil. +</P> + +<P> +Alderman Mooney was down in the cellar, fooling with the furnace. +</P> + +<P> +He was in his furnace overalls; a short black pipe in his mouth. Three +protesting husbands had just left. As the Very Young Husband, +following Mrs. Mooney's directions, descended the cellar stairs, +Alderman Mooney looked up from his tinkering. He peered through a haze +of pipe smoke. +</P> + +<P> +"Hello!" he called, and waved the haze away with his open palm. +</P> + +<P> +"Come on down! Been tinkering with this blamed furnace since supper. +She don't draw like she ought. 'Long toward spring a furnace always +gets balky. How many tons you used this winter?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh-five," said the Very Young Husband shortly. Alderman Mooney +considered it thoughtfully. The Young Husband leaned up against the +side of the water tank, his hands in his pockets. "Say, Mooney, is that +right about Blanche Devine's having bought the house on the corner?" +</P> + +<P> +"You're the fourth man that's been in to ask me that this evening. I'm +expecting the rest of the block before bedtime. She bought it all +right." +</P> + +<P> +The Young Husband flushed and kicked at a piece of coal with the toe of +his boot. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, it's a darned shame!" he began hotly. "Jen was ready to cry at +supper. This'll be a fine neighborhood for Snooky to grow up in! +What's a woman like that want to come into a respectable street for, +anyway? I own my home and pay my taxes—" +</P> + +<P> +Alderman Mooney looked up. +</P> + +<P> +"So does she," he interrupted. "She's going to improve the +place—paint it, and put in a cellar and a furnace, and build a porch, +and lay a cement walk all round." +</P> + +<P> +The Young Husband took his hands out of his pockets in order to +emphasize his remarks with gestures. +</P> + +<P> +"What's that got to do with it? I don't care if she puts in diamonds +for windows and sets out Italian gardens and a terrace with peacocks on +it. You're the alderman of this ward, aren't you? Well, it was up to +you to keep her out of this block! You could have fixed it with an +injunction or something. I'm going to get up a petition—that's what +I'm going——" +</P> + +<P> +Alderman Mooney closed the furnace door with a bang that drowned the +rest of the threat. He turned the draft in a pipe overhead and brushed +his sooty palms briskly together like one who would put an end to a +profitless conversation. +</P> + +<P> +"She's bought the house," he said mildly, "and paid for it. And it's +hers. She's got a right to live in this neighborhood as long as she +acts respectable." +</P> + +<P> +The Very Young Husband laughed. +</P> + +<P> +"She won't last! They never do." +</P> + +<P> +Alderman Mooney had taken his pipe out of his mouth and was rubbing his +thumb over the smooth bowl, looking down at it with unseeing eyes. On +his face was a queer look—the look of one who is embarrassed because +he is about to say something honest. +</P> + +<P> +"Look here! I want to tell you something: I happened to be up in the +mayor's office the day Blanche signed for the place. She had to go +through a lot of red tape before she got it—had quite a time of it, +she did! And say, kid, that woman ain't so—bad." +</P> + +<P> +The Very Young Husband exclaimed impatiently: +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, don't give me any of that, Mooney! Blanche Devine's a town +character. Even the kids know what she is. If she's got religion or +something, and wants to quit and be decent, why doesn't she go to +another town—Chicago or someplace—where nobody knows her?" +</P> + +<P> +That motion of Alderman Mooney's thumb against the smooth pipe bowl +stopped. He looked up slowly. +</P> + +<P> +"That's what I said—the mayor too. But Blanche Devine said she wanted +to try it here. She said this was home to her. Funny—ain't it? Said +she wouldn't be fooling anybody here. They know her. And if she moved +away, she said, it'd leak out some way sooner or later. It does, she +said. Always! Seems she wants to live like—well, like other women. +She put it like this: she says she hasn't got religion, or any of that. +She says she's no different than she was when she was twenty. She says +that for the last ten years the ambition of her life has been to be +able to go into a grocery store and ask the price of, say, celery; and, +if the clerk charged her ten when it ought to be seven, to be able to +sass him with a regular piece of her mind—and then sail out and trade +somewhere else until he saw that she didn't have to stand anything from +storekeepers, any more than any other woman that did her own marketing. +She's a smart woman, Blanche is! God knows I ain't taking her +part—exactly; but she talked a little, and the mayor and me got a +little of her history." +</P> + +<P> +A sneer appeared on the face of the Very Young Husband. He had been +known before he met Jen as a rather industrious sower of wild oats. He +knew a thing or two, did the Very Young Husband, in spite of his youth! +He always fussed when Jen wore even a V-necked summer gown on the +street. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, she wasn't playing for sympathy," went on Alderman Mooney in +answer to the sneer. "She said she'd always paid her way and always +expected to. Seems her husband left her without a cent when she was +eighteen—with a baby. She worked for four dollars a week in a cheap +eating house. The two of 'em couldn't live on that. Then the baby——" +</P> + +<P> +"Good night!" said the Very Young Husband. "I suppose Mrs. Mooney's +going to call?" +</P> + +<P> +"Minnie! It was her scolding all through supper that drove me down to +monkey with the furnace. She's wild—Minnie is." He peeled off his +overalls and hung them on a nail. The Young Husband started to ascend +the cellar stairs. Alderman Mooney laid a detaining finger on his +sleeve. "Don't say anything in front of Minnie! She's boiling! +Minnie and the kids are going to visit her folks out West this summer; +so I wouldn't so much as dare to say 'Good morning!' to the Devine +woman. Anyway, a person wouldn't talk to her, I suppose. But I kind +of thought I'd tell you about her. +</P> + +<P> +"Thanks!" said the Very Young Husband dryly. +</P> + +<P> +In the early spring, before Blanche Devine moved in, there came +stone-masons, who began to build something. It was a great stone +fireplace that rose in massive incongruity at the side of the little +white cottage. Blanche Devine was trying to make a home for herself. +</P> + +<P> +Blanche Devine used to come and watch them now and then as the work +progressed. She had a way of walking round and round the house, +looking up at it and poking at plaster and paint with her umbrella or +finger tip. One day she brought with her a man with a spade. He +spaded up a neat square of ground at the side of the cottage and a long +ridge near the fence that separated her yard from that of the Very +Young Couple next door. The ridge spelled sweet peas and nasturtiums +to our small-town eyes. +</P> + +<P> +On the day that Blanche Devine moved in there was wild agitation among +the white-ruffed bedroom curtains of the neighborhood. Later on certain +odors, as of burning dinners, pervaded the atmosphere. Blanche Devine, +flushed and excited, her hair slightly askew, her diamond eardrops +flashing, directed the moving, wrapped in her great fur coat; but on +the third morning we gasped when she appeared out-of-doors, carrying a +little household ladder, a pail of steaming water, and sundry +voluminous white cloths. She reared the little ladder against the side +of the house, mounted it cautiously, and began to wash windows with +housewifely thoroughness. Her stout figure was swathed in a gray +sweater and on her head was a battered felt hat—the sort of +window—washing costume that has been worn by women from time +immemorial. We noticed that she used plenty of hot water and clean +rags, and that she rubbed the glass until it sparkled, leaning +perilously sideways on the ladder to detect elusive streaks. Our +keenest housekeeping eye could find no fault with the way Blanche +Devine washed windows. +</P> + +<P> +By May, Blanche Devine had left off her diamond eardrops—perhaps it +was their absence that gave her face a new expression. When she went +downtown we noticed that her hats were more like the hats the other +women in our town wore; but she still affected extravagant footgear, as +is right and proper for a stout woman who has cause to be vain of her +feet. We noticed that her trips downtown were rare that spring and +summer. She used to come home laden with little bundles; and before +supper she would change her street clothes for a neat, washable +housedress, as is our thrifty custom. Through her bright windows we +could see her moving briskly about from kitchen to sitting room; and +from the smells that floated out from her kitchen door, she seemed to +be preparing for her solitary supper the same homely viands that were +frying or stewing or baking in our kitchens. Sometimes you could +detect the delectable scent of browning, hot tea biscuit. It takes a +determined woman to make tea biscuit for no one but herself. +</P> + +<P> +Blanche Devine joined the church. On the first Sunday morning she came +to the service there was a little flurry among the ushers at the +vestibule door. They seated her well in the rear. The second Sunday +morning a dreadful thing happened. The woman next to whom they seated +her turned, regarded her stonily for a moment, then rose agitatedly and +moved to a pew across the aisle. +</P> + +<P> +Blanche Devine's face went a dull red beneath her white powder. She +never came again—though we saw the minister visit her once or twice. +She always accompanied him to the door pleasantly, holding it well open +until he was down the little flight of steps and on the sidewalk. The +minister's wife did not call. +</P> + +<P> +She rose early, like the rest of us; and as summer came on we used to +see her moving about in her little garden patch in the dewy, golden +morning. She wore absurd pale-blue negligees that made her stout figure +loom immense against the greenery of garden and apple tree. The +neighborhood women viewed these negligees with Puritan disapproval as +they smoothed down their own prim, starched gingham skirts. They said +it was disgusting—and perhaps it was; but the habit of years is not +easily overcome. Blanche Devine—snipping her sweet peas, peering +anxiously at the Virginia creeper that clung with such fragile fingers +to the trellis, watering the flower baskets that hung from her +porch—was blissfully unconscious of the disapproving eyes. I wish one +of us had just stopped to call good morning to her over the fence, and +to say in our neighborly, small-town way: "My, ain't this a scorcher! +So early too! It'll be fierce by noon!" +</P> + +<P> +But we did not. +</P> + +<P> +I think perhaps the evenings must have been the loneliest for her. The +summer evenings in our little town are filled with intimate, human, +neighborly sounds. After the heat of the day it is pleasant to relax +in the cool comfort of the front porch, with the life of the town +eddying about us. We sew and read out there until it grows dusk. We +call across lots to our next-door neighbor. The men water the lawns +and the flower boxes and get together in little, quiet groups to +discuss the new street paving. I have even known Mrs. Hines to bring +her cherries out there when she had canning to do, and pit them there +on the front porch partially shielded by her porch vine, but not so +effectually that she was deprived of the sights and sounds about her. +The kettle in her lap and the dishpan full of great ripe cherries on +the porch floor by her chair, she would pit and chat and peer out +through the vines, the red juice staining her plump bare arms. +</P> + +<P> +I have wondered since what Blanche Devine thought of us those lonesome +evenings—those evenings filled with friendly sights and sounds. It +must have been difficult for her, who had dwelt behind closed shutters +so long, to seat herself on the new front porch for all the world to +stare at; but she did sit there—resolutely—watching us in silence. +</P> + +<P> +She seized hungrily upon the stray crumbs of conversation that fell to +her. The milkman and the iceman and the butcher boy used to hold daily +conversation with her. They—sociable gentlemen—would stand on her +door-step, one grimy hand resting against the white of her doorpost, +exchanging the time of day with Blanche in the doorway—a tea towel in +one hand, perhaps, and a plate in the other. Her little house was a +miracle of cleanliness. It was no uncommon sight to see her down on +her knees on the kitchen floor, wielding her brush and rag like the +rest of us. In canning and preserving time there floated out from her +kitchen the pungent scent of pickled crab apples; the mouth-watering +smell that meant sweet pickles; or the cloying, divinely sticky odor +that meant raspberry jam. Snooky, from her side of the fence, often +used to peer through the pickets, gazing in the direction of the +enticing smells next door. +</P> + +<P> +Early one September morning there floated out from Blanche Devine's +kitchen that fragrant, sweet scent of fresh-baked cookies—cookies with +butter in them, and spice, and with nuts on top. Just by the smell of +them your mind's eye pictured them coming from the oven-crisp brown +circlets, crumbly, delectable. Snooky, in her scarlet sweater and cap, +sniffed them from afar and straightway deserted her sand pile to take +her stand at the fence. She peered through the restraining bars, +standing on tiptoe. Blanche Devine, glancing up from her board and +rolling pin, saw the eager golden head. And Snooky, with guile in her +heart, raised one fat, dimpled hand above the fence and waved it +friendlily. Blanche Devine waved back. Thus encouraged, Snooky's two +hands wigwagged frantically above the pickets. Blanche Devine hesitated +a moment, her floury hand on her hip. Then she went to the pantry shelf +and took out a clean white saucer. She selected from the brown jar on +the table three of the brownest, crumbliest, most perfect cookies, with +a walnut meat perched atop of each, placed them temptingly on the +saucer and, descending the steps, came swiftly across the grass to the +triumphant Snooky. Blanche Devine held out the saucer, her lips +smiling, her eyes tender. Snooky reached up with one plump white arm. +</P> + +<P> +"Snooky!" shrilled a high voice. "Snooky!" A voice of horror and of +wrath. "Come here to me this minute! And don't you dare to touch +those!" Snooky hesitated rebelliously, one pink finger in her pouting +mouth. +</P> + +<P> +"Snooky! Do you hear me?" +</P> + +<P> +And the Very Young Wife began to descend the steps of her back porch. +Snooky, regretful eyes on the toothsome dainties, turned away +aggrieved. The Very Young Wife, her lips set, her eyes flashing, +advanced and seized the shrieking Snooky by one arm and dragged her +away toward home and safety. +</P> + +<P> +Blanche Devine stood there at the fence, holding the saucer in her +hand. The saucer tipped slowly, and the three cookies slipped off and +fell to the grass. Blanche Devine stood staring at them a moment. +Then she turned quickly, went into the house, and shut the door. +</P> + +<P> +It was about this time we noticed that Blanche Devine was away much of +the time. The little white cottage would be empty for weeks. We knew +she was out of town because the expressman would come for her trunk. We +used to lift our eyebrows significantly. The newspapers and handbills +would accumulate in a dusty little heap on the porch; but when she +returned there was always a grand cleaning, with the windows open, and +Blanche—her head bound turbanwise in a towel—appearing at a window +every few minutes to shake out a dustcloth. She seemed to put an +enormous amount of energy into those cleanings—as if they were a sort +of safety valve. +</P> + +<P> +As winter came on she used to sit up before her grate fire long, long +after we were asleep in our beds. When she neglected to pull down the +shades we could see the flames of her cosy fire dancing gnomelike on +the wall. There came a night of sleet and snow, and wind and rattling +hail—one of those blustering, wild nights that are followed by +morning-paper reports of trains stalled in drifts, mail delayed, +telephone and telegraph wires down. It must have been midnight or past +when there came a hammering at Blanche Devine's door—a persistent, +clamorous rapping. Blanche Devine, sitting before her dying fire half +asleep, started and cringed when she heard it, then jumped to her feet, +her hand at her breast—her eyes darting this way and that, as though +seeking escape. +</P> + +<P> +She had heard a rapping like that before. It had meant bluecoats +swarming up the stairway, and frightened cries and pleadings, and wild +confusion. So she started forward now, quivering. And then she +remembered, being wholly awake now—she remembered, and threw up her +head and smiled a little bitterly and walked toward the door. The +hammering continued, louder than ever. Blanche Devine flicked on the +porch light and opened the door. The half-clad figure of the Very +Young Wife next door staggered into the room. She seized Blanche +Devine's arm with both her frenzied hands and shook her, the wind and +snow beating in upon both of them. +</P> + +<P> +"The baby!" she screamed in a high, hysterical voice. "The baby! The +baby——!" +</P> + +<P> +Blanche Devine shut the door and shook the Young Wife smartly by the +shoulders. +</P> + +<P> +"Stop screaming," she said quietly. "Is she sick?" +</P> + +<P> +The Young Wife told her, her teeth chattering: +</P> + +<P> +"Come quick! She's dying! Will's out of town. I tried to get the +doctor. The telephone wouldn't—— I saw your light! For God's +sake——" +</P> + +<P> +Blanche Devine grasped the Young Wife's arm, opened the door, and +together they sped across the little space that separated the two +houses. Blanche Devine was a big woman, but she took the stairs like a +girl and found the right bedroom by some miraculous woman instinct. A +dreadful choking, rattling sound was coming from Snooky's bed. +</P> + +<P> +"Croup," said Blanche Devine, and began her fight. +</P> + +<P> +It was a good fight. She marshaled her inadequate forces, made up of +the half-fainting Young Wife and the terrified and awkward hired girl. +</P> + +<P> +"Get the hot water on—lots of it!" Blanche Devine pinned up her +sleeves. "Hot cloths! Tear up a sheet—or anything! Got an oilstove? +I want a tea-kettle boiling in the room. She's got to have the steam. +If that don't do it we'll raise an umbrella over her and throw a sheet +over, and hold the kettle under till the steam gets to her that way. +Got any ipecac?" +</P> + +<P> +The Young Wife obeyed orders, white-faced and shaking. Once Blanche +Devine glanced up at her sharply. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't you dare faint!" she commanded. +</P> + +<P> +And the fight went on. Gradually the breathing that had been so +frightful became softer, easier. Blanche Devine did not relax. It was +not until the little figure breathed gently in sleep that Blanche +Devine sat back, satisfied. Then she tucked a cover at the side of the +bed, took a last satisfied look at the face on the pillow, and turned +to look at the wan, disheveled Young Wife. +</P> + +<P> +"She's all right now. We can get the doctor when morning comes—though +I don't know's you'll need him." +</P> + +<P> +The Young Wife came round to Blanche Devine's side of the bed and stood +looking up at her. +</P> + +<P> +"My baby died," said Blanche Devine simply. The Young Wife gave a +little inarticulate cry, put her two hands on Blanche Devine's broad +shoulders, and laid her tired head on her breast. +</P> + +<P> +"I guess I'd better be going," said Blanche Devine. +</P> + +<P> +The Young Wife raised her head. Her eyes were round with fright. +</P> + +<P> +"Going! Oh, please stay! I'm so afraid. Suppose she should take sick +again! That awful—breathing——" +</P> + +<P> +"I'll stay if you want me to." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, please! I'll make up your bed and you can rest——" +</P> + +<P> +"I'm not sleepy. I'm not much of a hand to sleep anyway. I'll sit up +here in the hall, where there's a light. You get to bed. I'll watch +and see that everything's all right. Have you got something I can read +out here—something kind of lively—with a love story in it?" +</P> + +<P> +So the night went by. Snooky slept in her white bed. The Very Young +Wife half dozed in her bed, so near the little one. In the hall, her +stout figure looming grotesque in wall shadows, sat Blanche Devine, +pretending to read. Now and then she rose and tiptoed into the bedroom +with miraculous quiet, and stooped over the little bed and listened and +looked—and tiptoed away again, satisfied. +</P> + +<P> +The Young Husband came home from his business trip next day with tales +of snowdrifts and stalled engines. Blanche Devine breathed a sigh of +relief when she saw him from her kitchen window. She watched the house +now with a sort of proprietary eye. She wondered about Snooky; but she +knew better than to ask. So she waited. The Young Wife next door had +told her husband all about that awful night—had told him with tears +and sobs. The Very Young Husband had been very, very angry with +her—angry, he said, and astonished! Snooky could not have been so +sick! Look at her now! As well as ever. And to have called such a +woman! Well, he did not want to be harsh; but she must understand that +she must never speak to the woman again. Never! +</P> + +<P> +So the next day the Very Young Wife happened to go by with the Young +Husband. Blanche Devine spied them from her sitting-room window, and +she made the excuse of looking in her mailbox in order to go to the +door. She stood in the doorway and the Very Young Wife went by on the +arm of her husband. She went by—rather white-faced—without a look or +a word or a sign! +</P> + +<P> +And then this happened! There came into Blanche Devine's face a look +that made slits of her eyes, and drew her mouth down into an ugly, +narrow line, and that made the muscles of her jaw tense and hard. It +was the ugliest look you can imagine. Then she smiled—if having one's +lips curl away from one's teeth can be called smiling. +</P> + +<P> +Two days later there was great news of the white cottage on the corner. +The curtains were down; the furniture was packed; the rugs were rolled. +The wagons came and backed up to the house and took those things that +had made a home for Blanche Devine. And when we heard that she had +bought back her interest in the House with the Closed Shutters, near +the freight depot, we sniffed. +</P> + +<P> +"I knew she wouldn't last!" we said. +</P> + +<P> +"They never do!" said we. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="dog"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Gay Old Dog [1917] +</H3> + +<P> +Those of you who have dwelt—or even lingered—in Chicago, Illinois, +are familiar with the region known as the Loop. For those others of +you to whom Chicago is a transfer point between New York and California +there is presented this brief explanation: +</P> + +<P> +The Loop is a clamorous, smoke-infested district embraced by the iron +arms of the elevated tracks. In a city boasting fewer millions, it +would be known familiarly as downtown. From Congress to Lake Street, +from Wabash almost to the river, those thunderous tracks make a +complete circle, or loop. Within it lie the retail shops, the +commercial hotels, the theaters, the restaurants. It is the Fifth +Avenue and the Broadway of Chicago. +</P> + +<P> +And he who frequents it by night in search of amusement and cheer is +known, vulgarly, as a Loop-hound. +</P> + +<P> +Jo Hertz was a Loop-hound. On the occasion of those sparse first +nights granted the metropolis of the Middle West he was always present, +third row, aisle, left. When a new Loop cafe' was opened, Jo's table +always commanded an unobstructed view of anything worth viewing. On +entering he was wont to say, "Hello, Gus," with careless cordiality to +the headwaiter, the while his eye roved expertly from table to table as +he removed his gloves. He ordered things under glass, so that his +table, at midnight or thereabouts, resembled a hotbed that favors the +bell system. The waiters fought for him. He was the kind of man who +mixes his own salad dressing. He liked to call for a bowl, some cracked +ice, lemon, garlic, paprika, salt, pepper, vinegar, and oil and make a +rite of it. People at near-by tables would lay down their knives and +forks to watch, fascinated. The secret of it seemed to lie in using +all the oil in sight and calling for more. +</P> + +<P> +That was Jo—a plump and lonely bachelor of fifty. A plethoric, +roving-eyed, and kindly man, clutching vainly at the garments of a +youth that had long slipped past him. Jo Hertz, in one of those +pinch-waist suits and a belted coat and a little green hat, walking up +Michigan Avenue of a bright winter's afternoon, trying to take the curb +with a jaunty youthfulness against which every one of his fat-encased +muscles rebelled, was a sight for mirth or pity, depending on one's +vision. +</P> + +<P> +The gay-dog business was a late phase in the life of Jo Hertz. He had +been a quite different sort of canine. The staid and harassed brother +of three unwed and selfish sisters is an underdog. +</P> + +<P> +At twenty-seven Jo had been the dutiful, hard-working son (in the +wholesale harness business) of a widowed and gummidging mother, who +called him Joey. Now and then a double wrinkle would appear between +Jo's eyes—a wrinkle that had no business there at twenty-seven. Then +Jo's mother died, leaving him handicapped by a deathbed promise, the +three sisters, and a three-story-and-basement house on Calumet Avenue. +Jo's wrinkle became a fixture. +</P> + +<P> +"Joey," his mother had said, in her high, thin voice, "take care of the +girls." +</P> + +<P> +"I will, Ma," Jo had choked. +</P> + +<P> +"Joey," and the voice was weaker, "promise me you won't marry till the +girls are all provided for." Then as Jo had hesitated, appalled: +"Joey, it's my dying wish. Promise!" +</P> + +<P> +"I promise, Ma," he had said. +</P> + +<P> +Whereupon his mother had died, comfortably, leaving him with a +completely ruined life. +</P> + +<P> +They were not bad-looking girls, and they had a certain style, too. +That is, Stell and Eva had. Carrie, the middle one, taught school over +on the West Side. In those days it took her almost two hours each way. +She said the kind of costume she required should have been corrugated +steel. But all three knew what was being worn, and they wore it—or +fairly faithful copies of it. Eva, the housekeeping sister, had a +needle knack. She could skim the State Street windows and come away +with a mental photograph of every separate tuck, hem, yoke, and ribbon. +Heads of departments showed her the things they kept in drawers, and +she went home and reproduced them with the aid of a seamstress by the +day. Stell, the youngest, was the beauty. They called her Babe. +</P> + +<P> +Twenty-three years ago one's sisters did not strain at the household +leash, nor crave a career. Carrie taught school, and hated it. Eva +kept house expertly and complainingly. Babe's profession was being the +family beauty, and it took all her spare time. Eva always let her +sleep until ten. +</P> + +<P> +This was Jo's household, and he was the nominal head of it. But it was +an empty title. The three women dominated his life. They weren't +consciously selfish. If you had called them cruel they would have put +you down as mad. When you are the lone brother of three sisters, it +means that you must constantly be calling for, escorting, or dropping +one of them somewhere. Most men of Jo's age were standing before their +mirror of a Saturday night, whistling blithely and abstractedly while +they discarded a blue polka-dot for a maroon tie, whipped off the +maroon for a shot-silk and at the last moment decided against the +shot-silk in favor of a plain black-and-white because she had once said +she preferred quiet ties. Jo, when he should have been preening his +feathers for conquest, was saying: +</P> + +<P> +"Well, my God, I AM hurrying! Give a man time, can't you? I just got +home. You girls been laying around the house all day. No wonder you're +ready." +</P> + +<P> +He took a certain pride in seeing his sisters well dressed, at a time +when he should have been reveling in fancy waistcoats and +brilliant-hued socks, according to the style of that day and the +inalienable right of any unwed male under thirty, in any day. On those +rare occasions when his business necessitated an out-of-town trip, he +would spend half a day floundering about the shops selecting +handkerchiefs, or stockings, or feathers, or gloves for the girls. +They always turned out to be the wrong kind, judging by their reception. +</P> + +<P> +From Carrie, "What in the world do I want of long white gloves!" +</P> + +<P> +"I thought you didn't have any," Jo would say. +</P> + +<P> +"I haven't. I never wear evening clothes." +</P> + +<P> +Jo would pass a futile hand over the top of his head, as was his way +when disturbed. "I just thought you'd like them. I thought every girl +liked long white gloves. Just," feebly, "just to—to have." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, for pity's sake!" +</P> + +<P> +And from Eva or Babe, "I've GOT silk stockings, Jo." Or, "You brought +me handkerchiefs the last time." +</P> + +<P> +There was something selfish in his giving, as there always is in any +gift freely and joyfully made. They never suspected the exquisite +pleasure it gave him to select these things, these fine, soft, silken +things. There were many things about this slow-going, amiable brother +of theirs that they never suspected. If you had told them he was a +dreamer of dreams, for example, they would have been amused. +Sometimes, dead-tired by nine o'clock after a hard day downtown, he +would doze over the evening paper. At intervals he would wake, +red-eyed, to a snatch of conversation such as, "Yes, but if you get a +blue you can wear it anywhere. It's dressy, and at the same time it's +quiet, too." Eva, the expert, wrestling with Carrie over the problem +of the new spring dress. They never guessed that the commonplace man +in the frayed old smoking jacket had banished them all from the room +long ago; had banished himself, for that matter. In his place was a +tall, debonair, and rather dangerously handsome man to whom six o'clock +spelled evening clothes. The kind of man who can lean up against a +mantel, or propose a toast, or give an order to a manservant, or +whisper a gallant speech in a lady's ear with equal ease. The shabby +old house on Calumet Avenue was transformed into a brocaded and +chandeliered rendezvous for the brilliance of the city. Beauty was +here, and wit. But none so beautiful and witty as She. Mrs.—er—Jo +Hertz. There was wine, of course; but no vulgar display. There was +music; the soft sheen of satin; laughter. And he, the gracious, tactful +host, king of his own domain—— +</P> + +<P> +"Jo, for heaven's sake, if you're going to snore, go to bed!" +</P> + +<P> +"Why—did I fall asleep?" +</P> + +<P> +"You haven't been doing anything else all evening. A person would +think you were fifty instead of thirty." +</P> + +<P> +And Jo Hertz was again just the dull, gray, commonplace brother of +three well-meaning sisters. +</P> + +<P> +Babe used to say petulantly, "Jo, why don't you ever bring home any of +your men friends? A girl might as well not have any brother, all the +good you do." +</P> + +<P> +Jo, conscience-stricken, did his best to make amends. But a man who +has been petticoat-ridden for years loses the knack, somehow, of +comradeship with men. +</P> + +<P> +One Sunday in May Jo came home from a late-Sunday-afternoon walk to +find company for supper. Carrie often had in one of her schoolteacher +friends, or Babe one of her frivolous intimates, or even Eva a staid +guest of the old-girl type. There was always a Sunday-night supper of +potato salad, and cold meat, and coffee, and perhaps a fresh cake. Jo +rather enjoyed it, being a hospitable soul. But he regarded the guests +with the undazzled eyes of a man to whom they were just so many +petticoats, timid of the night streets and requiring escort home. If +you had suggested to him that some of his sisters' popularity was due +to his own presence, or if you had hinted that the more kittenish of +these visitors were probably making eyes at him, he would have stared +in amazement and unbelief. +</P> + +<P> +This Sunday night it turned out to be one of Carrie's friends. +</P> + +<P> +"Emily," said Carrie, "this is my brother, Jo." +</P> + +<P> +Jo had learned what to expect in Carrie's friends. Drab-looking women +in the late thirties, whose facial lines all slanted downward. +</P> + +<P> +"Happy to meet you," said Jo, and looked down at a different sort +altogether. A most surprisingly different sort, for one of Carrie's +friends. This Emily person was very small, and fluffy, and blue-eyed, +and crinkly looking. The corners of her mouth when she smiled, and her +eyes when she looked up at you, and her hair, which was brown, but had +the miraculous effect, somehow, of looking golden. +</P> + +<P> +Jo shook hands with her. Her hand was incredibly small, and soft, so +that you were afraid of crushing it, until you discovered she had a +firm little grip all her own. It surprised and amused you, that grip, +as does a baby's unexpected clutch on your patronizing forefinger. As +Jo felt it in his own big clasp, the strangest thing happened to him. +Something inside Jo Hertz stopped working for a moment, then lurched +sickeningly, then thumped like mad. It was his heart. He stood +staring down at her, and she up at him, until the others laughed. Then +their hands fell apart, lingeringly. +</P> + +<P> +"Are you a schoolteacher, Emily?" he said. +</P> + +<P> +"Kindergarten. It's my first year. And don't call me Emily, please." +</P> + +<P> +"Why not? It's your name. I think it's the prettiest name in the +world." Which he hadn't meant to say at all. In fact, he was perfectly +aghast to find himself saying it. But he meant it. +</P> + +<P> +At supper he passed her things, and stared, until everybody laughed +again, and Eva said acidly, "Why don't you feed her?" +</P> + +<P> +It wasn't that Emily had an air of helplessness. She just made him +feel he wanted her to be helpless, so that he could help her. +</P> + +<P> +Jo took her home, and from that Sunday night he began to strain at the +leash. He took his sisters out, dutifully, but he would suggest, with +a carelessness that deceived no one, "Don't you want one of your girl +friends to come along? That little What's-her-name-Emily, or +something. So long's I've got three of you, I might as well have a +full squad." +</P> + +<P> +For a long time he didn't know what was the matter with him. He only +knew he was miserable, and yet happy. Sometimes his heart seemed to +ache with an actual physical ache. He realized that he wanted to do +things for Emily. He wanted to buy things for Emily—useless, pretty, +expensive things that he couldn't afford. +</P> + +<P> +He wanted to buy everything that Emily needed, and everything that +Emily desired. He wanted to marry Emily. That was it. He discovered +that one day, with a shock, in the midst of a transaction in the +harness business. He stared at the man with whom he was dealing until +that startled person grew uncomfortable. "What's the matter, Hertz?" +"Matter?" "You look as if you'd seen a ghost or found a gold mine. I +don't know which." "Gold mine," said Jo. And then, "No. Ghost." For +he remembered that high, thin voice, and his promise. And the harness +business was slithering downhill with dreadful rapidity, as the +automobile business began its amazing climb. Jo tried to stop it. But +he was not that kind of businessman. It never occurred to him to jump +out of the down-going vehicle and catch the up-going one. He stayed +on, vainly applying brakes that refused to work. "You know, Emily, I +couldn't support two households now. Not the way things are. But if +you'll wait. If you'll only wait. The girls might—that is, Babe and +Carrie—" +</P> + +<P> +She was a sensible little thing, Emily. "Of course I'll wait. But we +mustn't just sit back and let the years go by. We've got to help." +</P> + +<P> +She went about it as if she were already a little matchmaking matron. +She corralled all the men she had ever known and introduced them to +Babe, Carrie, and Eva separately, in pairs, and en masse. She got up +picnics. She stayed home while Jo took the three about. When she was +present she tried to look as plain and obscure as possible, so that the +sisters should show up to advantage. She schemed, and planned, and +contrived, and hoped; and smiled into Jo's despairing eyes. +</P> + +<P> +And three years went by. Three precious years. Carrie still taught +school, and hated it. Eva kept house more and more complainingly as +prices advanced and allowance retreated. Stell was still Babe, the +family beauty. Emily's hair, somehow, lost its glint and began to look +just plain brown. Her crinkliness began to iron out. +</P> + +<P> +"Now, look here!" Jo argued, desperately, one night. "We could be +happy, anyway. There's plenty of room at the house. Lots of people +begin that way. Of course, I couldn't give you all I'd like to, at +first. But maybe, after a while—" No dreams of salons, and brocade, +and velvet-footed servitors, and satin damask now. Just two rooms, all +their own, all alone, and Emily to work for. That was his dream. But +it seemed less possible than that other absurd one had been. +</P> + +<P> +Emily was as practical a little thing as she looked fluffy. She knew +women. Especially did she know Eva, and Carrie, and Babe. She tried to +imagine herself taking the household affairs and the housekeeping +pocket-book out of Eva's expert hands. So then she tried to picture +herself allowing the reins of Jo's house to remain in Eva's hands. And +everything feminine and normal in her rebelled. Emily knew she'd want +to put away her own freshly laundered linen, and smooth it, and pat it. +She was that kind of woman. She knew she'd want to do her own +delightful haggling with butcher and grocer. She knew she'd want to +muss Jo's hair, and sit on his knee, and even quarrel with him, if +necessary, without the awareness of three ever-present pairs of maiden +eyes and ears. +</P> + +<P> +"No! No! We'd only be miserable. I know. Even if they didn't +object. And they would, Jo. Wouldn't they?" +</P> + +<P> +His silence was miserable assent. Then, "But you do love me, don't +you, Emily?" +</P> + +<P> +"I do, Jo. I love you—and love you—and love you. But, Jo, I—can't." +</P> + +<P> +"I know it, dear. I knew it all the time, really. I just thought, +maybe, somehow——" +</P> + +<P> +The two sat staring for a moment into space, their hands clasped. +</P> + +<P> +Then they both shut their eyes with a little shudder, as though what +they saw was terrible to look upon. Emily's hand, the tiny hand that +was so unexpectedly firm, tightened its hold on his, and his crushed +the absurd fingers until she winced with pain. +</P> + +<P> +That was the beginning of the end, and they knew it. +</P> + +<P> +Emily wasn't the kind of girl who would be left to pine. There are too +many Jos in the world whose hearts are prone to lurch and then thump at +the feel of a soft, fluttering, incredibly small hand in their grip. +One year later Emily was married to a young man whose father owned a +large, pie-shaped slice of the prosperous state of Michigan. +</P> + +<P> +That being safely accomplished, there was something grimly humorous in +the trend taken by affairs in the old house on Calumet. For Eva +married. Married well, too, though he was a great deal older than she. +She went off in a hat she had copied from a French model at Field's, +and a suit she had contrived with a home dressmaker, aided by pressing +on the part of the little tailor in the basement over on Thirty-first +Street. It was the last of that, though. The next time they saw her, +she had on a hat that even she would have despaired of copying, and a +suit that sort of melted into your gaze. She moved to the North Side +(trust Eva for that), and Babe assumed the management of the household +on Calumet Avenue. It was rather a pinched little household now, for +the harness business shrank and shrank. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't see how you can expect me to keep house decently on this!" +Babe would say contemptuously. Babe's nose, always a little inclined +to sharpness, had whittled down to a point of late. "If you knew what +Ben gives Eva." +</P> + +<P> +"It's the best I can do, Sis. Business is something rotten." +</P> + +<P> +"Ben says if you had the least bit of——" Ben was Eva's husband, and +quotable, as are all successful men. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't care what Ben says," shouted Jo, goaded into rage. "I'm sick +of your everlasting Ben. Go and get a Ben of your own, why don't you, +if you're so stuck on the way he does things." +</P> + +<P> +And Babe did. She made a last desperate drive, aided by Eva, and she +captured a rather surprised young man in the brokerage way, who had +made up his mind not to marry for years and years. Eva wanted to give +her her wedding things, but at that Jo broke into sudden rebellion. +</P> + +<P> +"No, sir! No Ben is going to buy my sister's wedding clothes, +understand? I guess I'm not broke—yet. I'll furnish the money for her +things, and there'll be enough of them, too." Babe had as useless a +trousseau, and as filled with extravagant pink-and-blue and lacy and +frilly things, as any daughter of doting parents. Jo seemed to find a +grim pleasure in providing them. But it left him pretty well pinched. +After Babe's marriage (she insisted that they call her Estelle now) Jo +sold the house on Calumet. He and Carrie took one of those little +flats that were springing up, seemingly overnight, all through +Chicago's South Side. +</P> + +<P> +There was nothing domestic about Carrie. She had given up teaching two +years before, and had gone into social-service work on the West Side. +She had what is known as a legal mind—hard, clear, orderly—and she +made a great success of it. Her dream was to live at the Settlement +House and give all her time to the work. Upon the little household she +bestowed a certain amount of grim, capable attention. It was the same +kind of attention she would have given a piece of machinery whose +oiling and running had been entrusted to her care. She hated it, and +didn't hesitate to say so. +</P> + +<P> +Jo took to prowling about department-store basements, and household +goods sections. He was always sending home a bargain in a ham, or a +sack of potatoes, or fifty pounds of sugar, or a window clamp, or a new +kind of paring knife. He was forever doing odd jobs that the janitor +should have done. It was the domestic in him claiming its own. +</P> + +<P> +Then, one night, Carrie came home with a dull glow in her leathery +cheeks, and her eyes alight with resolve. They had what she called a +plain talk. +</P> + +<P> +"Listen, Jo. They've offered me the job of first assistant resident +worker. And I'm going to take it. Take it! I know fifty other girls +who'd give their ears for it. I go in next month." +</P> + +<P> +They were at dinner. Jo looked up from his plate, dully. Then he +glanced around the little dining room, with its ugly tan walls and its +heavy, dark furniture (the Calumet Avenue pieces fitted cumbersomely +into the five-room flat). +</P> + +<P> +"Away? Away from here, you mean—to live?" +</P> + +<P> +Carrie laid down her fork. "Well, really, Jo! After all that +explanation." +</P> + +<P> +"But to go over there to live! Why, that neighborhood's full of dirt, +and disease, and crime, and the Lord knows what all. I can't let you +do that, Carrie." +</P> + +<P> +Carrie's chin came up. She laughed a short little laugh. "Let me! +That's eighteenth-century talk, Jo. My life's my own to live. I'm +going." +</P> + +<P> +And she went. +</P> + +<P> +Jo stayed on in the apartment until the lease was up. Then he sold +what furniture he could, stored or gave away the rest, and took a room +on Michigan Avenue in one of the old stone mansions whose decayed +splendor was being put to such purpose. +</P> + +<P> +Jo Hertz was his own master. Free to marry. Free to come and go. And +he found he didn't even think of marrying. He didn't even want to come +or go, particularly. A rather frumpy old bachelor, with thinning hair +and a thickening neck. +</P> + +<P> +Every Thursday evening he took dinner at Eva's, and on Sunday noon at +Stell's. He tucked his napkin under his chin and openly enjoyed the +homemade soup and the well-cooked meats. After dinner he tried to talk +business with Eva's husband, or Stell's. His business talks were the +old-fashioned kind, beginning: +</P> + +<P> +"Well, now, looka here. Take, f'rinstance, your raw hides and +leathers." +</P> + +<P> +But Ben and George didn't want to take, f'rinstance, your raw hides and +leathers. They wanted, when they took anything at all, to take golf, +or politics, or stocks. They were the modern type of businessman who +prefers to leave his work out of his play. Business, with them, was a +profession—a finely graded and balanced thing, differing from Jo's +clumsy, down-hill style as completely as does the method of a great +criminal detective differ from that of a village constable. They would +listen, restively, and say, "Uh-uh," at intervals, and at the first +chance they would sort of fade out of the room, with a meaning glance +at their wives. Eva had two children now. Girls. They treated Uncle +Jo with good-natured tolerance. Stell had no children. Uncle Jo +degenerated, by almost imperceptible degrees, from the position of +honored guest, who is served with white meat, to that of one who is +content with a leg and one of those obscure and bony sections which, +after much turning with a bewildered and investigating knife and fork, +leave one baffled and unsatisfied. +</P> + +<P> +Eva and Stell got together and decided that Jo ought to marry. +</P> + +<P> +"It isn't natural," Eva told him. "I never saw a man who took so +little interest in women." +</P> + +<P> +"Me!" protested Jo, almost shyly. "Women!" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. Of course. You act like a frightened schoolboy." +</P> + +<P> +So they had in for dinner certain friends and acquaintances of fitting +age. They spoke of them as "splendid girls." Between thirty-six and +forty. They talked awfully well, in a firm, clear way, about civics, +and classes, and politics, and economics, and boards. They rather +terrified Jo. He didn't understand much that they talked about, and he +felt humbly inferior, and yet a little resentful, as if something had +passed him by. He escorted them home, dutifully, though they told him +not to bother, and they evidently meant it. They seemed capable not +only of going home quite unattended but of delivering a pointed lecture +to any highwayman or brawler who might molest them. +</P> + +<P> +The following Thursday Eva would say, "How did you like her, Jo?" +</P> + +<P> +"Like who?" Joe would spar feebly. +</P> + +<P> +"Miss Matthews." +</P> + +<P> +"Who's she?" +</P> + +<P> +"Now, don't be funny, Jo. You know very well I mean the girl who was +here for dinner. The one who talked so well on the emigration +question." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, her! Why, I liked her all right. Seems to be a smart woman." +</P> + +<P> +"Smart! She's a perfectly splendid girl." +</P> + +<P> +"Sure," Jo would agree cheerfully. +</P> + +<P> +"But didn't you like her?" +</P> + +<P> +"I can't say I did, Eve. And I can't say I didn't. She made me think +a lot of a teacher I had in the fifth reader. Name of Himes. As I +recall her, she must have been a fine woman. But I never thought of +Himes as a woman at all. She was just Teacher." +</P> + +<P> +"You make me tired," snapped Eva impatiently. "A man of your age. You +don't expect to marry a girl, do you? A child!" +</P> + +<P> +"I don't expect to marry anybody," Jo had answered. +</P> + +<P> +And that was the truth, lonely though he often was. +</P> + +<P> +The following spring Eva moved to Winnetka. Anyone who got the meaning +of the Loop knows the significance of a move to a North Shore suburb, +and a house. Eva's daughter, Ethel, was growing up, and her mother had +an eye on society. +</P> + +<P> +That did away with Jo's Thursday dinners. Then Stell's husband bought +a car. They went out into the country every Sunday. Stell said it was +getting so that maids objected to Sunday dinners, anyway. Besides, +they were unhealthful, old-fashioned things. They always meant to ask +Jo to come along, but by the time their friends were placed, and the +lunch, and the boxes, and sweaters, and George's camera, and +everything, there seemed to be no room for a man of Jo's bulk. So that +eliminated the Sunday dinners. +</P> + +<P> +"Just drop in any time during the week," Stell said, "for dinner. +Except Wednesday—that's our bridge night—and Saturday. And, of +course, Thursday. Cook is out that night. Don't wait for me to phone." +</P> + +<P> +And so Jo drifted into that sad-eyed, dyspeptic family made up of those +you see dining in second-rate restaurants, their paper propped up +against the bowl of oyster crackers, munching solemnly and with +indifference to the stare of the passer-by surveying them through the +brazen plate-glass window. +</P> + +<P> +And then came the war. The war that spelled death and destruction to +millions. The war that brought a fortune to Jo Hertz, and transformed +him, overnight, from a baggy-kneed old bachelor whose business was a +failure to a prosperous manufacturer whose only trouble was the +shortage in hides for the making of his product. Leather! The armies +of Europe called for it. Harnesses! More harnesses! Straps! Millions +of straps. More! More! +</P> + +<P> +The musty old harness business over on Lake Street was magically +changed from a dust-covered, dead-alive concern to an orderly hive that +hummed and glittered with success. Orders poured in. Jo Hertz had +inside information on the war. He knew about troops and horses. He +talked with French and English and Italian buyers commissioned by their +countries to get American-made supplies. And now, when he said to Ben +or George, "Take, f'rinstance, your raw hides and leathers," they +listened with respectful attention. +</P> + +<P> +And then began the gay-dog business in the life of Jo Hertz. He +developed into a Loop-hound, ever keen on the scent of fresh pleasure. +That side of Jo Hertz which had been repressed and crushed and ignored +began to bloom, unhealthily. At first he spent money on his rather +contemptuous nieces. He sent them gorgeous furs, and watch bracelets, +and bags. He took two expensive rooms at a downtown hotel, and there +was something more tear-compelling than grotesque about the way he +gloated over the luxury of a separate ice-water tap in the bathroom. +He explained it. +</P> + +<P> +"Just turn it on. Any hour of the day or night. Ice water!" +</P> + +<P> +He bought a car. Naturally. A glittering affair; in color a bright +blue, with pale-blue leather straps and a great deal of gold fittings, +and special tires. Eva said it was the kind of thing a chorus girl +would use, rather than an elderly businessman. You saw him driving +about in it, red-faced and rather awkward at the wheel. You saw him, +too, in the Pompeian Room at the Congress Hotel of a Saturday afternoon +when roving-eyed matrons in mink coats are wont to congregate to sip +pale-amber drinks. Actors grew to recognize the semibald head and the +shining, round, good-natured face looming out at them from the dim well +of the theater, and sometimes, in a musical show, they directed a quip +at him, and he liked it. He could pick out the critics as they came +down the aisle, and even had a nodding acquaintance with two of them. +</P> + +<P> +"Kelly, of the Herald," he would say carelessly. "Bean, of the Trib. +They're all afraid of him." +</P> + +<P> +So he frolicked, ponderously. In New York he might have been called a +Man About Town. +</P> + +<P> +And he was lonesome. He was very lonesome. So he searched about in +his mind and brought from the dim past the memory of the luxuriously +furnished establishment of which he used to dream in the evenings when +he dozed over his paper in the old house on Calumet. So he rented an +apartment, many-roomed and expensive, with a manservant in charge, and +furnished it in styles and periods ranging through all the Louis. The +living room was mostly rose color. It was like an unhealthy and +bloated boudoir. And yet there was nothing sybaritic or uncleanly in +the sight of this paunchy, middle-aged man sinking into the +rosy-cushioned luxury of his ridiculous home. It was a frank and naive +indulgence of long-starved senses, and there was in it a great +resemblance to the rolling-eyed ecstasy of a schoolboy smacking his +lips over an all-day sucker. +</P> + +<P> +The war went on, and on, and on. And the money continued to roll in—a +flood of it. Then, one afternoon, Eva, in town on shopping bent, +entered a small, exclusive, and expensive shop on Michigan Avenue. +Eva's weakness was hats. She was seeking a hat now. She described +what she sought with a languid conciseness, and stood looking about her +after the saleswoman had vanished in quest of it. The room was +becomingly rose-illumined and somewhat dim, so that some minutes had +passed before she realized that a man seated on a raspberry brocade +settee not five feet away—a man with a walking stick, and yellow +gloves, and tan spats, and a check suit—was her brother Jo. From him +Eva's wild-eyed glance leaped to the woman who was trying on hats +before one of the many long mirrors. She was seated, and a saleswoman +was exclaiming discreetly at her elbow. +</P> + +<P> +Eva turned sharply and encountered her own saleswoman returning +hat-laden. "Not today," she gasped. "I'm feeling ill. Suddenly." And +almost ran from the room. +</P> + +<P> +That evening she told Stell, relating her news in that telephone pidgin +English devised by every family of married sisters as protection +against the neighbors. Translated, it ran thus: +</P> + +<P> +"He looked straight at me. My dear, I thought I'd die! But at least +he had sense enough not to speak. She was one of those limp, willowy +creatures with the greediest eyes that she tried to keep softened to a +baby stare, and couldn't, she was so crazy to get her hands on those +hats. I saw it all in one awful minute. You know the way I do. I +suppose some people would call her pretty. I don't. And her color. +Well! And the most expensive-looking hats. Not one of them under +seventy-five. Isn't it disgusting! At his age! Suppose Ethel had +been with me!" +</P> + +<P> +The next time it was Stell who saw them. In a restaurant. She said it +spoiled her evening. And the third time it was Ethel. She was one of +the guests at a theater party given by Nicky Overton II. The North +Shore Overtons. Lake Forest. They came in late, and occupied the +entire third row at the opening performance of Believe Me! And Ethel +was Nicky's partner. She was glowing like a rose. When the lights +went up after the first act Ethel saw that her uncle Jo was seated just +ahead of her with what she afterward described as a blonde. Then her +uncle had turned around, and seeing her, had been surprised into a +smile that spread genially all over his plump and rubicund face. Then +he had turned to face forward again, quickly. +</P> + +<P> +"Who's the old bird?" Nicky had asked. Ethel had pretended not to +hear, so he had asked again. +</P> + +<P> +"My uncle," Ethel answered, and flushed all over her delicate face, and +down to her throat. Nicky had looked at the blonde, and his eyebrows +had gone up ever so slightly. +</P> + +<P> +It spoiled Ethel's evening. More than that, as she told her mother of +it later, weeping, she declared it had spoiled her life. +</P> + +<P> +Eva talked it over with her husband in that intimate hour that precedes +bedtime. She gesticulated heatedly with her hairbrush. +</P> + +<P> +"It's disgusting, that's what it is. Perfectly disgusting. There's no +fool like an old fool. Imagine! A creature like that. At his time of +life." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I don't know," Ben said, and even grinned a little. "I suppose +a boy's got to sow his wild oats sometime." +</P> + +<P> +"Don't be any more vulgar than you can help," Eva retorted. "And I +think you know, as well as I, what it means to have that Overton boy +interested in Ethel." +</P> + +<P> +"If he's interested in her," Ben blundered, "I guess the fact that +Ethel's uncle went to the theater with someone who isn't Ethel's aunt +won't cause a shudder to run up and down his frail young frame, will +it?" +</P> + +<P> +"All right," Eva had retorted. "If you're not man enough to stop it, +I'll have to, that's all. I'm going up there with Stell this week." +</P> + +<P> +They did not notify Jo of their coming. Eva telephoned his apartment +when she knew he would be out, and asked his man if he expected his +master home to dinner that evening. The man had said yes. Eva +arranged to meet Stell in town. They would drive to Jo's apartment +together, and wait for him there. +</P> + +<P> +When she reached the city Eva found turmoil there. The first of the +American troops to be sent to France were leaving. Michigan Boulevard +was a billowing, surging mass: flags, pennants, banners, crowds. All +the elements that make for demonstration. And over the whole-quiet. No +holiday crowd, this. A solid, determined mass of people waiting +patient hours to see the khaki-clads go by. Three years had brought +them to a clear knowledge of what these boys were going to. +</P> + +<P> +"Isn't it dreadful!" Stell gasped. +</P> + +<P> +"Nicky Overton's too young, thank goodness." +</P> + +<P> +Their car was caught in the jam. When they moved at all, it was by +inches. When at last they reached Jo's apartment they were flushed, +nervous, apprehensive. But he had not yet come in. So they waited. +</P> + +<P> +No, they were not staying to dinner with their brother, they told the +relieved houseman. +</P> + +<P> +Stell and Eva, sunk in rose-colored cushions, viewed the place with +disgust and some mirth. They rather avoided each other's eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"Carrie ought to be here," Eva said. They both smiled at the thought +of the austere Carrie in the midst of those rosy cushions, and +hangings, and lamps. Stell rose and began to walk about restlessly. +She picked up a vase and laid it down; straightened a picture. Eva got +up, too, and wandered into the hall. She stood there a moment, +listening. Then she turned and passed into Jo's bedroom, Stell +following. And there you knew Jo for what he was. +</P> + +<P> +This room was as bare as the other had been ornate. It was Jo, the +clean-minded and simplehearted, in revolt against the cloying luxury +with which he had surrounded himself. The bedroom, of all rooms in any +house, reflects the personality of its occupant. True, the actual +furniture was paneled, cupid-surmounted, and ridiculous. It had been +the fruit of Jo's first orgy of the senses. But now it stood out in +that stark little room with an air as incongruous and ashamed as that +of a pink tarlatan danseuse who finds herself in a monk's cell. None +of those wall pictures with which bachelor bedrooms are reputed to be +hung. No satin slippers. No scented notes. Two plain-backed military +brushes on the chiffonier (and he so nearly hairless!). A little +orderly stack of books on the table near the bed. Eva fingered their +titles and gave a little gasp. One of them was on gardening. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, of all things!" exclaimed Stell. A book on the war, by an +Englishman. A detective story of the lurid type that lulls us to sleep. +His shoes ranged in a careful row in the closet, with a shoe tree in +every one of them. There was something speaking about them. They +looked so human. Eva shut the door on them quickly. Some bottles on +the dresser. A jar of pomade. An ointment such as a man uses who is +growing bald and is panic-stricken too late. An insurance calendar on +the wall. Some rhubarb-and-soda mixture on the shelf in the bathroom, +and a little box of pepsin tablets. +</P> + +<P> +"Eats all kinds of things at all hours of the night," Eva said, and +wandered out into the rose-colored front room again with the air of one +who is chagrined at her failure to find what she has sought. Stell +followed her furtively. +</P> + +<P> +"Where do you suppose he can be?" she demanded. "It's"—she glanced at +her wrist—"why, it's after six!" +</P> + +<P> +And then there was a little click. The two women sat up, tense. The +door opened. Jo came in. He blinked a little. The two women in the +rosy room stood up. +</P> + +<P> +"Why—Eve! Why, Babe! Well! Why didn't you let me know?" +</P> + +<P> +"We were just about to leave. We thought you weren't coming home." +</P> + +<P> +Jo came in slowly. +</P> + +<P> +"I was in the jam on Michigan, watching the boys go by." He sat down, +heavily. The light from the window fell on him. And you saw that his +eyes were red. +</P> + +<P> +He had found himself one of the thousands in the jam on Michigan +Avenue, as he said. He had a place near the curb, where his big frame +shut off the view of the unfortunates behind him. He waited with the +placid interest of one who has subscribed to all the funds and +societies to which a prosperous, middle-aged businessman is called upon +to subscribe in war-time. Then, just as he was about to leave, +impatient at the delay, the crowd had cried, with a queer, dramatic, +exultant note in its voice, "Here they come! Here come the boys!" +</P> + +<P> +Just at that moment two little, futile, frenzied fists began to beat a +mad tattoo on Jo Hertz's broad back. Jo tried to turn in the crowd, +all indignant resentment. "Say, looka here!" +</P> + +<P> +The little fists kept up their frantic beating and pushing. And a +voice—a choked, high little voice—cried, "Let me by! I can't see! +You MAN, you! You big fat man! My boy's going by—to war—and I can't +see! Let me by!" +</P> + +<P> +Jo scrooged around, still keeping his place. He looked down. And +upturned to him in agonized appeal was the face of Emily. They stared +at each other for what seemed a long, long time. It was really only +the fraction of a second. Then Jo put one great arm firmly around +Emily's waist and swung her around in front of him. His great bulk +protected her. Emily was clinging to his hand. She was breathing +rapidly, as if she had been running. Her eyes were straining up the +street. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, Emily, how in the world——!" +</P> + +<P> +"I ran away. Fred didn't want me to come. He said it would excite me +too much." +</P> + +<P> +"Fred?" +</P> + +<P> +"My husband. He made me promise to say good-by to Jo at home." +</P> + +<P> +"Jo?" +</P> + +<P> +"Jo's my boy. And he's going to war. So I ran away. I had to see +him. I had to see him go." +</P> + +<P> +She was dry-eyed. Her gaze was straining up the street. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, sure," said Jo. "Of course you want to see him." And then the +crowd gave a great roar. There came over Jo a feeling of weakness. He +was trembling. The boys went marching by. +</P> + +<P> +"There he is," Emily shrilled, above the din. "There he is! There he +is! There he——" And waved a futile little hand. It wasn't so much a +wave as a clutching. A clutching after something beyond her reach. +</P> + +<P> +"Which one? Which one, Emily?" +</P> + +<P> +"The handsome one. The handsome one." Her voice quavered and died. +</P> + +<P> +Jo put a steady hand on her shoulder. "Point him out," he commanded +"Show me." And the next instant, "Never mind. I see him." +</P> + +<P> +Somehow, miraculously, he had picked him from among the hundreds. Had +picked him as surely as his own father might have. It was Emily's boy. +He was marching by, rather stiffly. He was nineteen, and fun-loving, +and he had a girl, and he didn't particularly want to go to France +and—to go to France. But more than he had hated going, he had hated +not to go. So he marched by, looking straight ahead, his jaw set so +that his chin stuck out just a little. Emily's boy. +</P> + +<P> +Jo looked at him, and his face flushed purple. His eyes, the +hard-boiled eyes of a Loop-hound, took on the look of a sad old man. +And suddenly he was no longer Jo, the sport; old J. Hertz, the gay dog. +He was Jo Hertz, thirty, in love with life, in love with Emily, and +with the stinging blood of young manhood coursing through his veins. +</P> + +<P> +Another minute and the boy had passed on up the broad street—the fine, +flag-bedecked street—just one of a hundred service hats bobbing in +rhythmic motion like sandy waves lapping a shore and flowing on. +</P> + +<P> +Then he disappeared altogether. +</P> + +<P> +Emily was clinging to Jo. She was mumbling something, over and over. +"I can't. I can't. Don't ask me to. I can't let him go. Like that. +I can't." +</P> + +<P> +Jo said a queer thing. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, Emily! We wouldn't have him stay home, would we? We wouldn't +want him to do anything different, would we? Not our boy. I'm glad he +enlisted. I'm proud of him. So are you glad." +</P> + +<P> +Little by little he quieted her. He took her to the car that was +waiting, a worried chauffeur in charge. They said good-by, awkwardly. +Emily's face was a red, swollen mass. +</P> + +<P> +So it was that when Jo entered his own hallway half an hour later he +blinked, dazedly, and when the light from the window fell on him you +saw that his eyes were red. +</P> + +<P> +Eva was not one to beat about the bush. She sat forward in her chair, +clutching her bag rather nervously. +</P> + +<P> +"Now, look here, Jo. Stell and I are here for a reason. We're here to +tell you that this thing's going to stop." +</P> + +<P> +"Thing? Stop?" +</P> + +<P> +"You know very well what I mean. You saw me at the milliner's that +day. And night before last, Ethel. We're all disgusted. If you must +go about with people like that, please have some sense of decency." +</P> + +<P> +Something gathering in Jo's face should have warned her. But he was +slumped down in his chair in such a huddle, and he looked so old and +fat that she did not heed it. She went on. "You've got us to +consider. Your sisters. And your nieces. Not to speak of your +own——" +</P> + +<P> +But he got to his feet then, shaking, and at what she saw in his face +even Eva faltered and stopped. It wasn't at all the face of a fat, +middle-aged sport. It was a face Jovian, terrible. +</P> + +<P> +"You!" he began, low-voiced, ominous. "You!" He raised a great fist +high. "You two murderers! You didn't consider me, twenty years ago. +You come to me with talk like that. Where's my boy! You killed him, +you two, twenty years ago. And now he belongs to somebody else. +Where's my son that should have gone marching by today?" He flung his +arms out in a great gesture of longing. The red veins stood out on his +forehead. "Where's my son! Answer me that, you two selfish, miserable +women. Where's my son!" Then, as they huddled together, frightened, +wild-eyed. +</P> + +<P> +"Out of my house! Out of my house! Before I hurt you!" +</P> + +<P> +They fled, terrified. The door banged behind them. +</P> + +<P> +Jo stood, shaking, in the center of the room. Then he reached for a +chair, gropingly, and sat down. He passed one moist, flabby hand over +his forehead and it came away wet. The telephone rang. He sat still. +It sounded far away and unimportant, like something forgotten. But it +rang and rang insistently. Jo liked to answer his telephone when he +was at home. +</P> + +<P> +"Hello!" He knew instantly the voice at the other end. +</P> + +<P> +"That you, Jo?" it said. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"How's my boy?" +</P> + +<P> +"I'm—all right." +</P> + +<P> +"Listen, Jo. The crowd's coming over tonight. I've fixed up a little +poker game for you. Just eight of us." +</P> + +<P> +"I can't come tonight, Gert." +</P> + +<P> +"Can't! Why not?" +</P> + +<P> +"I'm not feeling so good." +</P> + +<P> +"You just said you were all right." +</P> + +<P> +"I AM all right. Just kind of tired." +</P> + +<P> +The voice took on a cooing note. "Is my Joey tired? Then he shall be +all comfy on the sofa, and he doesn't need to play if he don't want to. +No, sir." +</P> + +<P> +Jo stood staring at the black mouthpiece of the telephone. He was +seeing a procession go marching by. Boys, hundreds of boys, in khaki. +</P> + +<P> +"Hello! Hello!" The voice took on an anxious note. "Are you there?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," wearily. +</P> + +<P> +"Jo, there's something the matter. You're sick. I'm coming right +over." +</P> + +<P> +"No!" "Why not? You sound as if you'd been sleeping. Look here——" +</P> + +<P> +"Leave me alone!" cried Jo, suddenly, and the receiver clacked onto the +hook. "Leave me alone. Leave me alone." Long after the connection +had been broken. +</P> + +<P> +He stood staring at the instrument with unseeing eyes. Then he turned +and walked into the front room. All the light had gone out of it. +Dusk had come on. All the light had gone out of everything. The zest +had gone out of life. The game was over—the game he had been playing +against loneliness and disappointment. And he was just a tired old +man. A lonely, tired old man in a ridiculous rose-colored room that +had grown, all of a sudden, drab {sic} +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="marriage"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +That's Marriage [1917] +</H3> + +<P> +Theresa Platt (she had been Terry Sheehan) watched her husband across +the breakfast table with eyes that smoldered. But Orville Platt was +quite unaware of any smoldering in progress. He was occupied with his +eggs. How could he know that these very eggs were feeding the dull red +menace in Terry Platt's eyes? +</P> + +<P> +When Orville Platt ate a soft-boiled egg he concentrated on it. He +treated it as a great adventure. Which, after all, it is. Few adjuncts +of our daily life contain the element of chance that is to be found in +a three-minute breakfast egg. +</P> + +<P> +This was Orville Platt's method of attack: first, he chipped off the +top, neatly. Then he bent forward and subjected it to a passionate and +relentless scrutiny. Straightening—preparatory to plunging his spoon +therein—he flapped his right elbow. It wasn't exactly a flap; it was +a pass between a hitch and a flap, and presented external evidence of a +mental state. Orville Platt always gave that little preliminary jerk +when he was contemplating a serious step, or when he was moved, or +argumentative. It was a trick as innocent as it was maddening. +</P> + +<P> +Terry Platt had learned to look for that flap—they had been married +four years—to look for it, and to hate it with a morbid, unreasoning +hate. That flap of the elbow was tearing Terry Platt's nerves into +raw, bleeding fragments. +</P> + +<P> +Her fingers were clenched tightly under the table, now. She was +breathing unevenly. "If he does that again," she told herself, "if he +flaps again when he opens the second egg, I'll scream. I'll scream. +I'll scream! I'll sc——" +</P> + +<P> +He had scooped the first egg into his cup. Now he picked up the +second, chipped it, concentrated, straightened, then—up went the +elbow, and down, with the accustomed little flap. +</P> + +<P> +The tortured nerves snapped. Through the early-morning quiet of +Wetona, Wisconsin, hurtled the shrill, piercing shriek of Terry Platt's +hysteria. +</P> + +<P> +"Terry! For God's sake! What's the matter!" +</P> + +<P> +Orville Platt dropped the second egg, and his spoon. The egg yolk +trickled down his plate. The spoon made a clatter and flung a gay spot +of yellow on the cloth. He started toward her. +</P> + +<P> +Terry, wild-eyed, pointed a shaking finger at him. She was laughing, +now, uncontrollably. "Your elbow! Your elbow!" +</P> + +<P> + "Elbow?" He looked down at it, bewildered, then up, fright in<BR> +his face. "What's the matter with it?" +</P> + +<P> +She mopped her eyes. Sobs shook her. "You f-f-flapped it." +</P> + +<P> +"F-f-f——" The bewilderment in Orville Platt's face gave way to +anger. "Do you mean to tell me that you screeched like that because +my—because I moved my elbow?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +His anger deepened and reddened to fury. He choked. He had started +from his chair with his napkin in his hand. He still clutched it. Now +he crumpled it into a wad and hurled it to the center of the table, +where it struck a sugar bowl, dropped back, and uncrumpled slowly, +reprovingly. "You—you——" Then bewilderment closed down again like a +fog over his countenance. "But why? I can't see——" +</P> + +<P> +"Because it—because I can't stand it any longer. Flapping. This is +what you do. Like this." +</P> + +<P> +And she did it. Did it with insulting fidelity, being a clever mimic. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, all I can say is you're crazy, yelling like that, for nothing." +</P> + +<P> +"It isn't nothing." +</P> + +<P> +"Isn't, huh? If that isn't nothing, what is?" They were growing +incoherent. "What d'you mean, screeching like a maniac? Like a wild +woman? The neighbors'll think I've killed you. What d'you mean, +anyway!" +</P> + +<P> +"I mean I'm tired of watching it, that's what. Sick and tired." +</P> + +<P> +"Y'are, huh? Well, young lady, just let me tell YOU something——" +</P> + +<P> +He told her. There followed one of those incredible quarrels, as +sickening as they are human, which can take place only between two +people who love each other; who love each other so well that each knows +with cruel certainty the surest way to wound the other; and who stab, +and tear, and claw at these vulnerable spots in exact proportion to +their love. +</P> + +<P> +Ugly words. Bitter words. Words that neither knew they knew flew +between them like sparks between steel striking steel. +</P> + +<P> +From him: "Trouble with you is you haven't got enough to do. That's +the trouble with half you women. Just lay around the house, rotting. +I'm a fool, slaving on the road to keep a good-for-nothing——" +</P> + +<P> +"I suppose you call sitting around hotel lobbies slaving! I suppose +the house runs itself! How about my evenings? Sitting here alone, +night after night, when you're on the road." +</P> + +<P> +Finally, "Well, if you don't like it," he snarled, and lifted his chair +by the back and slammed it down, savagely, "if you don't like it, why +don't you get out, hm? Why don't you get out?" +</P> + +<P> +And from her, her eyes narrowed to two slits, her cheeks scarlet: +</P> + +<P> +"Why, thanks. I guess I will." +</P> + +<P> +Ten minutes later he had flung out of the house to catch the 8:19 for +Manitowoc. He marched down the street, his shoulders swinging +rhythmically to the weight of the burden he carried—his black leather +handbag and the shiny tan sample case, battle-scarred, both, from many +encounters with ruthless porters and busmen and bellboys. For four +years, as he left for his semi-monthly trip, he and Terry had observed +a certain little ceremony (as had the neighbors). She would stand in +the doorway, watching him down the street, the heavier sample case +banging occasionally at his shin. The depot was only three blocks +away. Terry watched him with fond but unillusioned eyes, which proves +that she really loved him. He was a dapper, well-dressed fat man, with +a weakness for pronounced patterns in suitings, and addicted to +derbies. One week on the road, one week at home. That was his routine. +The wholesale grocery trade liked Platt, and he had for his customers +the fondness that a traveling salesman has who is successful in his +territory. Before his marriage to Terry Sheehan his little red address +book had been overwhelming proof against the theory that nobody loves a +fat man. +</P> + +<P> +Terry, standing in the doorway, always knew that when he reached the +corner just where Schroeder's house threatened to hide him from view, +he would stop, drop the sample case, wave his hand just once, pick up +the sample case and go on, proceeding backward for a step or two until +Schroeder's house made good its threat. It was a comic scene in the +eyes of the onlooker, perhaps because a chubby Romeo offends the sense +of fitness. The neighbors, lurking behind their parlor curtains, had +laughed at first. But after a while they learned to look for that +little scene, and to take it unto themselves, as if it were a personal +thing. Fifteen-year wives whose husbands had long since abandoned +flowery farewells used to get a vicarious thrill out of it, and to eye +Terry with a sort of envy. +</P> + +<P> +This morning Orville Platt did not even falter when he reached +Schroeder's corner. He marched straight on, looking steadily ahead, +the heavy bags swinging from either hand. Even if he had +stopped—though she knew he wouldn't—Terry Platt would not have seen +him. She remained seated at the disordered breakfast table, a +dreadfully still figure, and sinister; a figure of stone and fire, of +ice and flame. Over and over in her mind she was milling the things +she might have said to him, and had not. She brewed a hundred +vitriolic cruelties that she might have flung in his face. She would +concoct one biting brutality, and dismiss it for a second, and abandon +that for a third. She was too angry to cry—a dangerous state in a +woman. She was what is known as cold mad, so that her mind was working +clearly and with amazing swiftness, and yet as though it were a thing +detached; a thing that was no part of her. +</P> + +<P> +She sat thus for the better part of an hour, motionless except for one +forefinger that was, quite unconsciously, tapping out a popular and +cheap little air that she had been strumming at the piano the evening +before, having bought it downtown that same afternoon. It had struck +Orville's fancy, and she had played it over and over for him. Her +right forefinger was playing the entire tune, and something in the back +of her head was following it accurately, though the separate thinking +process was going on just the same. Her eyes were bright, and wide, +and hot. Suddenly she became conscious of the musical antics of her +finger. She folded it in with its mates, so that her hand became a +fist. She stood up and stared down at the clutter of the breakfast +table. The egg—that fateful second egg—had congealed to a mottled +mess of yellow and white. The spoon lay on the cloth. His coffee, only +half consumed, showed tan with a cold gray film over it. A slice of +toast at the left of his plate seemed to grin at her with the +semi-circular wedge that he had bitten out of it. +</P> + +<P> +Terry stared down at these congealing remnants. Then she laughed, a +hard high little laugh, pushed a plate away contemptuously with her +hand, and walked into the sitting room. On the piano was the piece of +music (Bennie Gottschalk's great song hit, "Hicky Boola") which she had +been playing the night before. She picked it up, tore it straight +across, once, placed the pieces back to back, and tore it across again. +Then she dropped the pieces to the floor. +</P> + +<P> +"You bet I'm going," she said, as though concluding a train of thought. +"You just bet I'm going. Right now!" And Terry went. She went for +much the same reason as that given by the ladye of high degree in the +old English song—she who had left her lord and bed and board to go +with the raggle-taggle gipsies-O! The thing that was sending Terry +Platt away was much more than a conjugal quarrel precipitated by a +soft-boiled egg and a flap of the arm. It went so deep that it is +necessary to delve back to the days when Theresa Platt was Terry +Sheehan to get the real significance of it, and of the things she did +after she went. +</P> + +<P> +When Mrs. Orville Platt had been Terry Sheehan, she had played the +piano, afternoons and evenings, in the orchestra of the Bijou Theater, +on Cass Street, Wetona, Wisconsin. Anyone with a name like Terry +Sheehan would, perforce, do well anything she might set out to do. +There was nothing of genius in Terry, but there was something of fire, +and much that was Irish. Which meant that the Watson Team, Eccentric +Song and Dance Artists, never needed a rehearsal when they played the +Bijou. Ruby Watson used merely to approach Terry before the Monday +performance, sheet music in hand, and say, "Listen, dearie. We've got +some new business I want to wise you to. Right here it goes 'TUM +dee-dee DUM dee-dee TUM DUM DUM.' See? Like that. And then Jim +vamps. Get me?" +</P> + +<P> +Terry, at the piano, would pucker her pretty brow a moment. Then, "Like +this, you mean?" +</P> + +<P> +"That's it! You've got it." +</P> + +<P> +"All right. I'll tell the drum." +</P> + +<P> +She could play any tune by ear, once heard. She got the spirit of a +thing, and transmitted it. When Terry played a martial number you +tapped the floor with your foot, and unconsciously straightened your +shoulders. When she played a home-and-mother song you hoped that the +man next to you didn't know you were crying (which he probably didn't, +because he was weeping, too). +</P> + +<P> +At that time motion pictures had not attained their present virulence. +Vaudeville, polite or otherwise, had not yet been crowded out by the +ubiquitous film. The Bijou offered entertainment of the +cigar-box-tramp variety, interspersed with trick bicyclists, soubrettes +in slightly soiled pink, trained seals, and Family Fours with lumpy +legs who tossed each other about and struck Goldbergian attitudes. +</P> + +<P> +Contact with these gave Terry Sheehan a semiprofessional tone. The more +conservative of her townspeople looked at her askance. There never had +been an evil thing about Terry, but Wetona considered her rather fly. +Terry's hair was very black, and she had a fondness for those little, +close-fitting scarlet turbans. Terry's mother had died when the girl +was eight, and Terry's father had been what is known as easygoing. A +good-natured, lovable, shiftless chap in the contracting business. He +drove around Wetona in a sagging, one-seated cart and never made any +money because he did honest work and charged as little for it as men +who did not. His mortar stuck, and his bricks did not crumble, and his +lumber did not crack. Riches are not acquired in the contracting +business in that way. Ed Sheehan and his daughter were great friends. +When he died (she was nineteen) they say she screamed once, like a +banshee, and dropped to the floor. +</P> + +<P> +After they had straightened out the muddle of books in Ed Sheehan's +gritty, dusty little office Terry turned her piano-playing talent to +practical account. At twenty-one she was still playing at the Bijou, +and into her face was creeping the first hint of that look of +sophistication which comes from daily contact with the artificial world +of the footlights. +</P> + +<P> +There are, in a small Midwest town like Wetona, just two kinds of +girls. Those who go downtown Saturday nights, and those who don't. +Terry, if she had not been busy with her job at the Bijou, would have +come in the first group. She craved excitement. There was little +chance to satisfy such craving in Wetona, but she managed to find +certain means. The traveling men from the Burke House just across the +street used to drop in at the Bijou for an evening's entertainment. +They usually sat well toward the front, and Terry's expert playing, and +the gloss of her black hair, and her piquant profile as she sometimes +looked up toward the stage for a signal from one of the performers +caught their fancy, and held it. +</P> + +<P> +She found herself, at the end of a year or two, with a rather large +acquaintance among these peripatetic gentlemen. You occasionally saw +one of them strolling home with her. Sometimes she went driving with +one of them of a Sunday afternoon. And she rather enjoyed taking +Sunday dinner at the Burke Hotel with a favored friend. She thought +those small-town hotel Sunday dinners the last word in elegance. The +roast course was always accompanied by an aqueous, semifrozen +concoction which the bill of fare revealed as Roman Punch. It added a +royal touch to the repast, even when served with roast pork. +</P> + +<P> +Terry was twenty-two when Orville Platt, making his initial Wisconsin +trip for the wholesale grocery house he represented, first beheld her +piquant Irish profile, and heard her deft manipulation of the keys. +Orville had the fat man's sense of rhythm and love of music. He had a +buttery tenor voice, too, of which he was rather proud. +</P> + +<P> +He spent three days in Wetona that first trip, and every evening saw +him at the Bijou, first row, center. He stayed through two shows each +time, and before he had been there fifteen minutes Terry was conscious +of him through the back of her head. Orville Platt paid no more heed +to the stage, and what was occurring thereon, than if it had not been. +He sat looking at Terry, and waggling his head in time to the music. +Not that Terry was a beauty. But she was one of those immaculately +clean types. That look of fragrant cleanliness was her chief charm. +Her clear, smooth skin contributed to it, and the natural penciling of +her eyebrows. But the thing that accented it, and gave it a last +touch, was the way in which her black hair came down in a little point +just in the center of her forehead, where hair meets brow. It grew to +form what is known as a cowlick. (A prettier name for it is widow's +peak.) Your eye lighted on it, pleased, and from it traveled its +gratified way down her white temples, past her little ears, to the +smooth black coil at the nape of her neck. It was a trip that rested +you. +</P> + +<P> +At the end of the last performance on the night of his second visit to +the Bijou, Orville waited until the audience had begun to file out. +Then he leaned forward over the rail that separated orchestra from +audience. +</P> + +<P> +"Could you," he said, his tones dulcet, "could you oblige me with the +name of that last piece you played?" +</P> + +<P> +Terry was stacking her music. "George!" she called to the drum. +"Gentleman wants to know the name of that last piece." And prepared to +leave. +</P> + +<P> +"'My Georgia Crackerjack,'" said the laconic drum. +</P> + +<P> +Orville Platt took a hasty side step in the direction of the door +toward which Terry was headed. "It's a pretty thing," he said +fervently. "An awful pretty thing. Thanks. It's beautiful." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Terry flung a last insult at him over her shoulder: "Don't thank ME +for it. I didn't write it." +</P> + +<P> +Orville Platt did not go across the street to the hotel. He wandered +up Cass Street, and into the ten-o'clock quiet of Main Street, and down +as far as the park and back. "Pretty as a pink! And play! ... And +good, too. Good." +</P> + +<P> +A fat man in love. +</P> + +<P> +At the end of six months they were married. Terry was surprised into +it. Not that she was not fond of him. She was; and grateful to him, +as well. For, pretty as she was, no man had ever before asked Terry to +be his wife. They had made love to her. They had paid court to her. +They had sent her large boxes of stale drugstore chocolates, and called +her endearing names as they made cautious declarations such as: +</P> + +<P> +"I've known a lot of girls, but you've got something different. I don't +know. You've got so much sense. A fellow can chum around with you. +Little pal." +</P> + +<P> +Wetona would be their home. They rented a comfortable, seven-room +house in a comfortable, middle-class neighborhood, and Terry dropped +the red velvet turbans and went in for picture hats. Orville bought +her a piano whose tone was so good that to her ear, accustomed to the +metallic discords of the Bijou instrument, it sounded out of tune. She +played a great deal at first, but unconsciously she missed the sharp +spat of applause that used to follow her public performance. She would +play a piece, brilliantly, and then her hands would drop to her lap. +And the silence of her own sitting room would fall flat on her ears. +It was better on the evenings when Orville was home. He sang, in his +throaty, fat man's tenor, to Terry's expert accompaniment. +</P> + +<P> +"This is better than playing for those ham actors, isn't it, hon?" And +he would pinch her ear. +</P> + +<P> +"Sure"—listlessly. +</P> + +<P> +But after the first year she became accustomed to what she termed +private life. She joined an afternoon sewing club, and was active in +the ladies' branch of the U.C.T. She developed a knack at cooking, +too, and Orville, after a week or ten days of hotel fare in small +Wisconsin towns, would come home to sea-foam biscuits, and real soup, +and honest pies and cake. Sometimes, in the midst of an appetizing +meal he would lay down his knife and fork and lean back in his chair, +and regard the cool and unruffled Terry with a sort of reverence in his +eyes. Then he would get up, and come around to the other side of the +table, and tip her pretty face up to his. +</P> + +<P> +"I'll bet I'll wake up, someday, and find out it's all a dream. You +know this kind of thing doesn't really happen—not to a dub like me." +</P> + +<P> +One year; two; three; four. Routine. A little boredom. Some +impatience. She began to find fault with the very things she had liked +in him: his superneatness; his fondness for dashing suit patterns; his +throaty tenor; his worship of her. And the flap. Oh, above all, that +flap! That little, innocent, meaningless mannerism that made her +tremble with nervousness. She hated it so that she could not trust +herself to speak of it to him. That was the trouble. Had she spoken +of it, laughingly or in earnest, before it became an obsession with +her, that hideous breakfast quarrel, with its taunts, and revilings, +and open hate, might never have come to pass. +</P> + +<P> +Terry Platt herself didn't know what was the matter with her. She would +have denied that anything was wrong. She didn't even throw her hands +above her head and shriek: "I want to live! I want to live! I want +to live!" like a lady in a play. She only knew she was sick of sewing +at the Wetona West End Red Cross shop; sick of marketing, of home +comforts, of Orville, of the flap. +</P> + +<P> +Orville, you may remember, left at 8:19. The 11:23 bore Terry +Chicago-ward. She had left the house as it was—beds unmade, rooms +unswept, breakfast table uncleared. She intended never to come back. +</P> + +<P> +Now and then a picture of the chaos she had left behind would flash +across her order-loving mind. The spoon on the tablecloth. +</P> + +<P> +Orville's pajamas dangling over the bathroom chair. The coffeepot on +the gas stove. +</P> + +<P> +"Pooh! What do I care?" +</P> + +<P> +In her pocketbook she had a tidy sum saved out of the housekeeping +money. She was naturally thrifty, and Orville had never been +niggardly. Her meals when Orville was on the road had been those +sketchy, haphazard affairs with which women content themselves when +their household is manless. At noon she went into the dining car and +ordered a flaunting little repast of chicken salad and asparagus and +Neapolitan ice cream. The men in the dining car eyed her speculatively +and with appreciation. Then their glance dropped to the third finger of +her left hand, and wandered away. She had meant to remove it. In +fact, she had taken it off and dropped it into her bag. But her hand +felt so queer, so unaccustomed, so naked, that she had found herself +slipping the narrow band on again, and her thumb groped for it, +gratefully. +</P> + +<P> +It was almost five o'clock when she reached Chicago. She felt no +uncertainty or bewilderment. She had been in Chicago three or four +times since her marriage. She went to a downtown hotel. It was too +late, she told herself, to look for a less expensive room that night. +When she had tidied herself she went out. The things she did were the +childish, aimless things that one does who finds herself in possession +of sudden liberty. She walked up State Street, and stared in the +windows; came back, turned into Madison, passed a bright little shop in +the window of which taffy-white and gold—was being wound endlessly and +fascinatingly about a double-jointed machine. She went in and bought a +sackful, and wandered on down the street, munching. +</P> + +<P> +She had supper at one of those white-tiled sarcophagi that emblazon +Chicago's downtown side streets. It had been her original intention to +dine in state in the rose-and-gold dining room of her hotel. She had +even thought daringly of lobster. But at the last moment she recoiled +from the idea of dining alone in that wilderness of tables so obviously +meant for two. +</P> + +<P> +After her supper she went to a picture show. She was amazed to find +there, instead of the accustomed orchestra, a pipe organ that panted +and throbbed and rumbled over lugubrious classics. The picture was +about a faithless wife. Terry left in the middle of it. +</P> + +<P> +She awoke next morning at seven, as usual, started up wildly, looked +around, and dropped back. Nothing to get up for. The knowledge did +not fill her with a rush of relief. She would have her breakfast in +bed. She telephoned for it, languidly. But when it came she got up +and ate it from the table, after all. +</P> + +<P> +That morning she found a fairly comfortable room, more within her +means, on the North Side in the boardinghouse district. She unpacked +and hung up her clothes and drifted downtown again, idly. It was noon +when she came to the corner of State and Madison Streets. It was a +maelstrom that caught her up, and buffeted her about, and tossed her +helplessly this way and that. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +The thousands jostled Terry, and knocked her hat awry, and dug her with +unheeding elbows, and stepped on her feet. +</P> + +<P> +"Say, look here!" she said once futilely. They did not stop to listen. +State and Madison has no time for Terrys from Wetona. It goes its way, +pell-mell. If it saw Terry at all it saw her only as a prettyish +person, in the wrong kind of suit and hat, with a bewildered, resentful +look on her face. +</P> + +<P> +Terry drifted on down the west side of State Street, with the hurrying +crowd. State and Monroe. A sound came to Terry's ears. +</P> + +<P> +A sound familiar, beloved. To her ear, harassed with the roar and +crash, with the shrill scream of the whistle of the policeman at the +crossing, with the hiss of feet shuffling on cement, it was a celestial +strain. She looked up, toward the sound. A great second-story window +opened wide to the street. In it a girl at a piano, and a man, +red-faced, singing through a megaphone. And on a flaring red and green +sign: +</P> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> + BERNIE GOTTSCHALK'S MUSIC HOUSE!<BR> +<BR> + COME IN! HEAR BERNIE GOTTSCHALK'S LATEST HIT!<BR> + THE HEART-THROB SONG THAT HAS GOT 'EM ALL!<BR> + THE SONG THAT MADE THE SQUAREHEADS CRAWL!<BR> +<BR> + "I COME FROM PARIS, ILLINOIS, BUT OH! YOU PARIS, FRANCE!<BR> + I USED TO WEAR BLUE OVERALLS BUT NOW IT'S KHAKI PANTS."<BR> +<BR> + COME IN! COME IN!<BR> +</H4> + +<BR> + +<P> +Terry accepted. +</P> + +<P> +She followed the sound of the music. Around the corner. Up a little +flight of stairs. She entered the realm of Euterpe; Euterpe with her +hair frizzed; Euterpe with her flowing white robe replaced by soiled +white shoes; Euterpe abandoning her flute for jazz. She sat at the +piano, a red-haired young lady whose familiarity with the piano had +bred contempt. Nothing else could have accounted for her treatment of +it. Her fingers, tipped with sharp-pointed and glistening nails, +clawed the keys with a dreadful mechanical motion. There were stacks +of music sheets on counters and shelves and dangling from overhead +wires. The girl at the piano never ceased playing. She played mostly +by request. +</P> + +<P> +A prospective purchaser would mumble something in the ear of one of the +clerks. The fat man with the megaphone would bawl out, "Hicky Boola, +Miss Ryan!" And Miss Ryan would oblige. She made a hideous rattle and +crash and clatter of sound. +</P> + +<P> +Terry joined the crowds about the counter. The girl at the piano was +not looking at the keys. Her head was screwed around over her left +shoulder and as she played she was holding forth animatedly to a girl +friend who had evidently dropped in from some store or office during +the lunch hour. Now and again the fat man paused in his vocal efforts +to reprimand her for her slackness. She paid no heed. There was +something gruesome, uncanny, about the way her fingers went their own +way over the defenseless keys. Her conversation with the frowzy little +girl went on. +</P> + +<P> +"Wha'd he say?" (Over her shoulder.) +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, he laffed." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, didja go?" +</P> + +<P> +"Me! Well, whutya think I yam, anyway?" +</P> + +<P> +"I woulda took a chanst." +</P> + +<P> +The fat man rebelled. +</P> + +<P> +"Look here! Get busy! What are you paid for? Talkin' or playin'? +Huh?" +</P> + +<P> +The person at the piano, openly reproved thus before her friend, lifted +her uninspired hands from the keys and spake. When she had finished +she rose. +</P> + +<P> +"But you can't leave now," the megaphone man argued. "Right in the +rush hour." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm gone," said the girl. The fat man looked about, helplessly. He +gazed at the abandoned piano, as though it must go on of its own +accord. Then at the crowd. +</P> + +<P> +"Where's Miss Schwimmer?" he demanded of a clerk. +</P> + +<P> +"Out to lunch." +</P> + +<P> +Terry pushed her way to the edge of the counter and leaned over. "I can +play for you," she said. +</P> + +<P> +The man looked at her. "Sight?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"Come on." +</P> + +<P> +Terry went around to the other side of the counter, took off her hat +and coat, rubbed her hands together briskly, sat down, and began to +play. The crowd edged closer. +</P> + +<P> +It is a curious study, this noonday crowd that gathers to sate its +music hunger on the scraps vouchsafed it by Bernie Gottschalk's Music +House. Loose-lipped, slope-shouldered young men with bad complexions +and slender hands. Girls whose clothes are an unconscious satire on +present-day fashions. On their faces, as they listen to the music, is +a look of peace and dreaming. They stand about, smiling a wistful half +smile. The music seems to satisfy a something within them. Faces +dull, eyes lusterless, they listen in a sort of trance. +</P> + +<P> +Terry played on. She played as Terry Sheehan used to play. She played +as no music hack at Bernie Gottschalk's had ever played before. The +crowd swayed a little to the sound of it. Some kept time with little +jerks of the shoulder—the little hitching movement of the dancer whose +blood is filled with the fever of syncopation. Even the crowd flowing +down State Street must have caught the rhythm of it, for the room soon +filled. +</P> + +<P> +At two o'clock the crowd began to thin. Business would be slack, now, +until five, when it would again pick up until closing time at six. The +fat vocalist put down his megaphone, wiped his forehead, and regarded +Terry with a warm blue eye. He had just finished singing "I've +Wandered Far from Dear Old Mother's Knee." (Bernie Gottschalk Inc. +Chicago. New York. You can't get bit with a Gottschalk hit. 15 cents +each.) +</P> + +<P> +"Girlie," he said, emphatically, "you sure—can—play!" He came over +to her at the piano and put a stubby hand on her shoulder. "Yessir! +Those little fingers——" +</P> + +<P> +Terry just turned her head to look down her nose at the moist hand +resting on her shoulder. "Those little fingers are going to meet your +face if you don't move on." +</P> + +<P> +"Who gave you your job?" demanded the fat man. +</P> + +<P> +"Nobody. I picked it myself. You can have it if you want it." +</P> + +<P> +"Can't you take a joke?" +</P> + +<P> +"Label yours." +</P> + +<P> +As the crowd dwindled she played less feverishly, but there was nothing +slipshod about her performance. The chubby songster found time to +proffer brief explanations in asides. "They want the patriotic stuff. +It used to be all that Hawaiian dope, and Wild Irish Rose stuff, and +songs about wanting to go back to every place from Dixie to Duluth. +But now seems it's all these here flag wavers. Honestly, I'm so sick +of 'em I got a notion to enlist to get away from it." +</P> + +<P> +Terry eyed him with withering briefness. "A little training wouldn't +ruin your figure." +</P> + +<P> +She had never objected to Orville's embonpoint. But then, Orville was +a different sort of fat man; pink-cheeked, springy, immaculate. +</P> + +<P> +At four o'clock, as she was in the chorus of "Isn't There Another Joan +of Arc?" a melting masculine voice from the other side of the counter +said "Pardon me. What's that you're playing?" +</P> + +<P> +Terry told him. She did not look up. "I wouldn't have known it. +Played like that—a second 'Marseillaise.' If the words——What are +the words? Let me see a——" +</P> + +<P> +"Show the gentleman a 'Joan,'" Terry commanded briefly, over her +shoulder. The fat man laughed a wheezy laugh. Terry glanced around, +still playing, and encountered the gaze of two melting masculine eyes +that matched the melting masculine voice. The songster waved a hand +uniting Terry and the eyes in informal introduction. +</P> + +<P> +"Mr. Leon Sammett, the gentleman who sings the Gottschalk songs +wherever songs are heard. And Mrs.—that is—and Mrs. Sammett——" +</P> + +<P> +Terry turned. A sleek, swarthy world-old young man with the +fashionable concave torso, and alarmingly convex bone-rimmed glasses. +Through them his darkly luminous gaze glowed upon Terry. To escape +their warmth she sent her own gaze past him to encounter the arctic +stare of the large blonde who had been included so lamely in the +introduction. And at that the frigidity of that stare softened, +melted, dissolved. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, Terry Sheehan! What in the world!" +</P> + +<P> +Terry's eyes bored beneath the layers of flabby fat. "It's—why, it's +Ruby Watson, isn't it? Eccentric Song and Dance——" +</P> + +<P> +She glanced at the concave young man and faltered. He was not Jim, of +the Bijou days. From him her eyes leaped back to the fur-bedecked +splendor of the woman. The plump face went so painfully red that the +make-up stood out on it, a distinct layer, like thin ice covering +flowing water. As she surveyed that bulk Terry realized that while +Ruby might still claim eccentricity, her song-and-dance days were over. +"That's ancient history, m' dear. I haven't been working for three +years. What're you doing in this joint? I'd heard you'd done well for +yourself. That you were married." +</P> + +<P> +"I am. That is I—well, I am. I——" +</P> + +<P> +At that the dark young man leaned over and patted Terry's hand that lay +on the counter. He smiled. His own hand was incredibly slender, long, +and tapering. +</P> + +<P> +"That's all right," he assured her, and smiled. "You two girls can +have a reunion later. What I want to know is can you play by ear?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, but——" +</P> + +<P> +He leaned far over the counter. "I knew it the minute I heard you +play. You've got the touch. Now listen. See if you can get this, and +fake the bass." +</P> + +<P> +He fixed his somber and hypnotic eyes on Terry. His mouth screwed up +into a whistle. The tune—a tawdry but haunting little melody—came +through his lips. Terry turned back to the piano. "Of course you know +you flatted every note," she said. +</P> + +<P> + This time it was the blonde who laughed, and the man who<BR> +flushed. Terry cocked her head just a little to one side, like a +knowing bird, looked up into space beyond the piano top, and played the +lilting little melody with charm and fidelity. The dark young man +followed her with a wagging of the head and little jerks of both +outspread hands. His expression was beatific, enraptured. He hummed a +little under his breath and anyone who was music-wise would have known +that he was just a half beat behind her all the way. +</P> + +<P> +When she had finished he sighed deeply, ecstatically. He bent his lean +frame over the counter and, despite his swart coloring, seemed to +glitter upon her—his eyes, his teeth, his very fingernails. +</P> + +<P> +"Something led me here. I never come up on Tuesdays. But +something——" +</P> + +<P> +"You was going to complain," put in his lady, heavily, "about that +Teddy Sykes at the Palace Gardens singing the same songs this week that +you been boosting at the Inn." +</P> + +<P> +He put up a vibrant, peremptory hand. "Bah! What does that matter +now! What does anything matter now! Listen Miss—ah—Miss——?" +</P> + +<P> +"Pl—Sheehan. Terry Sheehan." +</P> + +<P> +He gazed off a moment into space. "Hm. 'Leon Sammett in Songs. Miss +Terry Sheehan at the Piano.' That doesn't sound bad. Now listen, Miss +Sheehan. I'm singing down at the University Inn. The Gottschalk song +hits. I guess you know my work. But I want to talk to you, private. +It's something to your interest. I go on down at the Inn at six. Will +you come and have a little something with Ruby and me? Now?" +</P> + +<P> +"Now?" faltered Terry, somewhat helplessly. Things seemed to be moving +rather swiftly for her, accustomed as she was to the peaceful routine +of the past four years. +</P> + +<P> +"Get your hat. It's your life chance. Wait till you see your name in +two-foot electrics over the front of every big-time house in the +country. You've got music in you. Tie to me and you're made." He +turned to the woman beside him. "Isn't that so, Rube?" +</P> + +<P> +"Sure. Look at ME!" One would not have thought there could be so much +subtle vindictiveness in a fat blonde. +</P> + +<P> +Sammett whipped out a watch. "Just three quarters of an hour. Come on, +girlie." +</P> + +<P> +His conversation had been conducted in an urgent undertone, with side +glances at the fat man with the megaphone. Terry approached him now. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm leaving now," she said. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, no, you're not. Six o'clock is your quitting time." +</P> + +<P> +In which he touched the Irish in Terry. "Any time I quit is my +quitting time. She went in quest of hat and coat much as the girl had +done whose place she had taken early in the day. The fat man followed +her, protesting. Terry, putting on her hat, tried to ignore him. But +he laid one plump hand on her arm and kept it there, though she tried +to shake him off. +</P> + +<P> +"Now, listen to me. That boy wouldn't mind grinding his heel on your +face if he thought it would bring him up a step. I know'm. See that +walking stick he's carrying? Well, compared to the yellow stripe +that's in him, that cane is a Lead pencil. He's a song tout, that's +all he is." Then, more feverishly, as Terry tried to pull away: "Wait +a minute. You're a decent girl. I want to—Why, he can't even sing a +note without you give it to him first. He can put a song over, yes. +But how? By flashing that toothy grin of his and talking every word of +it. Don't you——" +</P> + +<P> +But Terry freed herself with a final jerk and whipped around the +counter. The two, who had been talking together in an undertone, +turned to welcome her. "We've got a half-hour. Come on. It's just +over to Clark and up a block or so." +</P> + +<P> +The University Inn, that gloriously intercollegiate institution which +welcomes any graduate of any school of experience, was situated in the +basement, down a flight of stairs. Into the unwonted quiet that reigns +during the hour of low potentiality, between five and six, the three +went, and seated themselves at a table in an obscure corner. A waiter +brought them things in little glasses, though no order had been given. +The woman who had been Ruby Watson was so silent as to be almost +wordless. But the man talked rapidly. He talked well, too. The same +quality that enabled him, voiceless though he was, to boost a song to +success was making his plea sound plausible in Terry's ears now. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +"I've got to go and make up in a few minutes. So get this. I'm not +going to stick down in this basement eating house forever. I've got too +much talent. If I only had a voice—I mean a singing voice. But I +haven't. But then, neither had Georgie Cohan, and I can't see that it +wrecked his life any. Now listen. I've got a song. It's my own. That +bit you played for me up at Gottschalk's is part of the chorus. But +it's the words that'll go big. They're great. It's an aviation song, +see? Airplane stuff. They're yelling that it's the airyoplanes +that're going to win this war. Well, I'll help 'em. This song is +going to put the aviator where he belongs. It's going to be the big +song of the war. It's going to make 'Tipperary' sound like a Moody and +Sankey hymn. It's the——" +</P> + +<P> +Ruby lifted her heavy-lidded eyes and sent him a meaning look. "Get +down to business, Leon. I'll tell her how good you are while you're +making up." +</P> + +<P> +He shot her a malignant glance, but took her advice. "Now what I've +been looking for for years is somebody who has got the music knack to +give me the accompaniment just a quarter of a jump ahead of my voice, +see? I can follow like a lamb, but I've got to have that feeler first. +It's more than a knack. It's a gift. And you've got it. I know it +when I see it. I want to get away from this night-club thing. There's +nothing in it for a man of my talent. I'm gunning for bigger game. +But they won't sign me without a tryout. And when they hear my voice +they—— Well, if me and you work together we can fool 'em. The song's +great. And my make-up's one of these aviation costumes to go with the +song, see? Pants tight in the knee and baggy on the hips. And a coat +with one of those full-skirt whaddyoucall-'ems——" +</P> + +<P> + "Peplums," put in Ruby, placidly.<BR> +</P> + +<P> +"Sure. And the girls'll be wild about it. And the words!" He began +to sing, gratingly off key: +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Put on your sky clothes,<BR> + Put on your fly clothes,<BR> + And take a trip with me.<BR> + We'll sail so high<BR> + Up in the sky<BR> + We'll drop a bomb from Mercury.<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +"Why, that's awfully cute!" exclaimed Terry. Until now her opinion of +Mr. Sammett's talents had not been on a level with his. +</P> + +<P> +"Yeah, but wait till you hear the second verse. That's only part of +the chorus. You see, he's supposed to be talking to a French girl. He +says: +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + 'I'll parlez-vous in Francais plain<BR> + You'll answer, "Cher Americain,"<BR> + We'll both ...'"<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +The six-o'clock lights blazed up suddenly. A sad-looking group of men +trailed in and made for a corner where certain bulky, shapeless bundles +were soon revealed as those glittering and tortuous instruments which +go to make a jazz band. +</P> + +<P> +"You better go, Lee. The crowd comes in awful early now, with all +these buyers in town." +</P> + +<P> +Both hands on the table, he half rose, reluctantly, still talking. +"I've got three other songs. They make Gottschalk's stuff look sick. +All I want's a chance. What I want you to do is accompaniment. On the +stage, see? Grand piano. And a swell set. I haven't quite made up my +mind to it. But a kind of an army camp room, see? And maybe you +dressed as Liberty. Anyway, it'll be new, and a knockout. If only we +can get away with the voice thing. Say, if Eddie Foy, all those years +never had a——" +</P> + +<P> +The band opened with a terrifying clash of cymbal and thump of drum. +"Back at the end of my first turn," he said as he Red. Terry followed +his lithe, electric figure. She turned to meet the heavy-lidded gaze +of the woman seated opposite. She relaxed, then, and sat back with a +little sigh. "Well! If he talks that way to the managers I don't +see——" +</P> + +<P> +Ruby laughed a mirthless little laugh. "Talk doesn't get it over with +the managers, honey. You've got to deliver." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, but he's—that song is a good one. I don't say it's as good as +he thinks it is, but it's good." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," admitted the woman, grudgingly, "it's good." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, then?" +</P> + +<P> +The woman beckoned a waiter; he nodded and vanished, and reappeared +with a glass that was twin to the one she had just emptied. "Does he +look like he knew French? Or could make a rhyme?" +</P> + +<P> +"But didn't he? Doesn't he?" +</P> + +<P> +"The words were written by a little French girl who used to skate down +here last winter, when the craze was on. She was stuck on a Chicago +kid who went over to fly for the French." +</P> + +<P> +"But the music?" +</P> + +<P> +"There was a Russian girl who used to dance in the cabaret and she——" +</P> + +<P> +Terry's head came up with a characteristic little jerk. "I don't +believe it!" +</P> + +<P> +"Better." She gazed at Terry with the drowsy look that was so +different from the quick, clear glance of the Ruby Watson who used to +dance so nimbly in the old Bijou days. "What'd you and your husband +quarrel about, Terry?" +</P> + +<P> +Terry was furious to feel herself flushing. "Oh, nothing. He +just—I—it was—— Say, how did you know we'd quarreled?" +</P> + +<P> +And suddenly all the fat woman's apathy dropped from her like a garment +and some of the old sparkle and animation illumined her heavy face. +She pushed her glass aside and leaned forward on her folded arms, so +that her face was close to Terry's. +</P> + +<P> +"Terry Sheehan, I know you've quarreled, and I know just what it was +about. Oh, I don't mean the very thing it was about; but the kind of +thing. I'm going to do something for you, Terry, that I wouldn't take +the trouble to do for most women. But I guess I ain't had all the +softness knocked out of me yet, though it's a wonder. And I guess I +remember too plain the decent kid you was in the old days. What was +the name of that little small-time house me and Jim used to play? +Bijou, that's it; Bijou." +</P> + +<P> +The band struck up a new tune. Leon Sammett—slim, sleek, lithe in his +evening clothes—appeared with a little fair girl in pink chiffon. The +woman reached across the table and put one pudgy, jeweled hand on +Terry's arm. "He'll be through in ten minutes. Now listen to me. I +left Jim four years ago, and there hasn't been a minute since then, day +or night, when I wouldn't have crawled back to him on my hands and +knees if I could. But I couldn't. He wouldn't have me now. How could +he? How do I know you've quarreled? I can see it in your eyes. They +look just the way mine have felt for four years, that's how. I met up +with this boy, and there wasn't anybody to do the turn for me that I'm +trying to do for you. Now get this. I left Jim because when he ate +corn on the cob he always closed his eyes and it drove me wild. Don't +laugh." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm not laughing," said Terry. +</P> + +<P> +"Women are like that. One night—we was playing Fond du Lac; I +remember just as plain—we was eating supper before the show and Jim +reached for one of those big yellow ears, and buttered and salted it, +and me kind of hanging on to the edge of the table with my nails. +Seemed to me if he shut his eyes when he put his teeth into that ear of +corn I'd scream. And he did. And I screamed. And that's all." +</P> + +<P> +Terry sat staring at her with a wide-eyed stare, like a sleepwalker. +Then she wet her lips slowly. "But that's almost the very——" +</P> + +<P> +"Kid, go on back home. I don't know whether it's too late or not, but +go anyway. If you've lost him I suppose it ain't any more than you +deserve; but I hope to God you don't get your deserts this time. He's +almost through. If he sees you going he can't quit in the middle of +his song to stop you. He'll know I put you wise, and he'll prob'ly +half kill me for it. But it's worth it. You get." +</P> + +<P> +And Terry—dazed, shaking, but grateful—fled. Down the noisy aisle, +up the stairs, to the street. Back to her rooming house. Out again, +with her suitcase, and into the right railroad station somehow, at +last. Not another Wetona train until midnight. She shrank into a +remote corner of the waiting room and there she huddled until midnight, +watching the entrances like a child who is fearful of ghosts in the +night. +</P> + +<P> +The hands of the station clock seemed fixed and immovable. The hour +between eleven and twelve was endless. She was on the train. It was +almost morning. It was morning. Dawn was breaking. She was home! +She had the house key clutched tightly in her hand long before she +turned Schroeder's corner. Suppose he had come home! Suppose he had +jumped a town and come home ahead of his schedule. They had quarreled +once before, and he had done that. +</P> + +<P> +Up the front steps. Into the house. Not a sound. She stood there a +moment in the early-morning half-light. She peered into the dining +room. The table, with its breakfast debris, was as she had left it. +In the kitchen the coffeepot stood on the gas stove. She was home. +She was safe. She ran up the stairs, got out of her clothes and into +gingham morning things. She flung open windows everywhere. Downstairs +once more she plunged into an orgy of cleaning. Dishes, table, stove, +floor, rugs. She washed, scoured, swabbed, polished. By eight o'clock +she had done the work that would ordinarily have taken until noon. The +house was shining, orderly, and redolent of soapsuds. +</P> + +<P> +During all this time she had been listening, listening, with her +subconscious ear. Listening for something she had refused to name +definitely in her mind, but listening, just the same; waiting. +</P> + +<P> +And then, at eight o'clock, it came. The rattle of a key in the lock. +The boom of the front door. Firm footsteps. +</P> + +<P> +He did not go to meet her, and she did not go to meet him. They came +together and were in each other's arms. She was weeping. +</P> + +<P> +"Now, now, old girl. What's there to cry about? Don't, honey; don't. +It's all right." She raised her head then, to look at him. How fresh +and rosy and big he seemed, after that little sallow restaurant rat. +</P> + +<P> +"How did you get here? How did you happen——?" +</P> + +<P> +"Jumped all the way from Ashland. Couldn't get a sleeper, so I sat up +all night. I had to come back and square things with you, Terry. My +mind just wasn't on my work. I kept thinking how I'd talked—how I'd +talked——" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Orville, don't! I can't bear—— Have you had your breakfast?" +</P> + +<P> +"Why, no. The train was an hour late. You know that Ashland train." +</P> + +<P> +But she was out of his arms and making for the kitchen. "You go and +clean up. I'll have hot biscuits and everything in no time. You poor +boy. No breakfast!" +</P> + +<P> +She made good her promise. It could not have been more than half an +hour later when he was buttering his third feathery, golden-brown +biscuit. But she had eaten nothing. She watched him, and listened, +and again her eyes were somber, but for a different reason. He broke +open his egg. His elbow came up just a fraction of an inch. Then he +remembered, and flushed like a schoolboy, and brought it down again, +carefully. And at that she gave a tremulous cry, and rushed around the +table to him. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Orville!" She took the offending elbow in her two arms, and bent +and kissed the rough coat sleeve. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, Terry! Don't, honey. Don't!" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Orville, listen——" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"Listen, Orville——" +</P> + +<P> +"I'm listening, Terry." +</P> + +<P> +"I've got something to tell you. There's something you've got to know." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I know it, Terry. I knew you'd out with it, pretty soon, if I +just waited." +</P> + +<P> +She lifted an amazed face from his shoulder then, and stared at him. +"But how could you know? You couldn't! How could you?" +</P> + +<P> +He patted her shoulder then, gently. "I can always tell. When you +have something on your mind you always take up a spoon of coffee, and +look at it, and kind of joggle it back and forth in the spoon, and then +dribble it back into the cup again, without once tasting it. It used +to get me nervous, when we were first married, watching you. But now I +know it just means you're worried about something, and I wait, and +pretty soon——" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Orville!" she cried then. "Oh, Orville!" +</P> + +<P> +"Now, Terry. Just spill it, hon. Just spill it to Daddy. And you'll +feel better." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="farmer"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Farmer in the Dell [1919] +</H3> + +<P> +Old Ben Westerveld was taking it easy. Every muscle taut, every nerve +tense, his keen eyes vainly straining to pierce the blackness of the +stuffy room—there lay Ben Westerveld in bed, taking it easy. And it +was hard. Hard. He wanted to get up. He wanted so intensely to get up +that the mere effort of lying there made him ache all over. His toes +were curled with the effort. His fingers were clenched with it. His +breath came short, and his thighs felt cramped. Nerves. But old Ben +Westerveld didn't know that. What should a retired and well-to-do +farmer of fifty-eight know of nerves, especially when he has moved to +the city and is taking it easy? +</P> + +<P> +If only he knew what time it was. Here in Chicago you couldn't tell +whether it was four o'clock or seven unless you looked at your watch. +To do that it was necessary to turn on the light. And to turn on the +light meant that he would turn on, too, a flood of querulous protest +from his wife, Bella, who lay asleep beside him. +</P> + +<P> +When for forty-five years of your life you have risen at four-thirty +daily, it is difficult to learn to loll. To do it successfully, you +must be a natural-born loller to begin with and revert. Bella +Westerveld was and had. So there she lay, asleep. Old Ben wasn't and +hadn't. So there he lay, terribly wide-awake, wondering what made his +heart thump so fast when he was lying so still. If it had been light, +you could have seen the lines of strained resignation in the sagging +muscles of his patient face. +</P> + +<P> +They had lived in the city for almost a year, but it was the same every +morning. He would open his eyes, start up with one hand already +reaching for the limp, drab work-worn garments that used to drape the +chair by his bed. Then he would remember and sink back while a great +wave of depression swept over him. Nothing to get up for. Store +clothes on the chair by the bed. He was taking it easy. +</P> + +<P> +Back home on the farm in southern Illinois he had known the hour the +instant his eyes opened. Here the flat next door was so close that the +bed-room was in twilight even at midday. On the farm he could tell by +the feeling—an intangible thing, but infallible. He could gauge the +very quality of the blackness that comes just before dawn. The crowing +of the cocks, the stamping of the cattle, the twittering of the birds +in the old elm whose branches were etched eerily against his window in +the ghostly light—these things he had never needed. He had known. But +here in the un-sylvan section of Chicago which bears the bosky name of +Englewood, the very darkness had a strange quality. +</P> + +<P> +A hundred unfamiliar noises misled him. There were no cocks, no +cattle, no elm. Above all, there was no instinctive feeling. Once, +when they first came to the city, he had risen at twelve-thirty, +thinking it was morning, and had gone clumping about the flat, waking +up everyone and loosing from his wife's lips a stream of acid +vituperation that seared even his case-hardened sensibilities. The +people sleeping in the bedroom of the flat next door must have heard +her. +</P> + +<P> +"You big rube! Getting up in the middle of the night and stomping +around like cattle. You'd better build a shed in the back yard and +sleep there if you're so dumb you can't tell night from day." +</P> + +<P> +Even after thirty-three years of marriage he had never ceased to be +appalled at the coarseness of her mind and speech—she who had seemed +so mild and fragile and exquisite when he married her. He had crept +back to bed shamefacedly. He could hear the couple in the bedroom of +the flat just across the little court grumbling and then laughing a +little, grudgingly, and yet with appreciation. That bedroom, too, had +still the power to appall him. Its nearness, its forced intimacy, were +daily shocks to him whose most immediate neighbor, back on the farm, +had been a quarter of a mile away. The sound of a shoe dropped on the +hardwood floor, the rush of water in the bathroom, the murmur of +nocturnal confidences, the fretful cry of a child in the night, all +startled and distressed him whose ear had found music in the roar of +the thresher and had been soothed by the rattle of the tractor and the +hoarse hoot of the steamboat whistle at the landing. His farm's edge +had been marked by the Mississippi rolling grandly by. +</P> + +<P> +Since they had moved into town, he had found only one city sound that +he really welcomed—the rattle and clink that marked the milkman's +matutinal visit. The milkman came at six, and he was the good fairy +who released Ben Westerveld from durance vile—or had until the winter +months made his coming later and later, so that he became worse than +useless as a timepiece. But now it was late March, and mild. The +milkman's coming would soon again mark old Ben's rising hour. Before +he had begun to take it easy, six o'clock had seen the entire mechanism +of his busy little world humming smoothly and sweetly, the whole set in +motion by his own big work-callused hands. Those hands puzzled him +now. He often looked at them curiously and in a detached sort of way, +as if they belonged to someone else. So white they were, and smooth +and soft, with long, pliant nails that never broke off from rough work +as they used to. Of late there were little splotches of brown on the +backs of his hands and around the thumbs. +</P> + +<P> +"Guess it's my liver," he decided, rubbing the spots thoughtfully. +"She gets kind of sluggish from me not doing anything. Maybe a little +spring tonic wouldn't go bad. Tone me up." +</P> + +<P> +He got a little bottle of reddish-brown mixture from the druggist on +Halstead Street near Sixty-third. A genial gentleman, the druggist, +white-coated and dapper, stepping affably about the fragrant-smelling +store. The reddish-brown mixture had toned old Ben up +surprisingly—while it lasted. He had two bottles of it. But on +discontinuing it he slumped back into his old apathy. +</P> + +<P> +Ben Westerveld, in his store clothes, his clean blue shirt, his +incongruous hat, ambling aimlessly about Chicago's teeming, gritty +streets, was a tragedy. Those big, capable hands, now dangling so +limply from inert wrists, had wrested a living from the soil; those +strangely unfaded blue eyes had the keenness of vision which comes from +scanning great stretches of earth and sky; the stocky, +square-shouldered body suggested power unutilized. All these spelled +tragedy. Worse than tragedy—waste. +</P> + +<P> +For almost half a century this man had combated the elements, head set, +eyes wary, shoulders squared. He had fought wind and sun, rain and +drought, scourge and flood. He had risen before dawn and slept before +sunset. In the process he had taken on something of the color and the +rugged immutability of the fields and hills and trees among which he +toiled. Something of their dignity, too, though your town dweller +might fail to see it beneath the drab exterior. He had about him none +of the highlights and sharp points of the city man. He seemed to blend +in with the background of nature so as to be almost undistinguishable +from it, as were the furred and feathered creatures. This farmer +differed from the city man as a hillock differs from an artificial golf +bunker, though form and substance are the same. +</P> + +<P> +Ben Westerveld didn't know he was a tragedy. Your farmer is not given +to introspection. For that matter, anyone knows that a farmer in town +is a comedy. Vaudeville, burlesque, the Sunday supplement, the comic +papers, have marked him a fair target for ridicule. Perhaps one should +know him in his overalled, stubble-bearded days, with the rich black +loam of the Mississippi bottomlands clinging to his boots. +</P> + +<P> +At twenty-five, given a tasseled cap, doublet and hose, and a long, +slim pipe, Ben Westerveld would have been the prototype of one of those +rollicking, lusty young mynheers that laugh out at you from a Frans +Hals canvas. A roguish fellow with a merry eye; red-cheeked, vigorous. +A serious mouth, though, and great sweetness of expression. As he grew +older, the seriousness crept up and up and almost entirely obliterated +the roguishness. By the time the life of ease claimed him, even the +ghost of that ruddy wight of boyhood had vanished. +</P> + +<P> +The Westerveld ancestry was as Dutch as the name. It had been hundreds +of years since the first Westervelds came to America, and they had +married and intermarried until the original Holland strain had almost +entirely disappeared. They had drifted to southern Illinois by one of +those slow processes of migration and had settled in Calhoun County, +then almost a wilderness, but magnificent with its rolling hills, +majestic rivers, and gold-and-purple distances. But to the practical +Westerveld mind, hills and rivers and purple haze existed only in their +relation to crops and weather. Ben, though, had a way of turning his +face up to the sky sometimes, and it was not to scan the heavens for +clouds. You saw him leaning on the plow handle to watch the whirring +flight of a partridge across the meadow. He liked farming. Even the +drudgery of it never made him grumble. He was a natural farmer as men +are natural mechanics or musicians or salesmen. Things grew for him. +He seemed instinctively to know facts about the kin ship of soil and +seed that other men had to learn from books or experience. It grew to +be a saying in that section that "Ben Westerveld could grow a crop on +rock." +</P> + +<P> +At picnics and neighborhood frolics Ben could throw farther and run +faster and pull harder than any of the other farmer boys who took part +in the rough games. And he could pick up a girl with one hand and hold +her at arm's length while she shrieked with pretended fear and real +ecstasy. The girls all liked Ben. There was that almost primitive +strength which appealed to the untamed in them as his gentleness +appealed to their softer side. He liked the girls, too, and could have +had his pick of them. He teased them all, took them buggy riding, +beaued them about to neighbor-hood parties. But by the time he was +twenty-five the thing had narrowed down to the Byers girl on the farm +adjoining Westerveld's. There was what the neighbors called an +understanding, though perhaps he had never actually asked the Byers +girl to marry him. You saw him going down the road toward the Byers +place four nights out of the seven. He had a quick, light step at +variance with his sturdy build, and very different from the heavy, +slouching gait of the work-weary farmer. He had a habit of carrying in +his hand a little twig or switch cut from a tree. This he would twirl +blithely as he walked along. The switch and the twirl represented just +so much energy and animal spirits. He never so much as flicked a +dandelion head with it. +</P> + +<P> +An inarticulate sort of thing, that courtship. +</P> + +<P> +"Hello, Emma." +</P> + +<P> +"How do, Ben." +</P> + +<P> +"Thought you might like to walk a piece down the road. They got a calf +at Aug Tietjens' with five legs." +</P> + +<P> +"I heard. I'd just as lief walk a little piece. I'm kind of beat, +though. We've got the threshers day after tomorrow. We've been +cooking up." +</P> + +<P> +Beneath Ben's bonhomie and roguishness there was much shyness. The two +would plod along the road together in a sort of blissful agony of +embarrassment. The neighbors were right in their surmise that there +was no definite understanding between them. But the thing was settled +in the minds of both. Once Ben had said: "Pop says I can have the +north eighty on easy payments if—when——" +</P> + +<P> +Emma Byers had flushed up brightly, but had answered equably: "That's a +fine piece. Your pop is an awful good man." +</P> + +<P> +The stolid exteriors of these two hid much that was fine and forceful. +Emma Byers' thoughtful forehead and intelligent eyes would have +revealed that in her. Her mother was dead. She kept house for her +father and brother. She was known as "that smart Byers girl." Her +butter and eggs and garden stuff brought higher prices at Commercial, +twelve miles away, than did any other's in the district. She was not a +pretty girl, according to the local standards, but there was about her, +even at twenty-two, a clear-headedness and a restful serenity that +promised well for Ben Westerveld's future happiness. +</P> + +<P> +But Ben Westerveld's future was not to lie in Emma Byers' capable +hands. He knew that as soon as he saw Bella Huckins. Bella Huckins +was the daughter of old "Red Front" Huckins, who ran the saloon of that +cheerful name in Commercial. Bella had elected to teach school, not +from any bent toward learning but because teaching appealed to her as +being a rather elegant occupation. The Huckins family was not elegant. +In that day a year or two of teaching in a country school took the +place of the present-day normal-school diploma. Bella had an eye on +St. Louis, forty miles from the town of Commercial. So she used the +country school as a step toward her ultimate goal, though she hated the +country and dreaded her apprenticeship. +</P> + +<P> +"I'll get a beau," she said, "who'll take me driving and around. And +Saturdays and Sundays I can come to town." +</P> + +<P> +The first time Ben Westerveld saw her she was coming down the road +toward him in her tight-fitting black alpaca dress. The sunset was +behind her. Her hair was very golden. In a day of tiny waists hers +could have been spanned by Ben Westerveld's two hands. He discovered +that later. Just now he thought he had never seen anything so +fairylike and dainty, though he did not put it that way. Ben was not +glib of thought or speech. +</P> + +<P> +He knew at once this was the new schoolteacher. He had heard of her +coming, though at the time the conversation had interested him not at +all. Bella knew who he was, too. She had learned the name and history +of every eligible young man in the district two days after her arrival. +That was due partly to her own bold curiosity and partly to the fact +that she was boarding with the Widow Becker, the most notorious gossip +in the county. In Bella's mental list of the neighborhood swains Ben +Westerveld already occupied a position at the top of the column. +</P> + +<P> +He felt his face redden as they approached each other. To hide his +embarrassment he swung his little hickory switch gaily and called to +his dog Dunder, who was nosing about by the roadside. Dunder bounded +forward, spied the newcomer, and leaped toward her playfully and with +natural canine curiosity. +</P> + +<P> +Bella screamed. She screamed and ran to Ben and clung to him, clasping +her hands about his arm. Ben lifted the hickory switch in his free +hand and struck Dunder a sharp cut with it. It was the first time in +his life that he had done such a thing. If he had had a sane moment +from that time until the day he married Bella Huckins, he never would +have forgotten the dumb hurt in Dunder's stricken eyes and shrinking, +quivering body. +</P> + +<P> +Bella screamed again, still clinging to him. Ben was saying: "He won't +hurt you. He won't hurt you," meanwhile patting her shoulder +reassuringly. He looked down at her pale face. She was so slight, so +childlike, so apparently different from the sturdy country girls. +From—well, from the girls he knew. Her helplessness, her utter +femininity, appealed to all that was masculine in him. Bella, the +experienced, clinging to him, felt herself swept from head to foot by a +queer electric tingling that was very pleasant but that still had in it +something of the sensation of a wholesale bumping of one's crazy bone. +If she had been anything but a stupid little flirt, she would have +realized that here was a specimen of the virile male with which she +could not trifle. She glanced up at him now, smiling faintly. "My, I +was scared!" She stepped away from him a little—very little. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +"Aw, he wouldn't hurt a flea." +</P> + +<P> +But Bella looked over her shoulder fearfully to where Dunder stood by +the roadside, regarding Ben with a look of uncertainty. He still +thought that perhaps this was a new game. Not a game that he cared +for, but still one to be played if his master fancied it. Ben stooped, +picked up a stone, and threw it at Dunder, striking him in the flank. +</P> + +<P> +"Go on home!" he commanded sternly. "Go home!" He started toward the +dog with a well-feigned gesture of menace. Dunder, with a low howl, +put his tail between his legs and loped off home, a disillusioned dog. +</P> + +<P> +Bella stood looking up at Ben. Ben looked down at her. "You're the +new teacher, ain't you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. I guess you must think I'm a fool, going on like a baby about +that dog." +</P> + +<P> +"Most girls would be scared of him if they didn't know he wouldn't hurt +nobody. He's pretty big." +</P> + +<P> +He paused a moment, awkwardly. "My name's Ben Westerveld." +</P> + +<P> +"Pleased to meet you," said Bella. "Which way was you going? There's a +dog down at Tietjens' that's enough to scare anybody. He looks like a +pony, he's so big." +</P> + +<P> +"I forgot something at the school this afternoon, and I was walking +over to get it." Which was a lie. "I hope it won't get dark before I +get there. You were going the other way, weren't you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I wasn't going no place in particular. I'll be pleased to keep +you company down to the school and back." He was surprised at his own +sudden masterfulness. +</P> + +<P> +They set off together, chatting as freely as if they had known one +another for years. Ben had been on his way to the Byers farm, as +usual. The Byers farm and Emma Byers passed out of his mind as +completely as if they had been whisked away on a magic rug. +</P> + +<P> +Bella Huckins had never meant to marry him. She hated farm life. +</P> + +<P> +She was contemptuous of farmer folk. She loathed cooking and drudgery. +The Huckinses lived above the saloon in Commercial and Mrs. Huckins was +always boiling ham and tongue and cooking pigs' feet and shredding +cabbage for slaw, all these edibles being destined for the free-lunch +counter downstairs. Bella had early made up her mind that there should +be no boiling and stewing and frying in her life. Whenever she could +find an excuse she loitered about the saloon. There she found life and +talk and color. Old Red Front Huckins used to chase her away, but she +always turned up again, somehow, with a dish for the lunch counter or +with an armful of clean towels. +</P> + +<P> +Ben Westerveld never said clearly to himself, "I want to marry Bella." +He never dared meet the thought. He intended honestly to marry Emma +Byers. But this thing was too strong for him. As for Bella, she +laughed at him, but she was scared, too. They both fought the thing, +she selfishly, he unselfishly, for the Byers girl, with her clear, calm +eyes and her dependable ways, was heavy on his heart. Ben's appeal for +Bella was merely that of the magnetic male. She never once thought of +his finer qualities. Her appeal for him was that of the frail and +alluring woman. But in the end they married. The neighborhood was +rocked with surprise. +</P> + +<P> +Usually in a courtship it is the male who assumes the bright colors of +pretense in order to attract a mate. But Ben Westerveld had been too +honest to be anything but himself. He was so honest and fundamentally +truthful that he refused at first to allow himself to believe that this +slovenly shrew was the fragile and exquisite creature he had married. +He had the habit of personal cleanliness, had Ben, in a day when +tubbing was a ceremony in an environment that made bodily nicety +difficult. He discovered that Bella almost never washed and that her +appearance of fragrant immaculateness, when dressed, was due to a +natural clearness of skin and eye, and to the way her blond hair swept +away in a clean line from her forehead. For the rest, she was a +slattern, with a vocabulary of invective that would have been a credit +to any of the habitues of old Red Front Huckins' bar. +</P> + +<P> +They had three children, a girl and two boys. Ben Westerveld prospered +in spite of his wife. As the years went on he added eighty acres here, +eighty acres there, until his land swept down to the very banks of the +Mississippi. There is no doubt that she hindered him greatly, but he +was too expert a farmer to fail. At threshing time the crew looked +forward to working for Ben, the farmer, and dreaded the meals prepared +by Bella, his wife. She was notoriously the worst cook and housekeeper +in the county. And all through the years, in trouble and in happiness, +her plaint was the same—"If I'd thought I was going to stick down on a +farm all my life, slavin' for a pack of menfolks day and night, I'd +rather have died. Might as well be dead as rottin' here." +</P> + +<P> +Her schoolteacher English had early reverted. Her speech was as +slovenly as her dress. She grew stout, too, and unwieldy, and her skin +coarsened from lack of care and from overeating. And in her children's +ears she continually dinned a hatred of farm life and farming. "You +can get away from it," she counseled her daughter, Minnie. "Don't you +be a rube like your pa," she cautioned John, the older boy. And they +profited by her advice. Minnie went to work in Commercial when she was +seventeen, an overdeveloped girl with an inordinate love of cheap +finery. At twenty, she married an artisan, a surly fellow with roving +tendencies. They moved from town to town. He never stuck long at one +job. John, the older boy, was as much his mother's son as Minnie was +her mother's daughter. Restless, dissatisfied, emptyheaded, he was the +despair of his father. He drove the farm horses as if they were +racers, lashing them up hill and down dale. He was forever lounging +off to the village or wheedling his mother for money to take him to +Commercial. It was before the day of the ubiquitous automobile. Given +one of those present adjuncts to farm life, John would have ended his +career much earlier. As it was, they found him lying by the roadside +at dawn one morning after the horses had trotted into the yard with the +wreck of the buggy bumping the road behind them. He had stolen the +horses out of the barn after the help was asleep, had led them +stealthily down the road, and then had whirled off to a rendezvous of +his own in town. The fall from the buggy might not have hurt him, but +evidently he had been dragged almost a mile before his battered body +became somehow disentangled from the splintered wood and the reins. +</P> + +<P> +That horror might have served to bring Ben Westerveld and his wife +together, but it did not. It only increased her bitterness and her +hatred of the locality and the life. +</P> + +<P> +"I hope you're good an' satisfied now," she repeated in endless +reproach. "I hope you're good an' satisfied. You was bound you'd make +a farmer out of him, an' now you finished the job. You better try your +hand at Dike now for a change." +</P> + +<P> +Dike was young Ben, sixteen; and old Ben had no need to try his hand at +him. Young Ben was a born farmer, as was his father. He had come +honestly by his nickname. In face, figure, expression, and manner he +was a five-hundred-year throwback to his Holland ancestors. +Apple-cheeked, stocky, merry of eye, and somewhat phlegmatic. When, at +school, they had come to the story of the Dutch boy who saved his town +from flood by thrusting his finger into the hole in the dike and +holding it there until help came, the class, after one look at the +accompanying picture in the reader, dubbed young Ben "Dike" Westerveld. +And Dike he remained. +</P> + +<P> +Between Dike and his father there was a strong but unspoken feeling. +The boy was cropwise, as his father had been at his age. On Sundays +you might see the two walking about the farm, looking at the +pigs—great black fellows worth almost their weight in silver; eying +the stock; speculating on the winter wheat showing dark green in April, +with rich patches that were almost black. Young Dike smoked a solemn +and judicious pipe, spat expertly, and voiced the opinion that the +winter wheat was a fine prospect Ben Westerveld, listening tolerantly +to the boy's opinions, felt a great surge of joy that he did not show. +Here, at last, was compensation for all the misery and sordidness and +bitter disappointment of his married life. +</P> + +<P> +That married life had endured now for more than thirty years. Ben +Westerveld still walked with a light, quick step—for his years. The +stocky, broad-shouldered figure was a little shrunken. He was as neat +and clean at fifty-five as he had been at twenty-five-a habit that, on +a farm, is fraught with difficulties. The community knew and respected +him. He was a man of standing. When he drove into town on a bright +winter morning, in his big sheepskin coat and his shaggy cap and his +great boots, and entered the First National Bank, even Shumway, the +cashier, would look up from his desk to say: +</P> + +<P> +"Hello, Westerveld! Hello! Well, how goes it?" +</P> + +<P> +When Shumway greeted a farmer in that way you knew that there were no +unpaid notes to his discredit. +</P> + +<P> +All about Ben Westerveld stretched the fruit of his toil; the work of +his hands. Orchards, fields, cattle, barns, silos. All these things +were dependent on him for their future well-being—on him and on Dike +after him. His days were full and running over. Much of the work was +drudgery; most of it was backbreaking and laborious. But it was his +place. It was his reason for being. And he felt that the reason was +good, though he never put that thought into words, mental or spoken. +He only knew that he was part of the great scheme of things and that he +was functioning ably. If he had expressed himself at all, he might +have said: +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I got my work cut out for me, and I do it, and do it right." +</P> + +<P> +There was a tractor, now, of course; and a sturdy, middle-class +automobile in which Bella lolled red-faced when they drove into town. +</P> + +<P> +As Ben Westerveld had prospered, his shrewish wife had reaped her +benefits. Ben was not the selfish type of farmer who insists on +twentieth-century farm implements and medieval household equipment. He +had added a bedroom here, a cool summer kitchen there, an icehouse, a +commodious porch, a washing machine, even a bathroom. But Bella +remained unplacated. Her face was set toward the city. And slowly, +surely, the effect of thirty years of nagging was beginning to tell on +Ben Westerveld. He was the finer metal, but she was the heavier, the +coarser. She beat him and molded him as iron beats upon gold. +</P> + +<P> +Minnie was living in Chicago now—a good-natured creature, but slack +like her mother. Her surly husband was still talking of his rights and +crying down with the rich. They had two children. +</P> + +<P> +Minnie wrote of them, and of the delights of city life. Movies every +night. Halsted Street just around the corner. The big stores. State +Street. The el took you downtown in no time. Something going on all +the while. Bella Westerveld, after one of those letters, was more than +a chronic shrew; she became a terrible termagant. +</P> + +<P> +When Ben Westerveld decided to concentrate on hogs and wheat he didn't +dream that a world would be clamoring for hogs and wheat for four long +years. When the time came, he had them, and sold them fabulously. But +wheat and hogs and markets became negligible things on the day that +Dike, with seven other farm boys from the district, left for the +nearest training camp that was to fit them for France and war. +</P> + +<P> +Bella made the real fuss, wailing and mouthing and going into +hysterics. Old Ben took it like a stoic. He drove the boy to town that +day. When the train pulled out, you might have seen, if you had looked +close, how the veins and cords swelled in the lean brown neck above the +clean blue shirt. But that was all. As the weeks went on, the quick, +light step began to lag a little. He had lost more than a son; his +right-hand helper was gone. There were no farm helpers to be had. Old +Ben couldn't do it all. A touch of rheumatism that winter half +crippled him for eight weeks. Bella's voice seemed never to stop its +plaint. +</P> + +<P> +"There ain't no sense in you trying to make out alone. Next thing +you'll die on me, and then I'll have the whole shebang on my hands." +At that he eyed her dumbly from his chair by the stove. His resistance +was wearing down. He knew it. He wasn't dying. He knew that, too. +But something in him was. Something that had resisted her all these +years. Something that had made him master and superior in spite of +everything. +</P> + +<P> +In those days of illness, as he sat by the stove, the memory of Emma +Byers came to him often. She had left that district twenty-eight years +ago, and had married, and lived in Chicago somewhere, he had heard, and +was prosperous. He wasted no time in idle regrets. He had been a +fool, and he paid the price of fools. Bella, slamming noisily about +the room, never suspected the presence in the untidy place of a third +person—a sturdy girl of twenty-two or -three, very wholesome to look +at, and with honest, intelligent eyes and a serene brow. +</P> + +<P> +"It'll get worse an' worse all the time," Bella's whine went on. +"Everybody says the war'll last prob'ly for years an' years. You can't +make out alone. Everything's goin' to rack and ruin. You could rent +out the farm for a year, on trial. The Burdickers'd take it, and glad. +They got those three strappin' louts that's all flat-footed or +slab-sided or cross-eyed or somethin', and no good for the army. Let +them run it on shares. Maybe they'll even buy, if things turn out. +Maybe Dike'll never come b——" +</P> + +<P> +But at the look on his face then, and at the low growl of unaccustomed +rage that broke from him, even she ceased her clatter. +</P> + +<P> +They moved to Chicago in the early spring. The look that had been on +Ben Westerveld's face when he drove Dike to the train that carried him +to camp was stamped there again—indelibly this time, it seemed. +Calhoun County in the spring has much the beauty of California. There +is a peculiar golden light about it, and the hills are a purplish haze. +Ben Westerveld, walking down his path to the gate, was more poignantly +dramatic than any figure in a rural play. He did not turn to look +back, though, as they do in a play. He dared not. +</P> + +<P> +They rented a flat in Englewood, Chicago, a block from Minnie's. Bella +was almost amiable these days. She took to city life as though the +past thirty years had never been. White kid shoes, delicatessen +stores, the movies, the haggling with peddlers, the crowds, the +crashing noise, the cramped, unnatural mode of living—necessitated by +a four-room flat—all these urban adjuncts seemed as natural to her as +though she had been bred in the midst of them. +</P> + +<P> +She and Minnie used to spend whole days in useless shopping. Theirs was +a respectable neighborhood of well-paid artisans, bookkeepers, and +small shopkeepers. The women did their own housework in drab garments +and soiled boudoir caps that hid a multitude of unkempt heads. They +seemed to find a great deal of time for amiable, empty gabbling From +seven to four you might see a pair of boudoir caps leaning from +opposite bedroom windows, conversing across back porches, pausing in +the task of sweeping front steps, standing at a street corner, laden +with grocery bundles. Minnie wasted hours in what she called "running +over to Ma's for a minute." The two quarreled a great deal, being so +nearly of a nature. But the very qualities that combated each other +seemed, by some strange chemical process, to bring them together as +well. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm going downtown today to do a little shopping," Minnie would say. +"Do you want to come along, Ma?" +</P> + +<P> +"What you got to get?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I thought I'd look at a couple little dresses for Pearlie." +</P> + +<P> +"When I was your age I made every stitch you wore." +</P> + +<P> +"Yeh, I bet they looked like it, too. This ain't the farm. I got all +I can do to tend to the house, without sewing." +</P> + +<P> +"I did it. I did the housework and the sewin' and cookin', an' +besides——" +</P> + +<P> +"A swell lot of housekeepin' you did. You don't need to tell me." +</P> + +<P> +The bickering grew to a quarrel. But in the end they took the downtown +el together. You saw them, flushed of face, with twitching fingers, +indulging in a sort of orgy of dime spending in the five-and-ten-cent +store on the wrong side of State Street. +</P> + +<P> +They pawed over bolts of cheap lace and bits of stuff in the stifling +air of the crowded place. They would buy a sack of salted peanuts from +the great mound in the glass case, or a bag of the greasy pink candy +piled in profusion on the counter, and this they would munch as they +went. +</P> + +<P> +They came home late, fagged and irritable, and supplemented their +hurried dinner with hastily bought food from the near-by delicatessen. +</P> + +<P> +Thus ran the life of ease for Ben Westerveld, retired farmer. And so +now he lay impatiently in bed, rubbing a nervous forefinger over the +edge of the sheet and saying to himself that, well, here was another +day. What day was it? L'see now. Yesterday was—yesterday. A little +feeling of panic came over him. He couldn't remember what yesterday +had been. He counted back laboriously and decided that today must be +Thursday. Not that it made any difference. +</P> + +<P> +They had lived in the city almost a year now. But the city had not +digested Ben. He was a leathery morsel that could not be assimilated. +There he stuck in Chicago's crop, contributing nothing, gaining +nothing. A rube in a comic collar ambling aimlessly about Halsted +Street or State downtown. You saw him conversing hungrily with the +gritty and taciturn Swede who was janitor for the block of red-brick +flats. Ben used to follow him around pathetically, engaging him in the +talk of the day. Ben knew no men except the surly Gus, Minnie's +husband. Gus, the firebrand, thought Ben hardly worthy of his +contempt. If Ben thought, sometimes, of the respect with which he had +always been greeted when he clumped down the main street of +Commercial—if he thought of how the farmers for miles around had come +to him for expert advice and opinion—he said nothing. +</P> + +<P> +Sometimes the janitor graciously allowed Ben to attend to the furnace +of the building in which he lived. He took out ashes, shoveled coal. +He tinkered and rattled and shook things. You heard him shoveling and +scraping down there, and smelled the acrid odor of his pipe. It gave +him something to do. He would emerge sooty and almost happy. +</P> + +<P> +"You been monkeying with that furnace again!" Bella would scold. "If +you want something to do, why don't you plant a garden in the back yard +and grow something? You was crazy about it on the farm." +</P> + +<P> +His face flushed a slow, dull red at that. He could not explain to her +that he lost no dignity in his own eyes in fussing about an inadequate +little furnace, but that self-respect would not allow him to stoop to +gardening—he who had reigned over six hundred acres of bountiful soil. +</P> + +<P> +On winter afternoons you saw him sometimes at the movies, whiling away +one of his many idle hours in the dim, close-smelling atmosphere of the +place. Tokyo and Rome and Gallipoli came to him. He saw beautiful +tiger-women twining fair, false arms about the stalwart but yielding +forms of young men with cleft chins. He was only mildly interested. He +talked to anyone who would talk to him, though he was naturally a shy +man. He talked to the barber, the grocer, the druggist, the streetcar +conductor, the milkman, the iceman. But the price of wheat did not +interest these gentlemen. They did not know that the price of wheat +was the most vital topic of conversation in the world. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, now," he would say, "you take this year's wheat crop, with about +917,000,000 bushels of wheat harvested, why, that's what's going to win +the war! Yes, sirree! No wheat, no winning, that's what I say." +</P> + +<P> +"Ya-as, it is!" the city men would scoff. But the queer part of it is +that Farmer Ben was right. +</P> + +<P> +Minnie got into the habit of using him as a sort of nursemaid. It gave +her many hours of freedom for gadding and gossiping. +</P> + +<P> +"Pa, will you look after Pearlie for a little while this morning? I +got to run downtown to match something and she gets so tired and +mean-acting if I take her along. Ma's going with me." +</P> + +<P> +He loved the feel of Pearlie's small, velvet-soft hand in his big fist. +He called her "little feller," and fed her forbidden dainties. His big +brown fingers were miraculously deft at buttoning and unbuttoning her +tiny garments, and wiping her soft lips, and performing a hundred +tender offices. He was playing a sort of game with himself, pretending +this was Dike become a baby again. Once the pair managed to get over +to Lincoln Park, where they spent a glorious day looking at the +animals, eating popcorn, and riding on the miniature railway. +</P> + +<P> +They returned, tired, dusty, and happy, to a double tirade. +</P> + +<P> +Bella engaged in a great deal of what she called worrying about Dike. +Ben spoke of him seldom, but the boy was always present in his +thoughts. They had written him of their move, but he had not seemed to +get the impression of its permanence. His letters indicated that he +thought they were visiting Minnie, or taking a vacation in the city. +Dike's letters were few. Ben treasured them, and read and reread them. +When the Armistice news came, and with it the possibility of Dike's +return, Ben tried to fancy him fitting into the life of the city. And +his whole being revolted at the thought. +</P> + +<P> +He saw the pimply-faced, sallow youths standing at the corner of +Halsted and Sixty-third, spitting languidly and handling their limp +cigarettes with an amazing labial dexterity. Their conversation was +low-voiced, sinister, and terse, and their eyes narrowed as they +watched the overdressed, scarlet-lipped girls go by. A great fear +clutched at Ben Westerveld's heart. +</P> + +<P> +The lack of exercise and manual labor began to tell on Ben. He did not +grow fat from idleness. Instead his skin seemed to sag and hang on his +frame, like a garment grown too large for him. He walked a great deal. +Perhaps that had something to do with it. He tramped miles of city +pavements. He was a very lonely man. And then, one day, quite by +accident, he came upon South Water Street. Came upon it, stared at it +as a water-crazed traveler in a desert gazes upon the spring in the +oasis, and drank from it, thirstily, gratefully. +</P> + +<P> +South Water Street feeds Chicago. Into that close-packed thoroughfare +come daily the fruits and vegetables that will supply a million tables. +Ben had heard of it, vaguely, but had never attempted to find it. Now +he stumbled upon it and, standing there, felt at home in Chicago for +the first time in more than a year. He saw ruddy men walking about in +overalls and carrying whips in their hands—wagon whips, actually. He +hadn't seen men like that since he had left the farm. The sight of +them sent a great pang of homesickness through him. His hand reached +out and he ran an accustomed finger over the potatoes in a barrel on +the walk. His fingers lingered and gripped them, and passed over them +lovingly. +</P> + +<P> +At the contact something within him that had been tight and hungry +seemed to relax, satisfied. It was his nerves, feeding on those +familiar things for which they had been starving. +</P> + +<P> +He walked up one side and down the other. Crates of lettuce, bins of +onions, barrels of apples. Such vegetables! The radishes were scarlet +globes. Each carrot was a spear of pure orange. The green and purple +of fancy asparagus held his expert eye. The cauliflower was like a +great bouquet, fit for a bride; the cabbages glowed like jade. +</P> + +<P> +And the men! He hadn't dreamed there were men like that in this big, +shiny-shod, stiffly laundered, white-collared city. Here were rufous +men in overalls—worn, shabby, easy-looking overalls and old blue +shirts, and mashed hats worn at a careless angle. Men, jovial, +good-natured, with clear eyes, and having about them some of the +revivifying freshness and wholesomeness of the products they handled. +</P> + +<P> +Ben Westerveld breathed in the strong, pungent smell of onions and +garlic and of the earth that seemed to cling to the vegetables, washed +clean though they were. He breathed deeply, gratefully, and felt +strangely at peace. +</P> + +<P> +It was a busy street. A hundred times he had to step quickly to avoid +a hand truck, or dray, or laden wagon. And yet the busy men found time +to greet him friendlily. "H'are you!" they said genially. "H'are you +this morning!" +</P> + +<P> +He was marketwise enough to know that some of these busy people were +commission men, and some grocers, and some buyers, stewards, clerks. +It was a womanless thoroughfare. At the busiest business corner, +though, in front of the largest commission house on the street, he saw +a woman. Evidently she was transacting business, too, for he saw the +men bringing boxes of berries and vegetables for her inspection. A +woman in a plain blue skirt and a small black hat. +</P> + +<P> +A funny job for a woman. What weren't they mixing into nowadays! +</P> + +<P> +He turned sidewise in the narrow, crowded space in order to pass her +little group. And one of the men—a red-cheeked, merry-looking young +fellow in a white apron—laughed and said: "Well, Emma, you win. When +it comes to driving a bargain with you, I quit. It can't be did!" +</P> + +<P> +Even then he didn't know her. He did not dream that this straight, +slim, tailored, white-haired woman, bargaining so shrewdly with these +men, was the Emma Byers of the old days. But he stopped there a +moment, in frank curiosity, and the woman looked up. She looked up, +and he knew those intelligent eyes and that serene brow. He had +carried the picture of them in his mind for more than thirty years, so +it was not so surprising. +</P> + +<P> +He did not hesitate. He might have if he had thought a moment, but he +acted automatically. He stood before her. "You're Emma Byers, ain't +you?" +</P> + +<P> +She did not know him at first. Small blame to her, so completely had +the roguish, vigorous boy vanished in this sallow, sad-eyed old man. +Then: "Why, Ben!" she said quietly. And there was pity in her voice, +though she did not mean to have it there. She put out one hand—that +capable, reassuring hand—and gripped his and held it a moment. It was +queer and significant that it should be his hand that lay within hers. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, what in all get-out are you doing around here, Emma?" He tried +to be jovial and easy. She turned to the aproned man with whom she had +been dealing and smiled. +</P> + +<P> +"What am I doing here, Joe?" +</P> + +<P> +Joe grinned, waggishly. "Nothin'; only beatin' every man on the street +at his own game, and makin' so much money that——" +</P> + +<P> +But she stopped him there. "I guess I'll do my own explaining." She +turned to Ben again. "And what are you doing here in Chicago?" +</P> + +<P> +Ben passed a faltering hand across his chin. "Me? Well, I'm—we're +living here, I s'pose. Livin' here." +</P> + +<P> +She glanced at him sharply. "Left the farm, Ben?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"Wait a minute." She concluded her business with Joe; finished it +briskly and to her own satisfaction. With her bright brown eyes and +her alert manner and her quick little movements she made you think of a +wren—a businesslike little wren—a very early wren that is highly +versed in the worm-catching way. +</P> + +<P> +At her next utterance he was startled but game. +</P> + +<P> +"Have you had your lunch?" +</P> + +<P> +"Why, no; I——" +</P> + +<P> +"I've been down here since seven, and I'm starved. Let's go and have a +bite at the little Greek restaurant around the corner. A cup of coffee +and a sandwich, anyway." +</P> + +<P> +Seated at the bare little table, she surveyed him with those +intelligent, understanding, kindly eyes, and he felt the years slip +from him. They were walking down the country road together, and she +was listening quietly and advising him. +</P> + +<P> +She interrogated him gently. But something of his old masterfulness +came back to him. "No, I want to know about you first. I can't get +the rights of it, you being here on South Water, tradin' and all." +</P> + +<P> +So she told him briefly. She was in the commission business. +Successful. She bought, too, for such hotels as the Blackstone and the +Congress, and for half a dozen big restaurants. She gave him bare +facts, but he was shrewd enough and sufficiently versed in business to +know that here was a woman of established commercial position. +</P> + +<P> +"But how does it happen you're keepin' it up, Emma, all this time? +Why, you must be anyway—it ain't that you look it—but——" He +floundered, stopped. +</P> + +<P> +She laughed. "That's all right, Ben. I couldn't fool you on that. +And I'm working because it keeps me happy. I want to work till I die. +My children keep telling me to stop, but I know better than that. I'm +not going to rust out. I want to wear out." Then, at an unspoken +question in his eyes: "He's dead. These twenty years. It was hard at +first, when the children were small. But I knew garden stuff if I +didn't know anything else. It came natural to me. That's all." +</P> + +<P> +So then she got his story from him bit by bit. He spoke of the farm +and of Dike, and there was a great pride in his voice. He spoke of +Bella, and the son who had been killed, and of Minnie. And the words +came falteringly. He was trying to hide something, and he was not made +for deception. When he had finished: +</P> + +<P> +"Now, listen, Ben. You go back to your farm." +</P> + +<P> +"I can't. She—I can't." +</P> + +<P> +She leaned forward, earnestly. "You go back to the farm." +</P> + +<P> +He turned up his palms with a little gesture of defeat. "I can't." +</P> + +<P> +"You can't stay here. It's killing you. It's poisoning you. Did you +ever hear of toxins? That means poisons, and you're poisoning +yourself. You'll die of it. You've got another twenty years of work +in you. What's ailing you? You go back to your wheat and your apples +and your hogs. There isn't a bigger job in the world than that." +</P> + +<P> +For a moment his face took on a glow from the warmth of her own +inspiring personality. But it died again. When they rose to go, his +shoulders drooped again, his muscles sagged. At the doorway he paused +a moment, awkward in farewell. He blushed a little, stammered. +</P> + +<P> +"Emma—I always wanted to tell you. God knows it was luck for you the +way it turned out—but I always wanted to——" +</P> + +<P> +She took his hand again in her firm grip at that, and her kindly, +bright brown eyes were on him. "I never held it against you, Ben. I +had to live a long time to understand it. But I never held a grudge. +It just wasn't to be, I suppose. But listen to me, Ben. You do as I +tell you. You go back to your wheat and your apples and your hogs. +There isn't a bigger man-size job in the world. It's where you belong." +</P> + +<P> +Unconsciously his shoulders straightened again. Again they sagged. +And so they parted, the two. +</P> + +<P> +He must have walked almost all the long way home, through miles and +miles of city streets. He must have lost his way, too, for when he +looked up at a corner street sign it was an unfamiliar one. +</P> + +<P> +So he floundered about, asked his way, was misdirected. He took the +right streetcar at last and got off at his own corner at seven o'clock, +or later. He was in for a scolding, he knew. +</P> + +<P> +But when he came to his own doorway he knew that even his tardiness +could not justify the bedlam of sound that came from within. +High-pitched voices. Bella's above all the rest, of course, but there +was Minnie's too, and Gus's growl, and Pearlie's treble, and the boy +Ed's and—— +</P> + +<P> +At the other voice his hand trembled so that the knob rattled in the +door, and he could not turn it. But finally he did turn it, and +stumbled in, breathing hard. And that other voice was Dike's. +</P> + +<P> +He must have just arrived. The flurry of explanation was still in +progress. Dike's knapsack was still on his back, and his canteen at his +hip, his helmet slung over his shoulder. A brown, hard, glowing Dike, +strangely tall and handsome and older, too. Older. +</P> + +<P> +All this Ben saw in less than one electric second. Then he had the +boy's two shoulders in his hands, and Dike was saying, "Hello, Pop." +</P> + +<P> +Of the roomful, Dike and old Ben were the only quiet ones. The others +were taking up the explanation and going over it again and again, and +marveling, and asking questions. +</P> + +<P> +"He come in to—what's that place, Dike?—Hoboken—yesterday only. An' +he sent a dispatch to the farm. Can't you read our letters, Dike, that +you didn't know we was here now? And then he's only got an hour more. +They got to go to Camp Grant to be, now, demobilized. He came out to +Minnie's on a chance. Ain't he big!" +</P> + +<P> +But Dike and his father were looking at each other quietly. Then Dike +spoke. His speech was not phlegmatic, as of old. He had a new clipped +way of uttering his words: +</P> + +<P> +"Say, Pop, you ought to see the way the Frenchies farm! They got about +an acre each, and, say, they use every inch of it. If they's a little +dirt blows into the crotch of a tree, they plant a crop in there. I +never seen nothin' like it. Say, we waste enough stuff over here to +keep that whole country in food for a hundred years. Yessir. And +tools! Outta the ark, believe me. If they ever saw our tractor, they'd +think it was the Germans comin' back. But they're smart at that. I +picked up a lot of new ideas over there. And you ought to see the old +birds—womenfolks and men about eighty years old—runnin' everything on +the farm. They had to. I learned somethin' off them about farmin'." +</P> + +<P> +"Forget the farm," said Minnie. +</P> + +<P> +"Yeh," echoed Gus, "forget the farm stuff. I can get you a job here +out at the works for four-fifty a day, and six when you learn it right." +</P> + +<P> +Dike looked from one to the other, alarm and unbelief on his face. +"What d'you mean, a job? Who wants a job! What you all——" +</P> + +<P> +Bella laughed jovially. "F'r heaven's sakes, Dike, wake up! We're +livin' here. This is our place. We ain't rubes no more." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Dike turned to his father. A little stunned look crept into his face. +A stricken, pitiful look. There was something about it that suddenly +made old Ben think of Pearlie when she had been slapped by her +quick-tempered mother. +</P> + +<P> +"But I been countin' on the farm," he said miserably. "I just been +livin' on the idea of comin' back to it. Why, I—— The streets here, +they're all narrow and choked up. I been countin' on the farm. I want +to go back and be a farmer. I want——" +</P> + +<P> +And then Ben Westerveld spoke. A new Ben Westerveld—the old Ben +Westerveld. Ben Westerveld, the farmer, the monarch over six hundred +acres of bounteous bottomland. +</P> + +<P> +"That's all right, Dike," he said. "You're going back. So'm I. I've +got another twenty years of work in me. We're going back to the farm." +</P> + +<P> +Bella turned on him, a wildcat. "We ain't! Not me! We ain't! I'm not +agoin' back to the farm." +</P> + +<P> +But Ben Westerveld was master again in his own house. "You're goin' +back, Bella," he said quietly, "an' things are goin' to be different. +You're goin' to run the house the way I say, or I'll know why. If you +can't do it, I'll get them in that can. An' me and Dike, we're goin' +back to our wheat and our apples and our hogs. Yessir! There ain't a +bigger man-size job in the world." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="morso"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Un Morso doo Pang [1919] +</H3> + +<P> +When you are twenty you do not patronize sunsets unless you are +unhappy, in love, or both. Tessie Golden was both. Six months ago a +sunset had wrung from her only a casual tribute, such as: "My! Look how +red the sky is!" delivered as unemotionally as a weather bulletin. +</P> + +<P> +Tessie Golden sat on the top step of the back porch now, a slim, inert +heap in a cotton house coat and scuffed slippers. Her head was propped +wearily against the porch post. Her hands were limp in her lap. Her +face was turned toward the west, where shone that mingling of orange +and rose known as salmon pink. But no answering radiance in the girl's +face met the glow in the Wisconsin sky. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Saturday night, after supper in Chippewa, Wisconsin, Tessie Golden of +the presunset era would have been calling from her bedroom to the +kitchen: "Ma, what'd you do with my pink blouse?" +</P> + +<P> +And from the kitchen: "It's in your second bureau drawer. The collar +was kind of mussed from Wednesday night, and I give it a little +pressing while my iron was on." +</P> + +<P> +At seven-thirty Tessie would have emerged from her bedroom in the pink +blouse that might have been considered alarmingly frank as to texture +and precariously low as to neck had Tessie herself not been so +reassuringly unopulent; a black taffeta skirt, very brief; a hat with a +good deal of French blue about it; fragile high-heeled pumps with bows. +</P> + +<P> +As she passed through the sitting room on her way out, her mother would +appear in the doorway, dishtowel in hand. Her pride in this slim young +thing and her love of her she concealed with a thin layer of carping +criticism. +</P> + +<P> +"Runnin' downtown again, I s'pose." A keen eye on the swishing skirt +hem. +</P> + +<P> +Tessie, the quick-tongued, would toss the wave of shining hair that lay +against either glowing cheek. "Oh, my, no! I just thought I'd dress +up in case Angie Hatton drove past in her auto and picked me up for a +little ride. So's not to keep her waiting." +</P> + +<P> +Angie Hatton was Old Man Hatton's daughter. Anyone in the Fox River +Valley could have told you who Old Man Hatton was. You saw his name at +the top of every letterhead of any importance in Chippewa, from the +Pulp and Paper Mill to the First National Bank, and including the watch +factory, the canning works, and the Mid-Western Land Company. Knowing +this, you were able to appreciate Tessie's sarcasm. Angie Hatton was +as unaware of Tessie's existence as only a young woman could be whose +family residence was in Chippewa, Wisconsin, but who wintered in Italy, +summered in the mountains, and bought (so the town said) her very +hairpins in New York. When Angie Hatton came home from the East the +town used to stroll past on Mondays to view the washing on the Hatton +line. Angie's underwear, flirting so audaciously with the sunshine and +zephyrs, was of silk and crepe de Chine and satin—materials that we +had always thought of heretofore as intended exclusively for party +dresses and wedding gowns. Of course, two years later they were +showing practically the same thing at Megan's dry-goods store. But +that was always the way with Angie Hatton. Even those of us who went +to Chicago to shop never quite caught up with her. +</P> + +<P> +Delivered of this ironic thrust, Tessie would walk toward the screen +door with a little flaunting sway of the hips. Her mother's eyes, +following the slim figure, had a sort of grudging love in them. A +spare, caustic, wiry little woman, Tessie's mother. Tessie resembled +her as a water color may resemble a blurred charcoal sketch. Tessie's +wide mouth curved into humor lines. She was the cutup of the +escapement department at the watch factory; the older woman's lips +sagged at the corners. Tessie was buoyant and colorful with youth. The +other was shrunken and faded with years and labor. As the girl minced +across the room in her absurdly high-heeled shoes, the older woman +thought: My, but she's pretty! But she said aloud: "I should think +you'd stay home once in a while and not be runnin' the streets every +night." +</P> + +<P> +"Time enough to be sittin' home when I'm old like you." +</P> + +<P> +And yet between these two there was love, and even understanding. +</P> + +<P> +But in families such as Tessie's, demonstration is a thing to be +ashamed of; affection a thing to conceal. Tessie's father was janitor +of the Chippewa High School. A powerful man, slightly crippled by +rheumatism, loquacious, lively, fond of his family, proud of his neat +gray frame house and his new cement sidewalk and his carefully tended +yard and garden patch. In all her life Tessie had never seen a caress +exchanged between her parents. +</P> + +<P> +Nowadays Ma Golden had little occasion for finding fault with Tessie's +evening diversion. She no longer had cause to say, "Always gaddin' +downtown, or over to Cora's or somewhere, like you didn't have a home +to stay in. You ain't been in a evening this week, only when you +washed your hair." +</P> + +<P> +Tessie had developed a fondness for sunsets viewed from the back +porch—she who had thought nothing of dancing until three and rising at +half-past six to go to work. +</P> + +<P> +Stepping about in the kitchen after supper, her mother would eye the +limp, relaxed figure on the back porch with a little pang at her heart. +She would come to the screen door, or even out to the porch on some +errand or other—to empty the coffee grounds, to turn the row of +half-ripe tomatoes reddening on the porch railing, to flap and hang up +a damp tea towel. +</P> + +<P> +"Ain't you goin' out, Tess?" +</P> + +<P> +"No." +</P> + +<P> +"What you want to lop around here for? Such a grant evening. Why don't +you put on your things and run downtown, or over to Cora's or +somewhere, hm?" +</P> + +<P> +"What for?"—listlessly. +</P> + +<P> +"What for! What does anybody go out for!" +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know." +</P> + +<P> +If they could have talked it over together, these two, the girl might +have found relief. But the family shyness of their class was too +strong upon them. Once Mrs. Golden had said, in an effort at sympathy, +"Person'd think Chuck Mory was the only one who'd gone to war an' the +last fella left in the world." +</P> + +<P> +A grim flash of the old humor lifted the corners of the wide mouth. +"He is. Who's there left? Stumpy Gans, up at the railroad crossing? +Or maybe Fatty Weiman, driving the garbage. Guess I'll doll up this +evening and see if I can't make a hit with one of them." +</P> + +<P> +She relapsed into bitter silence. The bottom had dropped out of Tessie +Golden's world. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +In order to understand the Tessie of today one would have to know the +Tessie of six months ago—Tessie the impudent, the life-loving. Tessie +Golden could say things to the escapement-room foreman that anyone else +would have been fired for. Her wide mouth was capable of glorious +insolences. Whenever you heard shrieks of laughter from the girls' +washroom at noon you knew that Tessie was holding forth to an admiring +group. She was a born mimic; audacious, agile, and with the gift of +burlesque. The autumn that Angie Hatton came home from Europe wearing +the first tight skirt that Chippewa had ever seen, Tessie gave an +imitation of that advanced young woman's progress down Grand Avenue in +this restricting garment. The thing was cruel in its fidelity, though +containing just enough exaggeration to make it artistic. She followed +it up by imitating the stricken look on the face of Mattie Haynes, +cloak-and-suit buyer at Megan's, who, having just returned from the +East with what she considered the most fashionable of the new fall +styles, now beheld Angie Hatton in the garb that was the last echo of +the last cry in Paris modes—and no model in Mattie's newly selected +stock bore even the remotest resemblance to it. +</P> + +<P> +You would know from this that Tessie was not a particularly deft +worker. Her big-knuckled fingers were cleverer at turning out a blouse +or retrimming a hat. Hers were what are known as handy hands, but not +sensitive. It takes a light and facile set of fingers to fit pallet +and arbor and fork together: close work and tedious. Seated on low +benches along the tables, their chins almost level with the table top, +the girls worked with pincers and flame, screwing together the three +tiny parts of the watch's anatomy that were their particular specialty. +Each wore a jeweler's glass in one eye. Tessie had worked at the watch +factory for three years, and the pressure of the glass on the eye +socket had given her the slightly hollow-eyed appearance peculiar to +experienced watchmakers. It was not unbecoming, though, and lent her, +somehow, a spiritual look which made her impudence all the more piquant. +</P> + +<P> +Tessie wasn't always witty, really. But she had achieved a reputation +for wit which insured applause for even her feebler efforts. Nap +Ballou, the foreman, never left the escapement room without a little +shiver of nervous apprehension—a feeling justified by the ripple of +suppressed laughter that went up and down the long tables. He knew +that Tessie Golden, like a naughty schoolgirl when teacher's back is +turned, had directed one of her sure shafts at him. +</P> + +<P> +Ballou, his face darkling, could easily have punished her. Tessie knew +it. But he never did, or would. She knew that, too. Her very insolence +and audacity saved her. +</P> + +<P> +"Someday," Ballou would warn her, "you'll get too gay, and then you'll +find yourself looking for a job." +</P> + +<P> +"Go on—fire me," retorted Tessie, "and I'll meet you in Lancaster"—a +form of wit appreciated only by watchmakers. For there is a certain +type of watch hand who is as peripatetic as the old-time printer. +Restless, ne'er-do-well, spendthrift, he wanders from factory to +factory through the chain of watchmaking towns: Springfield, Trenton, +Waltham, Lancaster, Waterbury, Chippewa. Usually expert, always +unreliable, certainly fond of drink, Nap Ballou was typical of his +kind. The steady worker had a mingled admiration and contempt for him. +He, in turn, regarded the other as a stick-in-the-mud. Nap wore his +cap on one side of his curly head, and drank so evenly and steadily as +never to be quite drunk and never strictly sober. He had slender, +sensitive fingers like an artist's or a woman's, and he knew the parts +of that intricate mechanism known as a watch from the jewel to the +finishing room. It was said he had a wife or two. He was forty-six, +good-looking in a dissolute sort of way, possessing the charm of the +wanderer, generous with his money. It was known that Tessie's barbs +were permitted to prick him without retaliation because Tessie herself +appealed to his errant fancy. +</P> + +<P> +When the other girls teased her about this obvious state of affairs, +something fine and contemptuous welled up in her. "Him! Why, say, he +ought to work in a pickle factory instead of a watchworks. All he +needs is a little dill and a handful of grape leaves to make him good +eatin' as a relish." +</P> + +<P> +And she thought of Chuck Mory, perched on the high seat of the American +Express truck, hatless, sunburned, stockily muscular, clattering down +Winnebago Street on his way to the depot and the 7:50 train. +</P> + +<P> +Something about the clear simplicity and uprightness of the firm little +figure appealed to Nap Ballou. He used to regard her curiously with a +long, hard gaze before which she would grow uncomfortable. "Think +you'll know me next time you see me?" But there was an uneasy feeling +beneath her flip exterior. Not that there was anything of the +beautiful, persecuted factory girl and villainous foreman about the +situation. Tessie worked at watchmaking because it was light, +pleasant, and well paid. She could have found another job for the +asking. Her money went for shoes and blouses and lingerie and silk +stockings. She was forever buying a vivid necktie for her father and +dressing up her protesting mother in gay colors that went ill with the +drab, wrinkled face. "If it wasn't for me, you'd go round looking like +one of those Polack women down by the tracks," Tessie would scold. +"It's a wonder you don't wear a shawl!" +</P> + +<P> +That was the Tessie of six months ago, gay, carefree, holding the reins +of her life in her own two capable hands. Three nights a week, and +Sunday, she saw Chuck Mory. When she went downtown on Saturday night +it was frankly to meet Chuck, who was waiting for her on Schroeder's +drugstore corner. He knew it, and she knew it. Yet they always went +through a little ceremony. She and Cora, turning into Grand from +Winnebago Street, would make for the post office. Then down the length +of Grand with a leaping glance at Schroeder's corner before they +reached it. Yes, there they were, very clean-shaven, clean-shirted, +slick-looking. Tessie would have known Chuck's blond head among a +thousand. An air of studied hauteur and indifference as they +approached the corner. Heads turned the other way. A low whistle from +the boys. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, how do!" +</P> + +<P> +"Good evening!" +</P> + +<P> +Both greetings done with careful surprise. Then on down the street. +On the way back you took the inside of the walk, and your hauteur was +now stony to the point of insult. Schroeder's corner simply did not +exist. On as far as Megan's, which you entered and inspected, up one +brightly lighted aisle and down the next. At the dress-goods counter +there was a neat little stack of pamphlets entitled "In the World of +Fashion." You took one and sauntered out leisurely. Down Winnebago +Street now, homeward bound, talking animatedly and seemingly +unconscious of quick footsteps sounding nearer and nearer. Just past +the Burke House, where the residential district began, and where the +trees cast their kindly shadows: "Can I see you home?" A hand slipped +through her arm; a little tingling thrill. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, why, how do, Chuck! Hello, Scotty. Sure, if you're going our +way." +</P> + +<P> +At every turn Chuck left her side and dashed around behind her in order +to place himself at her right again, according to the rigid rule of +Chippewa etiquette. He took her arm only at street crossings until +they reached the tracks, which perilous spot seemed to justify him in +retaining his hold throughout the remainder of the stroll. Usually +they lost Cora and Scotty without having been conscious of their loss. +</P> + +<P> +Their talk? The girls and boys that each knew; the day's happenings at +factory and express office; next Wednesday night's dance up in the +Chute; and always the possibility of Chuck's leaving the truck and +assuming the managership of the office. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't let this go any further, see? But I heard it straight that old +Benke is going to be transferred to Fond du Lac. And if he is, why, I +step in, see? Benke's got a girl in Fondy, and he's been pluggin' to +get there. Gee, maybe I won't be glad when he does!" A little +silence. "Will you be glad, Tess? Hm?" +</P> + +<P> +Tess felt herself glowing and shivering as the big hand closed more +tightly on her arm. "Me? Why, sure I'll be pleased to see you get a +job that's coming to you by rights, and that'll get you better pay, and +all." +</P> + +<P> +But she knew what he meant, and he knew she knew. +</P> + +<P> +No more of that now. Chuck—gone. Scotty—gone. All the boys at the +watchworks, all the fellows in the neighborhood—gone. At first she +hadn't minded. It was exciting. You kidded them at first: "Well, +believe me, Chuck, if you shoot the way you play ball, you're a gone +goon already." +</P> + +<P> +"All you got to do, Scotty, is to stick that face of yours up over the +top of the trench and the Germans'll die of fright and save you wasting +bullets." +</P> + +<P> +There was a great knitting of socks and sweaters and caps. Tessie's +big-knuckled, capable fingers made you dizzy, they flew so fast. Chuck +was outfitted as for a polar expedition. Tess took half a day off to +bid him good-by. They marched down Grand Avenue, that first lot of +them, in their everyday suits and hats, with their shiny yellow +suitcases and their pasteboard boxes in their hands, sheepish, +red-faced, awkward. In their eyes, though, a certain look. And so off +for Camp Sherman, their young heads sticking out of the car windows in +clusters—black, yellow, brown, red. But for each woman on the depot +platform there was just one head. Tessie saw a blurred blond one with +a misty halo around it. A great shouting and waving of handkerchiefs: +</P> + +<P> +"Good-by! Good-by! Write, now! Be sure! Mebbe you can get off in a +week, for a visit. Good-by! Good——" +</P> + +<P> +They were gone. Their voices came back to the crowd on the depot +platform—high, clear young voices; almost like the voices of children, +shouting. +</P> + +<P> +Well, you wrote letters—fat, bulging letters—and in turn you received +equally plump envelopes with a red emblem in one corner. +</P> + +<P> +You sent boxes of homemade fudge (nut variety) and cookies and the more +durable forms of cake. +</P> + +<P> +Then, unaccountably, Chuck was whisked all the way to California. +</P> + +<P> +He was furious at parting with his mates, and his indignation was +expressed in his letters to Tessie. She sympathized with him in her +replies. She tried to make light of it, but there was a little clutch +of terror in it, too. California! Might as well send a person to the +end of the world while they were about it. Two months of that. Then, +inexplicably again, Chuck's letters bore the astounding postmark of New +York. She thought, in a panic, that he was Franceward bound, but it +turned out not to be so. Not yet. Chuck's letters were taking on a +cosmopolitan tone. "Well," he wrote, "I guess the little old town is +as dead as ever. It seems funny you being right there all this time +and I've traveled from the Atlantic to the Pacific. Everybody treats +me swell. You ought to seen some of those California houses. They +make Hatton's place look like a dump." +</P> + +<P> +The girls, Cora and Tess and the rest, laughed and joked among +themselves and assured one another, with a toss of the head, that they +could have a good time without the fellas. They didn't need boys +around. +</P> + +<P> +They gave parties, and they were not a success. There was one of the +type known as a stag. "Some hen party!" they all said. They danced, +and sang "Over There." They had ice cream and chocolate layer cake and +went home in great hilarity, with their hands on each other's +shoulders, still singing. +</P> + +<P> +But the thing was a failure, and they knew it. Next day, at the lunch +hour and in the washroom, there was a little desultory talk about the +stag. But the meat of such an aftergathering is contained in phrases +such as "I says to him"—and "He says to me." They wasted little +conversation on the stag. It was much more exciting to exhibit letters +on blue-lined paper with the red emblem at the top. Chuck's last +letter had contained the news of his sergeancy. +</P> + +<P> +Angie Hatton, home from the East, was writing letters, too. Everyone in +Chippewa knew that. She wrote on that new art paper with the +gnawed-looking edges and stiff as a newly laundered cuff. But the +letters which she awaited so eagerly were written on the same sort of +paper as were those Tessie had from Chuck—blue-lined, cheap in +quality. A New York fellow, Chippewa learned; an aviator. They knew, +too, that young Hatton was an infantry lieutenant somewhere in the +East. These letters were not from him. +</P> + +<P> +Ever since her home-coming, Angie had been sewing at the Red Cross shop +on Grand Avenue. Chippewa boasted two Red Cross shops. The Grand +Avenue shop was the society shop. The East End crowd sewed there, +capped, veiled, aproned—and unapproachable. Were your fingers ever so +deft, your knowledge of seams and basting mathematical, your skill with +that complicated garment known as a pneumonia jacket uncanny, if you +did not belong to the East End set, you did not sew at the Grand Avenue +shop. No matter how grossly red the blood which the Grand Avenue +bandages and pads were ultimately to stanch, the liquid in the fingers +that rolled and folded them was pure cerulean. +</P> + +<P> +Tessie and her crowd had never thought of giving any such service to +their country. They spoke of the Grand Avenue workers as "that +stinkin' bunch." Yet each one of the girls was capable of starting a +blouse in an emergency on Saturday night and finishing it in time for a +Sunday picnic, buttonholes and all. Their help might have been +invaluable. It never was asked. +</P> + +<P> +Without warning, Chuck came home on three days' furlough. It meant +that he was bound for France right enough this time. But Tessie didn't +care. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't care where you're goin'," she said exultantly, her eyes +lingering on the stocky, straight, powerful figure in its rather +ill-fitting khaki. "You're here now. That's enough. Ain't you tickled +to be home, Chuck? Gee!" +</P> + +<P> +"I'll say," responded Chuck. But even he seemed to detect some lack in +his tone and words. He elaborated somewhat shamefacedly: +</P> + +<P> +"Sure. It's swell to be home. But I don't know. After you've +traveled around, and come back, things look so kind of little to you. +I don't know—kind of——" He floundered about, at a loss for +expression. Then tried again: "Now, take Hatton's place, for example. +I always used to think it was a regular palace, but, gosh, you ought to +see places where I was asked to in San Francisco and around there. +Why, they was—were—enough to make the Hatton house look like a shack. +Swimmin' pools of white marble, and acres of yard like a park, and the +help always bringing you something to eat or drink. And the folks +themselves—why, say! Here we are scraping and bowing to Hattons and +that bunch. They're pikers to what some people are that invited me to +their houses in New York and Berkeley, and treated me and the other +guys like kings or something. Take Megan's store, too"—he was warming +to his subject, so that he failed to notice the darkening of Tessie's +face—"it's a joke compared to New York and San Francisco stores. +Reg'lar hick joint." +</P> + +<P> +Tessie stiffened. Her teeth were set, her eyes sparkled. She tossed +her head. "Well, I'm sure, Mr. Mory, it's good enough for me. Too bad +you had to come home at all now you're so elegant and swell, and +everything. You better go call on Angie Hatton instead of wasting time +on me. She'd probably be tickled to see you." +</P> + +<P> +He stumbled to his feet, then, awkwardly. "Aw, say, Tessie, I didn't +mean—why, say—you don't suppose—why, believe me, I pretty near +busted out cryin' when I saw the Junction eatin' house when my train +came in. And I been thinking of you every minute. There wasn't a +day——" +</P> + +<P> +"Tell that to your swell New York friends. I may be a hick but I ain't +a fool." She was near to tears. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, say, Tess, listen! Listen! If you knew—if you knew—A guy's +got to—he's got no right to——" +</P> + +<P> +And presently Tessie was mollified, but only on the surface. She +smiled and glanced and teased and sparkled. And beneath was terror. +He talked differently. He walked differently. It wasn't his clothes +or the army. It was something else—an ease of manner, a new +leisureliness of glance, an air. Once Tessie had gone to Milwaukee +over Labor Day. It was the extent of her experience as a traveler. +She remembered how superior she had felt for at least two days after. +But Chuck! California! New York! It wasn't the distance that +terrified her. It was his new knowledge, the broadening of his vision, +though she did not know it and certainly could not have put it into +words. +</P> + +<P> +They went walking down by the river to Oneida Springs, and drank some +of the sulphur water that tasted like rotten eggs. Tessie drank it +with little shrieks and shudders and puckered her face up into an +expression indicative of extreme disgust. +</P> + +<P> +"It's good for you," Chuck said, and drank three cups of it, manfully. +"That taste is the mineral qualities the water contains—sulphur and +iron and so forth." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't care," snapped Tessie irritably. "I hate it!" They had often +walked along the river and tasted of the spring water, but Chuck had +never before waxed scientific. They took a boat at Baumann's boathouse +and drifted down the lovely Fox River. +</P> + +<P> +"Want to row?" Chuck asked. "I'll get an extra pair of oars if you do." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know how. Besides, it's too much work. I guess I'll let you +do it." +</P> + +<P> +Chuck was fitting his oars in the oarlocks. She stood on the landing +looking down at him. His hat was off. His hair seemed blonder than +ever against the rich tan of his face. His neck muscles swelled a +little as he bent. Tessie felt a great longing to bury her face in the +warm red skin. He straightened with a sigh and smiled at her. "I'll +be ready in a minute." He took off his coat and turned his khaki shirt +in at the throat, so that you saw the white line of his untanned chest +in strange contrast to his sun-burned throat. A feeling of giddy +faintness surged over Tessie. She stepped blindly into the boat and +would have fallen if Chuck's hard, firm grip had not steadied her. +"Whoa, there! Don't you know how to step into a boat? There. Walk +along the middle." +</P> + +<P> +She sat down and smiled up at him. "I don't know how I come to do +that. I never did before." +</P> + +<P> +Chuck braced his feet, rolled up his sleeves, and took an oar in each +brown hand, bending rhythmically to his task. He looked about him, +then at the girl, and drew a deep breath, feathering his oars. "I +guess I must have dreamed about this more'n a million times." +</P> + +<P> +"Have you, Chuck?" +</P> + +<P> +They drifted on in silence. "Say, Tess, you ought to learn to row. +It's good exercise. Those girls in California and New York, they play +tennis and row and swim as good as the boys. Honest, some of 'em are +wonders!" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I'm sick of your swell New York friends! Can't you talk about +something else?" +</P> + +<P> +He saw that he had blundered without in the least understanding how or +why. "All right. What'll we talk about?" In itself a fatal admission. +</P> + +<P> +"About—you." Tessie made it a caress. +</P> + +<P> +"Me? Nothin' to tell about me. I just been drillin' and studyin' and +marchin' and readin' some—— Oh, say, what d'you think?" +</P> + +<P> +"What?" +</P> + +<P> +"They been learnin' us—teachin' us, I mean—French. It's the +darnedest language! Bread is pain. Can you beat that? If you want to +ask for a piece of bread, you say like this: DONNAY MA UN MORSO DOO +PANG. See?" +</P> + +<P> +"My!" breathed Tessie. +</P> + +<P> +And within her something was screaming: Oh, my God! Oh, my God! He +knows French. And those girls that can row and swim and everything. +And me, I don't know anything. Oh, God, what'll I do? +</P> + +<P> +It was as though she could see him slipping away from her, out of her +grasp, out of her sight. She had no fear of what might come to him in +France. Bullets and bayonets would never hurt Chuck. He'd make it, +just as he always made the 7:50 when it seemed as if he was going to +miss it sure. He'd make it there and back, all right. But he'd be a +different Chuck, while she stayed the same Tessie. Books, travel, +French, girls, swell folks—— +</P> + +<P> +And all the while she was smiling and dimpling and trailing her hand in +the water. "Bet you can't guess what I got in that lunch box." +</P> + +<P> +"Chocolate cake." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, of course I've got chocolate cake. I baked it myself this +morning." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +"Yes, you did!" "Why, Chuck Mory, I did so! I guess you think I can't +do anything, the way you talk." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, don't I! I guess you know what I think." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, it isn't the cake I mean. It's something else." +</P> + +<P> + "Fried chicken!"<BR> +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, now you've gone and guessed it." She pouted prettily. +</P> + +<P> +"You asked me to, didn't you?" +</P> + +<P> +Then they laughed together, as at something exquisitely witty. Down the +river, drifting, rowing. Tessie pointed to a house half hidden among +the trees on the farther shore: "There's Hatton's camp. They say they +have grand times there with their swell crowd some Saturdays and +Sundays. If I had a house like that, I'd live in it all the time, not +just a couple of days out of the whole year." She hesitated a moment. +"I suppose it looks like a shanty to you now." +</P> + +<P> +Chuck surveyed it, patronizingly. "No, it's a nice little place." +</P> + +<P> +They beached their boat, and built a little fire, and had supper on the +riverbank, and Tessie picked out the choice bits for him—the breast of +the chicken, beautifully golden brown; the ripest tomato; the firmest, +juiciest pickle; the corner of the little cake which would give him a +double share of icing. +</P> + +<P> +From Chuck, between mouthfuls: "I guess you don't know how good this +tastes. Camp grub's all right, but after you've had a few months of it +you get so you don't believe there IS such a thing as real fried +chicken and homemade chocolate cake." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm glad you like it, Chuck. Here, take this drumstick. You ain't +eating a thing!" His fourth piece of chicken. +</P> + +<P> +Down the river as far as the danger line just above the dam, with +Tessie pretending fear just for the joy of having Chuck reassure her. +Then back again in the dusk, Chuck bending to the task now against the +current. And so up the hill, homeward bound. They walked very slowly, +Chuck's hand on her arm. They were dumb with the tragic, eloquent +dumbness of their kind. If she could have spoken the words that were +churning in her mind, they would have been something like this: +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Chuck, I wish I was married to you. I wouldn't care if only I had +you. I wouldn't mind babies or anything. I'd be glad. I want our +house, with a dining-room set, and a mahogany bed, and one of those +overstuffed sets in the living room, and all the housework to do. I'm +scared. I'm scared I won't get it. What'll I do if I don't?" +</P> + +<P> +And he, wordlessly: "Will you wait for me, Tessie, and keep on +thinking about me? And will you keep yourself like you are so that if +I come back——" +</P> + +<P> +Aloud, she said: "I guess you'll get stuck on one of those French +girls. I should worry! They say wages at the watch factory are going +to be raised, workers are so scarce. I'll probably be as rich as Angie +Hatton time you get back." +</P> + +<P> +And he, miserably: "Little old Chippewa girls are good enough for +Chuck. I ain't counting on taking up with those Frenchies. I don't +like their jabber, from what I know of it. I saw some pictures of 'em, +last week, a fellow in camp had who'd been over there. Their hair is +all funny, and fixed up with combs and stuff, and they look real dark +like foreigners." +</P> + +<P> +It had been reassuring enough at the time. But that was six months +ago. And now here was the Tessie who sat on the back porch, evenings, +surveying the sunset. A listless, lackadaisical, brooding Tessie. +Little point to going downtown Saturday nights now. There was no +familiar, beloved figure to follow you swiftly as you turned off Elm +Street, homeward bound. If she went downtown now, she saw only those +Saturday-night family groups which are familiar to every small town. +The husband, very damp as to hair and clean as to shirt, guarding the +gocart outside while the woman accomplished her Saturday-night trading +at Ding's or Halpin's. Sometimes there were as many as half a dozen +gocarts outside Halpin's, each containing a sleeping burden, relaxed, +chubby, fat-cheeked. The waiting men smoked their pipes and conversed +largely. "Hello, Ed. The woman's inside, buyin' the store out, I +guess." +</P> + +<P> +"That so? Mine, to. Well, how's everything?" +</P> + +<P> +Tessie knew that presently the woman would come out, bundle laden, and +that she would stow these lesser bundles in every corner left available +by the more important sleeping bundle—two yards of oilcloth; a spool +of 100, white; a banana for the baby; a new stewpan at the five-and-ten. +</P> + +<P> +There had been a time when Tessie, if she thought of these women at +all, felt sorry for them—worn, drab, lacking in style and figure. Now +she envied them. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +There were weeks upon weeks when no letter came from Chuck. In his +last letter there had been some talk of his being sent to Russia. +Tessie's eyes, large enough now in her thin face, distended with a +great fear. Russia! His letter spoke, too, of French villages and +chateaux. He and a bunch of fellows had been introduced to a princess +or a countess or something—it was all one to Tessie—and what do you +think? She had kissed them all on both cheeks! Seems that's the way +they did in France. +</P> + +<P> +The morning after the receipt of this letter the girls at the watch +factory might have remarked her pallor had they not been so occupied +with a new and more absorbing topic. +</P> + +<P> +"Tess, did you hear about Angie Hatton?" +</P> + +<P> +"What about her?" +</P> + +<P> +"She's going to France. It's in the Milwaukee paper, all about her +being Chippewa's fairest daughter, and a picture of the house, and her +being the belle of the Fox River Valley, and she's giving up her +palatial home and all to go to work in a canteen for her country and +bleeding France." +</P> + +<P> +"Ya-as she is!" sneered Tessie, and a dull red flush, so deep as to be +painful, swept over her face from throat to brow. "Ya-as she is, the +doll-faced simp! Why, say, she never wiped up a floor in her life, or +baked a cake, or stood on them feet of hers. She couldn't cut up a +loaf of bread decent. Bleeding France! Ha! That's rich, that is." +She thrust her chin out brutally, and her eyes narrowed to slits. +"She's going over there after that fella of hers. She's chasing him. +It's now or never, and she knows it and she's scared, same's the rest +of us. On'y we got to set home and make the best of it. Or take what's +left." She turned her head slowly to where Nap Ballou stood over a +table at the far end of the room. She laughed a grim, unlovely little +laugh. "I guess when you can't go after what you want, like Angie, why +you gotta take second choice." +</P> + +<P> +All that day, at the bench, she was the reckless, insolent, audacious +Tessie of six months ago. Nap Ballou was always standing over her, +pretending to inspect some bit of work or other, his shoulder brushing +hers. She laughed up at him so that her face was not more than two +inches from his. He flushed, but she did not. She laughed a reckless +little laugh. +</P> + +<P> +"Thanks for helping teach me my trade, Mr. Ballou. 'Course I only been +at it over three years now, so I ain't got the hang of it yet." +</P> + +<P> +He straightened up slowly, and as he did so he rested a hand on her +shoulder for a brief moment. She did not shrug it off. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +That night, after supper, Tessie put on her hat and strolled down to +Park Avenue. It wasn't for the walk. Tessie had never been told to +exercise systematically for her body's good, or her mind's. She went +in a spirit of unwholesome brooding curiosity and a bitter resentment. +Going to France, was she? Lots of good she'd do there. Better stay +home and—and what? Tessie cast about in her mind for a fitting job +for Angie. Guess she might's well go, after all. Nobody'd miss her, +unless it was her father, and he didn't see her but about a third of +the time. But in Tessie's heart was a great envy of this girl who +could bridge the hideous waste of ocean that separated her from her +man. Bleeding France. Yeh! Joke! +</P> + +<P> +The Hatton place, built and landscaped twenty years before, occupied a +square block in solitary grandeur, the show place of Chippewa. In +architectural style it was an impartial mixture of Norman castle, +French chateau, and Rhenish schloss, with a dash of Coney Island about +its facade. It represented Old Man Hatton's realized dream of landed +magnificence. +</P> + +<P> +Tessie, walking slowly past it, and peering through the high iron +fence, could not help noting an air of unwonted excitement about the +place, usually so aloof, so coldly serene. Automobiles standing out in +front. People going up and down. They didn't look very cheerful. +Just as if it mattered whether anything happened to her or not! +</P> + +<P> +Tessie walked around the block and stood a moment, uncertainly. Then +she struck off down Grand Avenue and past Donovan's pool shack. A +little group of after-supper idlers stood outside, smoking and +gossiping, as she knew there would be. As she turned the corner she +saw Nap Ballou among them. She had known that, too. As she passed she +looked straight ahead, without bowing. But just past the Burke House he +caught up with her. No half-shy "Can I walk home with you?" from Nap +Ballou. No. Instead: "Hello, sweetheart!" +</P> + +<P> +"Hello, yourself." +</P> + +<P> +"Somebody's looking mighty pretty this evening, all dolled up in pink." +</P> + +<P> +"Think so?" She tried to be pertly indifferent, but it was good to +have someone following, someone walking home with you. What if he was +old enough to be her father, with graying hair? Lots of the movie +heroes had graying hair at the sides. +</P> + +<P> +They walked for an hour. Tessie left him at the corner. She had once +heard her father designate Ballou as "that drunken skunk." When she +entered the sitting room her cheeks held an unwonted pink. Her eyes +were brighter than they had been in months. Her mother looked up +quickly, peering at her over a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles, very +much askew. +</P> + +<P> +"Where you been, Tessie?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, walkin'." +</P> + +<P> +"Who with?" +</P> + +<P> +"Cora." +</P> + +<P> +"Why, she was here, callin' for you, not more'n an hour ago." +</P> + +<P> +Tessie, taking off her hat on her way upstairs, met this coolly. "Yeh, +I ran into her comin' back." +</P> + +<P> +Upstairs, lying fully dressed on her hard little bed, she stared up +into the darkness, thinking, her hands limp at her sides. Oh, well, +what's the diff? You had to make the best of it. Everybody makin' a +fuss about the soldiers—feeding 'em, and asking 'em to their houses, +and sending 'em things, and giving dances and picnics and parties so +they wouldn't be lonesome. Chuck had told her all about it. The other +boys told the same. They could just pick and choose their good times. +Tessie's mind groped about, sensing a certain injustice. How about the +girls? She didn't put it thus squarely. Hers was not a logical mind. +Easy enough to paw over the men-folks and get silly over brass buttons +and a uniform. She put it that way. She thought of the refrain of a +popular song: "What Are You Going to Do to Help the Boys?" Tessie, +smiling a crooked little smile up there in the darkness, parodied the +words deftly: "What're you going to do to help the girls?" she +demanded. "What're you going to do——" She rolled over on one side +and buried her head in her arms. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +There was news again next morning at the watch factory. Tessie of the +old days had never needed to depend on the other girls for the latest +bit of gossip. Her alert eye and quick ear had always caught it first. +But of late she had led a cloistered existence, indifferent to the +world about her. The Chippewa Courier went into the newspaper pile +behind the kitchen door without a glance from Tessie's incurious eye. +</P> + +<P> +She was late this morning. As she sat down at the bench and fitted her +glass in her eye, the chatter of the others, pitched in the high key of +unusual excitement, penetrated even her listlessness. +</P> + +<P> +"And they say she never screeched or fainted or anything. She stood +there, kind of quiet, looking straight ahead, and then all of a sudden +she ran to her pa——" +</P> + +<P> +"I feel sorry for her. She never did anything to me. She——" +</P> + +<P> +Tessie spoke, her voice penetrating the staccato fragments all about +her and gathering them into a whole. "Say, who's the heroine of this +picture? I come in in the middle of the film, I guess." +</P> + +<P> +They turned on her with the unlovely eagerness of those who have ugly +news to tell. They all spoke at once, in short sentences, their voices +high with the note of hysteria. +</P> + +<P> +"Angie Hatton's beau was killed——" +</P> + +<P> +"They say his airyoplane fell ten thousand feet——" +</P> + +<P> +"The news come only last evening about eight——" +</P> + +<P> +"She won't see nobody but her pa——" +</P> + +<P> +Eight! At eight Tessie had been standing outside Hatton's house, +envying Angie and hating her. So that explained the people, and the +automobiles, and the excitement. Tessie was not receiving the news +with the dramatic reaction which its purveyors felt it deserved. +Tessie, turning from one to the other quietly, had said nothing. She +was pitying Angie. Oh, the luxury of it! Nap Ballou, coming in +swiftly to still the unwonted commotion in work hours, found Tessie the +only one quietly occupied in that chatter-filled room. She was smiling +as she worked. Nap Ballou, bending over her on some pretense that +deceived no one, spoke low-voiced in her ear. But she veiled her eyes +insolently and did not glance up. She hummed contentedly all the +morning at her tedious work. +</P> + +<P> +She had promised Nap Ballou to go picknicking with him Sunday. Down the +river, boating, with supper on shore. The small, still voice within +her had said, "Don't go! Don't go!" But the harsh, high-pitched, +reckless overtone said, "Go on! Have a good time. Take all you can +get." +</P> + +<P> +She would have to lie at home and she did it. Some fabrication about +the girls at the watchworks did the trick. Fried chicken, chocolate +cake. She packed them deftly and daintily. High-heeled shoes, flimsy +blouse, rustling skirt. Nap Ballou was waiting for her over in the +city park. She saw him before he espied her. He was leaning against a +tree, idly, staring straight ahead with queer, lackluster eyes. +Silhouetted there against the tender green of the pretty square, he +looked very old, somehow, and different—much older than he looked in +his shop clothes, issuing orders. Tessie noticed that he sagged where +he should have stuck out, and protruded where he should have been flat. +There flashed across her mind a vividly clear picture of Chuck as she +had last seen him—brown, fit, high of chest, flat of stomach, slim of +flank. +</P> + +<P> +Ballou saw her. He straightened and came toward her swiftly. "Somebody +looks mighty sweet this afternoon." +</P> + +<P> +Tessie plumped the heavy lunch box into his arms. "When you get a line +you like you stick to it, don't you?" +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Down at the boathouse even Tessie, who had confessed ignorance of boats +and oars, knew that Ballou was fumbling clumsily. He stooped to adjust +the oars to the oarlocks. His hat was off. His hair looked very gray +in the cruel spring sunshine. He straightened and smiled up at her. +</P> + +<P> +"Ready in a minute, sweetheart," he said. He took off his collar and +turned in the neckband of his shirt. His skin was very white. Tessie +felt a little shudder of disgust sweep over her, so that she stumbled a +little as she stepped into the boat. +</P> + +<P> +The river was very lovely. Tessie trailed her fingers in the water and +told herself that she was having a grand time. She told Nap the same +when he asked her. +</P> + +<P> +"Having a good time, little beauty?" he said. He was puffing a little +with the unwonted exercise. +</P> + +<P> +Tessie tried some of her old-time pertness of speech. "Oh, good +enough, considering the company." +</P> + +<P> +He laughed admiringly at that and said she was a sketch. +</P> + +<P> +When the early evening came on they made a clumsy landing and had +supper. This time Nap fed her the tidbits, though she protested. +</P> + +<P> +"White meat for you," he said, "with your skin like milk." +</P> + +<P> +"You must of read that in a book," scoffed Tessie. She glanced around +her at the deepening shadows. "We haven't got much time. It gets dark +so early." +</P> + +<P> +"No hurry," Nap assured her. He went on eating in a leisurely, +finicking sort of way, though he consumed very little food, actually. +</P> + +<P> +"You're not eating much," Tessie said once, halfheartedly. She decided +that she wasn't having such a very grand time, after all, and that she +hated his teeth, which were very bad. Now, Chuck's strong, white, +double row—— +</P> + +<P> +"Well," she said, "let's be going." +</P> + +<P> +"No hurry," again. +</P> + +<P> +Tessie looked up at that with the instinctive fear of her kind. "What +d'you mean, no hurry! 'Spect to stay here till dark?" She laughed at +her own joke. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +She got up then, the blood in her face. "Well, <I>I</I> don't." +</P> + +<P> +He rose, too. "Why not?" +</P> + +<P> +"Because I don't, that's why." She stooped and began picking up the +remnants of the lunch, placing spoons and glass bottles swiftly and +thriftily into the lunch box. Nap stepped around behind her. +</P> + +<P> +"Let me help," he said. And then his arm was about her and his face +was close to hers, and Tessie did not like it. He kissed her after a +little wordless struggle. And then she knew. She had been kissed +before. But not like this. Not like this! She struck at him +furiously. Across her mind flashed the memory of a girl who had worked +in the finishing room. A nice girl, too. But that hadn't helped her. +Nap Ballou was laughing a little as he clasped her. +</P> + +<P> +At that she heard herself saying: "I'll get Chuck Mory after you—you +drunken bum, you! He'll lick you black and blue. He'll——" +</P> + +<P> +The face, with the ugly, broken brown teeth, was coming close again. +With all the young strength that was in her she freed one hand and +clawed at that face from eyes to chin. A howl of pain rewarded her. +His hold loosened. Like a flash she was off. She ran. It seemed to +her that her feet did not touch the earth. Over brush, through bushes, +crashing against trees, on and on. She heard him following her, but the +broken-down engine that was his heart refused to do the work. She ran +on, though her fear was as great as before. Fear of what might have +happened—to her, Tessie Golden, that nobody could even talk fresh to. +She gave a sob of fury and fatigue. She was stumbling now. It was +growing dark. She ran on again, in fear of the overtaking darkness. +It was easier now. Not so many trees and bushes. She came to a fence, +climbed over it, lurched as she landed, leaned against it weakly for +support, one hand on her aching heart. Before her was the Hatton summer +cottage, dimly outlined in the twilight among the trees. +</P> + +<P> +A warm, flickering light danced in the window. Tessie stood a moment, +breathing painfully, sobbingly. Then, with an instinctive gesture, she +patted her hair, tidied her blouse, and walked uncertainly toward the +house, up the steps to the door. She stood there a moment, swaying +slightly. Somebody'd be there. +</P> + +<P> +The light. The woman who cooked for them or the man who took care of +the place. Somebody'd—— +</P> + +<P> +She knocked at the door feebly. She'd tell 'em she had lost her way +and got scared when it began to get dark. She knocked again, louder +now. Footsteps. She braced herself and even arranged a crooked smile. +The door opened wide. Old Man Hatton! +</P> + +<P> +She looked up at him, terror and relief in her face. He peered over +his glasses at her. "Who is it?" Tessie had not known, somehow, that +his face was so kindly. +</P> + +<P> +Tessie's carefully planned story crumbled into nothingness. "It's me!" +she whimpered. "It's me!" +</P> + +<P> +He reached out and put a hand on her arm and drew her inside. +</P> + +<P> +"Angie! Angie! Here's a poor little kid——" +</P> + +<P> +Tessie clutched frantically at the last crumbs of her pride. She tried +to straighten, to smile with her old bravado. What was that story she +had planned to tell? +</P> + +<P> +"Who is it, Dad? Who——?" Angie Hatton came into the hallway. She +stared at Tessie. Then: "Why, my dear!" she said. "My dear! Come in +here." +</P> + +<P> +Angie Hatton! Tessie began to cry weakly, her face buried in Angie +Hatton's expensive shoulder. Tessie remembered later that she had felt +no surprise at the act. +</P> + +<P> +"There, there!" Angie Hatton was saying. "Just poke up the fire, Dad. +And get something from the dining room. Oh, I don't know. To drink, +you know. Something——" +</P> + +<P> +Then Old Man Hatton stood over her, holding a small glass to her lips. +Tessie drank it obediently, made a wry little face, coughed, wiped her +eyes, and sat up. She looked from one to the other, like a trapped +little animal. She put a hand to her tousled head. +</P> + +<P> +"That's all right," Angie Hatton assured her. "You can fix it after a +while." +</P> + +<P> +There they were, the three of them: Old Man Hatton with his back to +the fire, looking benignly down upon her; Angie seated, with some +knitting in her hands, as if entertaining bedraggled, tear-stained +young ladies at dusk were an everyday occurrence; Tessie, twisting her +handkerchief in a torment of embarrassment. But they asked no +questions, these two. They evinced no curiosity about this disheveled +creature who had flung herself in upon their decent solitude. +</P> + +<P> +Tessie stared at the fire. She looked up at Old Man Hatton's face and +opened her lips. She looked down and shut them again. Then she flashed +a quick look at Angie, to see if she could detect there some suspicion, +some disdain. None. Angie Hatton looked—well, Tessie put it to +herself, thus: "She looks like she'd cried till she couldn't cry no +more—only inside." +</P> + +<P> +And then, surprisingly, Tessie began to talk. "I wouldn't never have +gone with this fella, only Chuck, he was gone. All the boys're gone. +It's fierce. You get scared, sitting home, waiting, and they're in +France and everywhere, learning French and everything, and meeting +grand people and having a fuss made over 'em. So I got mad and said I +didn't care, I wasn't going to squat home all my life, waiting——" +</P> + +<P> +Angie Hatton had stopped knitting now. Old Man Hatton was looking down +at her very kindly. And so Tessie went on. The pent-up emotions and +thoughts of these past months were finding an outlet at last. These +things which she had never been able to discuss with her mother she now +was laying bare to Angie Hatton and Old Man Hatton! They asked no +questions. They seemed to understand. Once Old Man Hatton interrupted +with: "So that's the kind of fellow they've got as escapement-room +foreman, eh?" +</P> + +<P> +Tessie, whose mind was working very clearly now, put out a quick hand. +"Say, it wasn't his fault. He's a bum, all right, but I knew it, +didn't I? It was me. I didn't care. Seemed to me it didn't make no +difference who I went with, but it does." She looked down at her hands +clasped so tightly in her lap. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, it makes a whole lot of difference," Angie agreed, and looked up +at her father. +</P> + +<P> +At that Tessie blurted her last desperate problem: "He's learning all +kind of new things. Me, I ain't learning anything. When Chuck comes +home he'll just think I'm dumb, that's all. He——" +</P> + +<P> +"What kind of thing would you like to learn, Tessie, so that when Chuck +comes home——" +</P> + +<P> +Tessie looked up then, her wide mouth quivering with eagerness. "I'd +like to learn to swim—and row a boat—and play tennis—like the rich +girls—like the girls that's making such a fuss over the soldiers." +</P> + +<P> +Angie Hatton was not laughing. So, after a moment's hesitation, Tessie +brought out the worst of it. "And French. I'd like to learn to talk +French." +</P> + +<P> +Old Man Hatton had been surveying his shoes, his mouth grim. He looked +at Angie now and smiled a little. "Well, Angie, it looks as if you'd +found your job right here at home, doesn't it? This young lady's just +one of hundreds, I suppose. Thousands. You can have the whole house +for them, if you want it, Angie, and the grounds, and all the money you +need. I guess we've kind of overlooked the girls. Hm, Angie? What +d'you say?" +</P> + +<P> +But Tessie was not listening. She had scarcely heard. Her face was +white with earnestness. +</P> + +<P> +"Can you speak French?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," Angie answered. +</P> + +<P> +"Well," said Tessie, and gulped once, "well, how do you say in French: +'Give me a piece of bread'? That's what I want to learn first." +</P> + +<P> +Angie Hatton said it correctly. +</P> + +<P> +"That's it! Wait a minute! Say it again, will you?" +</P> + +<P> +Angie said it again, Tessie wet her lips. Her cheeks were smeared +with tears and dirt. Her hair was wild and her blouse awry. +"DONNAY-MA-UN-MORSO-DOO-PANG," she articulated painfully. And in that +moment, as she put her hand in that of Chuck Mory, across the ocean, +her face was very beautiful with contentment. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="distance"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Long Distance [1919] +</H3> + +<P> +Chet Ball was painting a wooden chicken yellow. The wooden chicken was +mounted on a six-by-twelve board. The board was mounted on four tiny +wheels. The whole would eventually be pulled on a string guided by the +plump, moist hand of some blissful five-year-old. +</P> + +<P> +You got the incongruity of it the instant your eye fell upon Chet Ball. +Chet's shoulders alone would have loomed large in contrast with any +wooden toy ever devised, including the Trojan horse. Everything about +him, from the big, blunt-fingered hands that held the ridiculous chick +to the great muscular pillar of his neck, was in direct opposition to +his task, his surroundings, and his attitude. +</P> + +<P> +Chet's proper milieu was Chicago, Illinois (the West Side); his job +that of lineman for the Gas, Light & Power Company; his normal working +position astride the top of a telegraph pole, supported in his perilous +perch by a lineman's leather belt and the kindly fates, both of which +are likely to trick you in an emergency. +</P> + +<P> +Yet now he lolled back among his pillows, dabbing complacently at the +absurd yellow toy. A description of his surroundings would sound like +pages 3 to 17 of a novel by Mrs. Humphry Ward. The place was all +greensward, and terraces, and sundials, and beeches, and even those +rhododendrons without which no English novel or country estate is +complete. The presence of Chet Ball among his pillows and some +hundreds similarly disposed revealed to you at once the fact that this +particular English estate was now transformed into Reconstruction +Hospital No. 9. +</P> + +<P> +The painting of the chicken quite finished (including two beady black +paint eyes), Chet was momentarily at a loss. Miss Kate had not told +him to stop painting when the chicken was completed. Miss Kate was at +the other end of the sunny garden walk, bending over a wheel chair. So +Chet went on painting, placidly. One by one, with meticulous nicety, +he painted all his fingernails a bright and cheery yellow. Then he did +the whole of his left thumb and was starting on the second joint of the +index finger when Miss Kate came up behind him and took the brush +gently from his strong hands. +</P> + +<P> +"You shouldn't have painted your fingers," she said. +</P> + +<P> +Chet surveyed them with pride. "They look swell." +</P> + +<P> +Miss Kate did not argue the point. She put the freshly painted wooden +chicken on the table to dry in the sun. Her eyes fell upon a letter +bearing an American postmark and addressed to Sergeant Chester Ball, +with a lot of cryptic figures and letters strung out after it, such as +A.E.F. and Co. 11. +</P> + +<P> +"Here's a letter for you!" She infused a lot of Glad into her voice. +But Chet only cast a languid eye upon it and said, "Yeh?" +</P> + +<P> +"I'll read it to you, shall I? It's a nice fat one." +</P> + +<P> +Chet sat back, indifferent, negatively acquiescent. And Miss Kate +began to read in her clear young voice, there in the sunshine and scent +of the centuries-old English garden. +</P> + +<P> +It marked an epoch in Chet's life—that letter. It reached out across +the Atlantic Ocean from the Chester Ball of his Chicago days, before he +had even heard of English gardens. +</P> + +<P> +Your true lineman has a daredevil way with the women, as have all men +whose calling is a hazardous one. Chet was a crack workman. He could +shinny up a pole, strap his emergency belt, open his tool kit, wield +his pliers with expert deftness, and climb down again in record time. +It was his pleasure—and seemingly the pleasure and privilege of all +lineman's gangs the world over—to whistle blithely and to call +impudently to any passing petticoat that caught his fancy. +</P> + +<P> +Perched three feet from the top of the high pole he would cling +protected, seemingly, by some force working in direct defiance of the +law of gravity. And now and then, by way of brightening the tedium of +their job, he and his gang would call to a girl passing in the street +below, "Hoo-hoo! Hello, sweetheart!" +</P> + +<P> +There was nothing vicious in it. Chet would have come to the aid of +beauty in distress as quickly as Don Quixote. Any man with a blue +shirt as clean and a shave as smooth and a haircut as round as Chet +Ball's has no meanness in him. A certain daredeviltry went hand in +hand with his work—a calling in which a careless load dispatcher, a +cut wire, or a faulty strap may mean instant death. Usually the girls +laughed and called back to them or went on more quickly, the color in +their cheeks a little higher. +</P> + +<P> +But not Anastasia Rourke. Early the first morning of a two-week job on +the new plant of the Western Castings Company, Chet Ball, glancing down +from his dizzy perch atop an electric-light pole, espied Miss Anastasia +Rourke going to work. He didn't know her name or anything about her, +except that she was pretty. You could see that from a distance even +more remote than Chet's. But you couldn't know that Stasia was a lady +not to be trifled with. We know her name was Rourke, but he didn't. +</P> + +<P> +So then: "Hoo-hoo!" he had called. "Hello, sweetheart! Wait for me +and I'll be down." +</P> + +<P> +Stasia Rourke had lifted her face to where he perched so high above the +streets. Her cheeks were five shades pinker than was their wont, which +would make them border on the red. +</P> + +<P> +"You big ape, you!" she called, in her clear, crisp voice. "If you had +your foot on the ground you wouldn't dast call to a decent girl like +that. If you were down here I'd slap the face of you. You know you're +safe up there." +</P> + +<P> +The words were scarcely out of her mouth before Chet Ball's sturdy legs +were twinkling down the pole. His spurred heels dug into the soft pine +of the pole with little ripe, tearing sounds. He walked up to Stasia +and stood squarely in front of her, six feet of brawn and brazen nerve. +One ruddy cheek he presented to her astonished gaze. "Hello, +sweetheart," he said. And waited. The Rourke girl hesitated just a +second. All the Irish heart in her was melting at the boyish impudence +of the man before her. Then she lifted one hand and slapped his smooth +cheek. It was a ringing slap. You saw the four marks of her fingers +upon his face. Chet straightened, his blue eyes bluer. Stasia looked +up at him, her eyes wide. Then down at her own hand, as if it belonged +to somebody else. Her hand came up to her own face. She burst into +tears, turned, and ran. And as she ran, and as she wept, she saw that +Chet was still standing there, looking after her. +</P> + +<P> +Next morning, when Stasia Rourke went by to work, Chet Ball was +standing at the foot of the pole, waiting. +</P> + +<P> +They were to have been married that next June. But that next June Chet +Ball, perched perilously on the branch of a tree in a small woodsy spot +somewhere in France, was one reason why the American artillery in that +same woodsy spot was getting such a deadly range on the enemy. Chet's +costume was so devised that even through field glasses (made in +Germany) you couldn't tell where tree left off and Chet began. +</P> + +<P> +Then, quite suddenly, the Germans got the range. The tree in which +Chet was hidden came down with a crash, and Chet lay there, more than +ever indiscernible among its tender foliage. +</P> + +<P> +Which brings us back to the English garden, the yellow chicken, Miss +Kate, and the letter. +</P> + +<P> +His shattered leg was mended by one of those miracles of modern war +surgery, though he never again would dig his spurred heels into the +pine of a G. L. & P. Company pole. But the other thing—they put it +down under the broad general head of shock. In the lovely English +garden they set him to weaving and painting as a means of soothing the +shattered nerves. He had made everything from pottery jars to bead +chains, from baskets to rugs. Slowly the tortured nerves healed. But +the doctors, when they stopped at Chet's cot or chair, talked always of +"the memory center." Chet seemed satisfied to go on placidly painting +toys or weaving chains with his great, square-tipped fingers—the +fingers that had wielded the pliers so cleverly in his pole-climbing +days. +</P> + +<P> +"It's just something that only luck or an accident can mend," said the +nerve specialist. "Time may do it—but I doubt it. Sometimes just a +word—the right word—will set the thing in motion again. Does he get +any letters?" +</P> + +<P> +"His girl writes to him. Fine letters. But she doesn't know yet +about—about this. I've written his letters for him. She knows now +that his leg is healed and she wonders——" +</P> + +<P> +That had been a month ago. Today Miss Kate slit the envelope +post-marked Chicago. Chet was fingering the yellow wooden chicken, +pride in his eyes. In Miss Kate's eyes there was a troubled, baffled +look as she began to read: +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> + Chet, dear, it's raining in Chicago. And you know when it + rains in Chicago it's wetter, and muddier, and rainier than any + place in the world. Except maybe this Flanders we're reading + so much about. They say for rain and mud that place takes the + prize. +</P> + +<P> + I don't know what I'm going on about rain and mud for, Chet + darling, when it's you I'm thinking of. Nothing else and + nobody else. Chet, I got a funny feeling there's something + you're keeping back from me. You're hurt worse than just the + leg. Boy, dear, don't you know it won't make any difference + with me how you look, or feel, or anything? I don't care how + bad you're smashed up. I'd rather have you without any + features at all than any other man with two sets. Whatever's + happened to the outside of you, they can't change your + insides. And you're the same man that called out to me that + day, "Hoo-hoo! Hello, sweetheart!" and when I gave you a + piece of my mind, climbed down off the pole, and put your face + up to be slapped, God bless the boy in you—— +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +A sharp little sound from him. Miss Kate looked up, quickly. Chet Ball +was staring at the beady-eyed yellow chicken in his hand. +</P> + +<P> +"What's this thing?" he demanded in a strange voice. +</P> + +<P> +Miss Kate answered him very quietly, trying to keep her own voice easy +and natural. "That's a toy chicken, cut out of wood." +</P> + +<P> +"What'm I doin' with it?" +</P> + +<P> +"You've just finished painting it." +</P> + +<P> +Chet Ball held it in his great hand and stared at it for a brief +moment, struggling between anger and amusement. And between anger and +amusement he put it down on the table none too gently and stood up, +yawning a little. +</P> + +<P> +"That's a hell of a job for a he-man!" Then in utter contrition: "Oh, +beggin' your pardon! That was fierce! I didn't——" +</P> + +<P> +But there was nothing shocked about the expression on Miss Kate's face. +She was registering joy—pure joy. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="maternal"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Maternal Feminine [1919] +</H3> + +<P> +Called upon to describe Aunt Sophy, you would have to coin a term or +fall back on the dictionary definition of a spinster. "An unmarried +woman," states that worthy work, baldly, "especially when no longer +young." That, to the world, was Sophy Decker. Unmarried, certainly. +And most certainly no longer young. In figure, she was, at fifty, what +is known in the corset ads as a "stylish stout." Well dressed in dark +suits, with broad-toed health shoes and a small, astute hat. The suit +was practical common sense. The health shoes were comfort. The hat +was strictly business. Sophy Decker made and sold hats, both astute +and ingenuous, to the female population of Chippewa, Wisconsin. +Chippewa's East End set bought the knowing type of hat, and the mill +hands and hired girls bought the naive ones. But whether lumpy or +possessed of that thing known as line, Sophy Decker's hats were honest +hats. +</P> + +<P> +The world is full of Aunt Sophys, unsung. Plump, ruddy, capable women +of middle age. Unwed, and rather looked down upon by a family of +married sisters and tolerant, good-humored brothers-in-law, and +careless nieces and nephews. +</P> + +<P> +"Poor Aunt Soph," with a significant half smile. "She's such a good +old thing. And she's had so little in life, really." +</P> + +<P> +She was, undoubtedly, a good old thing—Aunt Soph. Forever sending a +model hat to this pert little niece in Seattle; or taking Adele, Sister +Flora's daughter, to Chicago or New York as a treat on one of her +buying trips. +</P> + +<P> +Burdening herself, on her business visits to these cities, with a dozen +foolish shopping commissions for the idle womenfolk of her family. +Hearing without partisanship her sisters' complaints about their +husbands, and her sisters' husbands' complaints about their wives. It +was always the same. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm telling you this, Sophy. I wouldn't breathe it to another living +soul. But I honestly think, sometimes, that if it weren't for the +children——" +</P> + +<P> +There is no knowing why they confided these things to Sophy instead of +to each other, these wedded sisters of hers. Perhaps they held for +each other an unuttered distrust or jealousy. Perhaps, in making a +confidante of Sophy, there was something of the satisfaction that comes +of dropping a surreptitious stone down a deep well and hearing it +plunk, safe in the knowledge that it has struck no one and that it +cannot rebound, lying there in the soft darkness. Sometimes they would +end by saying, "But you don't know what it is, Sophy. You can't. I'm +sure I don't know why I'm telling you all this." +</P> + +<P> +But when Sophy answered, sagely, "I know; I know," they paid little +heed, once having unburdened themselves. The curious part of it is +that she did know. She knew as a woman of fifty must know who, all her +life, has given and given and in return has received nothing. Sophy +Decker had never used the word inhibition in her life. She may not +have known what it meant. She only knew (without in the least knowing +she knew) that in giving of her goods, of her affections, of her time, +of her energy, she found a certain relief. Her own people would have +been shocked if you had told them that there was about this old-maid +aunt something rather splendidly Rabelaisian. Without being what is +known as a masculine woman, she had, somehow, acquired the man's +viewpoint, his shrewd value sense. She ate a good deal, and enjoyed +her food. She did not care for those queer little stories that married +women sometimes tell, with narrowed eyes, but she was strangely +tolerant of what is known as sin. So simple and direct she was that +you wondered how she prospered in a line so subtle as the millinery +business. +</P> + +<P> +You might have got a fairly true characterization of Sophy Decker from +one of fifty people: from a salesman in a New York or Chicago wholesale +millinery house; from Otis Cowan, cashier of the First National Bank of +Chippewa; from Julia Gold, her head milliner and trimmer; from almost +anyone, in fact, except a member of her own family. They knew her +least of all. Her three married sisters—Grace in Seattle, Ella in +Chicago, and Flora in Chippewa—regarded her with a rather affectionate +disapproval from the snug safety of their own conjugal inglenooks. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know. There's something—well—common about Sophy," Flora +confided to Ella. Flora, on shopping bent, and Sophy, seeking hats, +had made the five-hour run from Chippewa to Chicago together. "She +talks to everybody. You should have heard her with the porter on our +train. Chums! And when the conductor took our tickets it was a social +occasion. You know how packed the seven-fifty-two is. Every seat in +the parlor car taken. And Sophy asking the colored porter about how +his wife was getting along—she called him William—and if they were +going to send her West, and all about her. I wish she wouldn't." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Aunt Sophy undeniably had a habit of regarding people as human beings. +You found her talking to chambermaids and delivery boys, and elevator +starters, and gas collectors, and hotel clerks—all that aloof, +unapproachable, superior crew. Under her benign volubility they +bloomed and spread and took on color as do those tight little paper +water flowers when you cast them into a bowl. It wasn't idle curiosity +in her. She was interested. You found yourself confiding to her your +innermost longings, your secret tribulations, under the encouragement +of her sympathetic, "You don't say!" Perhaps it was as well that +Sister Flora was in ignorance of the fact that the millinery salesmen +at Danowitz & Danowitz, Importers, always called Miss Decker Aunt Soph, +as, with one arm flung about her plump shoulder, they revealed to her +the picture of their girl in the back flap of their billfold. +</P> + +<P> +Flora, with a firm grip on Chippewa society, as represented by the East +End set, did not find her position enhanced by a sister in the +millinery business in Elm Street. +</P> + +<P> +"Of course it's wonderful that she's self-supporting and successful and +all," she told her husband. "But it's not so pleasant for Adele, now +that she's growing up, having all the girls she knows buying their hats +of her aunt. Not that I—but you know how it is." +</P> + +<P> +H. Charnsworth Baldwin said yes, he knew. +</P> + +<P> +When the Decker girls were young, the Deckers had lived in a sagging +old frame house (from which the original paint had long ago peeled in +great scrofulous patches) on an unimportant street in Chippewa. There +was a worm-eaten, russet-apple tree in the yard, an untidy tangle of +wild-cucumber vine over the front porch, and an uncut brush of +sunburned grass and weeds all about. +</P> + +<P> +From May until September you never passed the Decker place without +hearing the plunkety-plink of a mandolin from somewhere behind the +vines, laughter, and the creak-creak of the hard-worked and protesting +hammock hooks. +</P> + +<P> +Flora, Ella, and Grace Decker had had more beaux and fewer clothes than +any other girls in Chippewa. In a town full of pretty young things, +they were, undoubtedly, the prettiest; and in a family of pretty +sisters (Sophy always excepted) Flora was the acknowledged beauty. She +was the kind of girl whose nose never turns red on a frosty morning. A +little, white, exquisite nose, purest example of the degree of +perfection which may be attained by that vulgarest of features. Under +her great gray eyes were faint violet shadows which gave her a look of +almost poignant wistfulness. Her slow, sweet smile give the beholder +an actual physical pang. Only her family knew she was lazy as a +behemoth, untidy about her person, and as sentimental as a hungry +shark. The strange and cruel part of it was that, in some grotesque, +exaggerated way, as a cartoon may be like a photograph, Sophy resembled +Flora. It was as though nature, in prankish mood, had given a cabbage +the color and texture of a rose, with none of its fragile reticence and +grace. +</P> + +<P> +It was a manless household. Mrs. Decker, vague, garrulous, referred to +her dead husband, in frequent reminiscence, as poor Mr. Decker. Mrs. +Decker dragged one leg as she walked—rheumatism, or a spinal +affection. Small wonder, then, that Sophy, the plain, with a gift for +hatmaking, a knack at eggless cake baking, and a genius for turning a +sleeve so that last year's style met this year's without a struggle, +contributed nothing to the sag in the center of the old twine hammock +on the front porch. +</P> + +<P> +That the three girls should marry well, and Sophy not at all, was as +inevitable as the sequence of the seasons. Ella and Grace did not +manage badly, considering that they had only their girlish prettiness +and the twine hammock to work with. But Flora, with her beauty, +captured H. Charnsworth Baldwin. Chippewa gasped. H. Charnsworth +Baldwin drove a skittish mare to a high-wheeled yellow runabout; had +his clothes made at Proctor Brothers in Milwaukee; and talked about a +game called golf. It was he who advocated laying out a section of land +for what he called links, and erecting a clubhouse thereon. +</P> + +<P> +"The section of the bluff overlooking the river," he explained, "is +full of natural hazards, besides having a really fine view." +</P> + +<P> +Chippewa—or that comfortable, middle-class section of it which got its +exercise walking home to dinner from the store at noon, and cutting the +grass evenings after supper—laughed as it read this interview in the +Chippewa Eagle. +</P> + +<P> +"A golf course," they repeated to one another, grinning. "Conklin's cow +pasture, up the river. It's full of natural—wait a minute—what +was?—oh, yeh, here it is—hazards. Full of natural hazards. Say, +couldn't you die!" +</P> + +<P> +For H. Charnsworth Baldwin had been little Henry Baldwin before he went +East to college. Ten years later H. Charnsworth, in knickerbockers and +gay-topped stockings, was winning the cup in the men's tournament +played on the Chippewa golf-club course, overlooking the river. And +his name, in stout gold letters, blinked at you from the plate-glass +windows of the office at the corner of Elm and Winnebago: +</P> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> + NORTHERN LUMBER AND LAND COMPANY<BR> + H. Charnsworth Baldwin, Pres.<BR> +</H4> + +<BR> + +<P> +Two blocks farther down Elm Street was another sign, not so glittering, +which read: +</P> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> + Miss Sophy Decker<BR> + Millinery<BR> +</H4> + +<BR> + +<P> +Sophy's hatmaking, in the beginning, had been done at home. She had +always made her sisters' hats, and her own, of course, and an +occasional hat for a girl friend. After her sisters had married, Sophy +found herself in possession of a rather bewildering amount of spare +time. The hat trade grew so that sometimes there were six rather +botchy little bonnets all done up in yellow paper pyramids with a pin +at the top, awaiting their future wearers. After her mother's death +Sophy still stayed on in the old house. She took a course in millinery +in Milwaukee, came home, stuck up a homemade sign in the parlor window +(the untidy cucumber vines came down), and began her hatmaking in +earnest. In five years she had opened a shop on a side street near +Elm, had painted the old house, installed new plumbing, built a warty +stucco porch, and transformed the weedy, grass-tangled yard into an +orderly stretch of green lawn and bright flower beds. In ten years she +was in Elm Street, and the Chippewa Eagle ran a half column twice a +year describing her spring and fall openings. On these occasions Aunt +Sophy, in black satin and marcel wave and her most relentless corsets, +was, in all the superficial things, not a pleat or fold or line or wave +behind her city colleagues. She had all the catch phrases: +</P> + +<P> +"This is awfully good this year." +</P> + +<P> +"Here's a sweet thing. A Mornet model." +</P> + +<P> +"... Well, but, my dear, it's the style—the line—you're paying for, +not the material." +</P> + +<P> +"No, that hat doesn't do a thing for you." +</P> + +<P> +"I've got it. I had you in mind when I bought it. Now don't say you +can't wear henna. Wait till you see it on." +</P> + +<P> +When she stood behind you as you sat, uncrowned and expectant before +the mirror, she would poise the hat four inches above your head, +holding it in the tips of her fingers, a precious, fragile thing. Your +fascinated eyes were held by it, and your breath as well. Then down it +descended, slowly, slowly. A quick pressure. +</P> + +<P> +Her fingers firm against your temples. A little sigh of relieved +suspense. +</P> + +<P> +"That's wonderful on you! ... You don't! Oh, my dear! But that's +because you're not used to it. You know how you said, for years, you +had to have a brim, and couldn't possibly wear a turban, with your +nose, until I proved to you that if the head size was only big ... +Well, perhaps this needs just a lit-tle lift here. Ju-u-ust a nip. +There! That does it." +</P> + +<P> +And that did it. Not that Sophy Decker ever tried to sell you a hat +against your judgment, taste, or will. She was too wise a psychologist +and too shrewd a businesswoman for that. She preferred that you go out +of her shop hatless rather than with an unbecoming hat. But whether +you bought or not you took with you out of Sophy Decker's shop +something more precious than any hatbox ever contained. Just to hear +her admonishing a customer, her good-natured face all aglow: +</P> + +<P> +"My dear, always put on your hat before you get into your dress. I do. +You can get your arms above your head, and set it right. I put on my +hat and veil as soon's I get my hair combed." +</P> + +<P> +In your mind's eye you saw her, a stout, well-stayed figure in tight +brassiere and scant slip, bare-armed and bare-bosomed, in smart hat and +veil, attired as though for the street from the neck up and for the +bedroom from the shoulders down. +</P> + +<P> +The East End set bought Sophy Decker's hats because they were modish +and expensive hats. But she managed, miraculously, to gain a large and +lucrative following among the paper-mill girls and factory hands as +well. You would have thought that any attempt to hold both these +opposites would cause her to lose one or the other. Aunt Sophy said, +frankly, that of the two, she would have preferred to lose her smart +trade. +</P> + +<P> +"The mill girls come in with their money in their hands, you might say. +They get good wages and they want to spend them. I wouldn't try to +sell them one of those little plain model hats. They wouldn't +understand 'em or like them. And if I told them the price they'd think +I was trying to cheat them. They want a hat with something good and +solid on it. Their fathers wouldn't prefer caviar to pork roast, would +they? It's the same idea." +</P> + +<P> +Her shopwindows reflected her business acumen. One was chastely, +severely elegant, holding a single hat poised on a slender stick. +</P> + +<P> +In the other were a dozen honest arrangements of velvet and satin and +plumes. +</P> + +<P> +At the spring opening she always displayed one of those little toques +completely covered with violets. That violet-covered toque was a +symbol. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't expect 'em to buy it," Sophy Decker explained. "But everybody +feels there should be a hat like that at a spring opening. It's like a +fruit centerpiece at a family dinner. Nobody ever eats it, but it has +to be there." +</P> + +<P> +The two Baldwin children—Adele and Eugene—found Aunt Sophy's shop a +treasure trove. Adele, during her doll days, possessed such boxes of +satin and velvet scraps, and bits of lace and ribbon and jet as to make +her the envy of all her playmates. She used to crawl about the floor +of the shop workroom and under the table and chairs like a little +scavenger. +</P> + +<P> +"What in the world do you do with all that truck, child?" asked Aunt +Sophy. "You must have barrels of it." +</P> + +<P> +Adele stuffed another wisp of tulle into the pocket of her pinafore. +</P> + +<P> +"I keep it," she said. +</P> + +<P> +When she was ten Adele had said to her mother, "Why do you always say +'Poor Sophy'?" +</P> + +<P> +"Because—Aunt Sophy's had so little in life. She never has married, +and has always worked." +</P> + +<P> +Adele considered that. "If you don't get married do they say you're +poor?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well—yes——" +</P> + +<P> +"Then I'll get married," announced Adele. A small, dark, eerie child, +skinny and rather foreign-looking. The boy, Eugene, had the beauty +which should have been the girl's. Very tall, very blond, with the +straight nose and wistful eyes of the Flora of twenty years ago. "If +only Adele could have had his looks," his mother used to say. "They're +wasted on a man. He doesn't need them, but a girl does. Adele will +have to be well dressed and interesting. And that's such hard work." +</P> + +<P> +Flora said she worshiped her children. And she actually sometimes +still coquetted heavily with her husband. At twenty she had been +addicted to baby talk when endeavoring to coax something out of +someone. Her admirers had found it irresistible. At forty it was +awful. Her selfishness was colossal. She affected a semi-invalidism +and for fifteen years had spent one day a week in bed. She took no +exercise and a great deal of soda bicarbonate and tried to fight her +fat with baths. Fifteen or twenty years had worked a startling change +in the two sisters, Flora the beautiful and Sophy the plain. It was +more than a mere physical change. It was a spiritual thing, though +neither knew nor marked it. Each had taken on weight, the one, +solidly, comfortably; the other, flabbily, unhealthily. With the +encroaching fat, Flora's small, delicate features seemed, somehow, to +disappear in her face, so that you saw it as a large white surface +bearing indentations, ridges, and hollows like one of those enlarged +photographs of the moon's surface as seen through a telescope. A +self-centered face, and misleadingly placid. Aunt Sophy's large, plain +features, plumply padded now, impressed you as indicating strength, +courage, and a great human understanding. +</P> + +<P> +From her husband and her children, Flora exacted service that would +have chafed a galley slave into rebellion. She loved to lie in bed, in +an orchid bed jacket with ribbons, and be read to by Adele, or Eugene, +or her husband. They all hated it. +</P> + +<P> +"She just wants to be waited on, and petted, and admired," Adele had +stormed one day, in open rebellion, to her Aunt Sophy. "She uses it as +an excuse for everything and has, ever since Gene and I were children. +She's as strong as an ox." Not a daughterly speech, but true. +</P> + +<P> +Years before, a generous but misguided woman friend, coming in to call, +had been ushered in to where Mrs. Baldwin lay propped up in a nest of +pillows. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I don't blame you," the caller had gushed. "If I looked the way +you do in bed I'd stay there forever. Don't tell me you're sick, with +all that lovely color!" +</P> + +<P> +Flora Baldwin had rolled her eyes ceilingward. "Nobody ever gives me +credit for all my suffering and ill-health. And just because all my +blood is in my cheeks." +</P> + +<P> +Flora was ambitious, socially, but too lazy to make the effort +necessary for success in that direction. +</P> + +<P> +"I love my family," she would say. "They fill my life. After all, +that's a profession in itself—being a wife and mother." +</P> + +<P> +She showed her devotion by taking no interest whatever in her husband's +land schemes; by forbidding Eugene to play football at school for fear +he might be injured; by impressing Adele with the necessity for +vivacity and modishness because of what she called her unfortunate lack +of beauty. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't understand it," she used to say in the child's presence. "Her +father's handsome enough, goodness knows; and I wasn't such a fright +when I was a girl. And look at her! Little dark skinny thing." +</P> + +<P> +The boy, Eugene, grew up a very silent, handsome, shy young fellow. +The girl, dark, voluble, and rather interesting. The husband, more and +more immersed in his business, was absent from home for long periods +irritable after some of these home-comings; boisterously high-spirited +following other trips. Now growling about household expenses and +unpaid bills; now urging the purchase of some almost prohibitive +luxury. Anyone but a nagging, self-absorbed, and vain woman such as +Flora would have marked these unmistakable signs. But Flora was a +taker, not a giver. She thought herself affectionate because she +craved affection unduly. She thought herself a fond mother because she +insisted on having her children with her, under her thumb, marking +their devotion as a prisoner marks time with his feet, stupidly, +shufflingly, advancing not a step. +</P> + +<P> +Sometimes Sophy, the clear-eyed, seeing this state of affairs, tried to +stop it. +</P> + +<P> +"You expect too much of your husband and children," she said one day, +bluntly, to her sister. +</P> + +<P> +"I!" Flora's dimpled hand had flown to her breast like a wounded +thing. "I! You're crazy! There isn't a more devoted wife and mother +in the world. That's the trouble. I love them too much." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, then," grimly, "stop it for a change. That's half Eugene's +nervousness—your fussing over him. He's eighteen. Give him a chance. +You're weakening him. And stop dinning that society stuff into Adele's +ears. She's got brains, that child. Why, just yesterday, in the +workroom, she got hold of some satin and a shape and turned out a +little turban that Angie Hatton——" +</P> + +<P> +"Do you mean to tell me that Angie Hatton saw my Adele working in your +shop! Now, look here, Sophy. You're earning your living, and it's to +your credit. You're my sister. But I won't have Adele associated in +the minds of my friends with your hat store, understand? I won't have +it. That isn't what I sent her away to an expensive school for. To +have her come back and sit around a millinery workshop with a lot of +little, cheap, shoddy sewing girls! Now, understand, I won't have it! +You don't know what it is to be a mother. You don't know what it is to +have suffered. If you had brought two children into the world——" +</P> + +<P> +So, then, it had come about during the years between their childhood +and their youth that Aunt Sophy received the burden of their +confidences, their griefs, their perplexities. She seemed, somehow, to +understand in some miraculous way, and to make the burden a welcome one. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, now, you tell Aunt Sophy all about it. Stop crying, Della. How +can I hear when you're crying! That's my baby. Now, then." +</P> + +<P> +This when they were children. But with the years the habit clung and +became fixed. There was something about Aunt Sophy's house—the old +frame house with the warty stucco porch. For that matter, there was +something about the very shop downtown, with its workroom in the rear, +that had a cozy, homelike quality never possessed by the big Baldwin +house. H. Charnsworth Baldwin had built a large brick mansion, in the +Tudor style, on a bluff overlooking the Fox River, in the best +residential section of Chippewa. It was expensively furnished. The +hall console alone was enough to strike a preliminary chill to your +heart. +</P> + +<P> +The millinery workroom, winter days, was always bright and warm and +snug. The air was a little close, perhaps, and heavy, but with a not +unpleasant smell of dyes and stuffs and velvet and glue and steam and +flatiron and a certain racy scent that Julia Gold, the head trimmer, +always used. There was a sociable cat, white with a dark-gray patch on +his throat and a swipe of it across one flank that spoiled him for +style and beauty but made him a comfortable-looking cat to have around. +Sometimes, on very cold days, or in the rush season, the girls would +not go home to dinner, but would bring their lunches and cook coffee +over a little gas heater in the corner. Julia Gold, especially, drank +quantities of coffee. Aunt Sophy had hired her from Chicago. She had +been with her for five years. She said Julia was the best trimmer she +had ever had. Aunt Sophy often took her to New York or Chicago on her +buying trips. Julia had not much genius for original design, or she +never would have been content to be head milliner in a small-town shop. +But she could copy a fifty-dollar model from memory down to the last +detail of crown and brim. It was a gift that made her invaluable. +</P> + +<P> +The boy, Eugene, used to like to look at Julia Gold. Her hair was very +black and her face was very white, and her eyebrows met in a thick dark +line. Her face as she bent over her work was sullen and brooding, but +when she lifted her head suddenly, in conversation, you were startled +by a vivid flash of teeth and eyes and smile. Her voice was deep and +low. She made you a little uncomfortable. Her eyes seemed always to +be asking something. Around the worktable, mornings, she used to +relate the dream she had had the night before. In these dreams she was +always being pursued by a lover. "And then I woke up, screaming." +Neither she nor the sewing girls knew what she was revealing in these +confidences of hers. But Aunt Sophy, the shrewd, somehow sensed it. +</P> + +<P> +"You're alone too much, evenings. That's what comes of living in a +boardinghouse. You come over to me for a week. The change will do you +good, and it'll be nice for me, too, having somebody to keep me +company." +</P> + +<P> +Julia often came for a week or ten days at a time. Julia, about the +house after supper, was given to those vivid splashy negligees with big +flower patterns strewn over them. They made her hair look blacker and +her skin whiter by contrast. Sometimes Eugene or Adele or both would +drop in and the four would play bridge. Aunt Sophy played a shrewd and +canny game, Adele a rather brilliant one, Julia a wild and disastrous +hand, always, and Eugene so badly that only Julia would take him on as +a partner. Mrs. Baldwin never knew about these evenings. +</P> + +<P> +It was on one of these occasions that Aunt Sophy, coming unexpectedly +into the living room from the kitchen, where she and Adele were +foraging for refreshments after the game, beheld Julia Gold and Eugene, +arms clasped about each other, cheek to cheek. They started up as she +came in and faced her, the woman defiantly, the boy bravely. Julia +Gold was thirty (with reservations) at that time, and the boy not quite +twenty-one. +</P> + +<P> +"How long?" said Aunt Sophy, quietly. She had a mayonnaise spoon and a +leaf of lettuce in her hand then, and still she did not look comic. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm crazy about her," said Eugene. "We're crazy about each other. +We're going to be married." +</P> + +<P> +Aunt Sophy listened for the reassuring sound of Adele's spoons and +plates in the kitchen. She came forward. "Now, listen——" she began. +</P> + +<P> +"I love him," said Julia Gold, dramatically. "I love him!" +</P> + +<P> +Except that it was very white and, somehow, old-looking, Aunt Sophy's +face was as benign as always. "Now, look here, Julia, my girl. That +isn't love, and you know it. I'm an old maid, but I know what love is +when I see it. I'm ashamed of you, Julia. Sensible woman like you, +hugging and kissing a boy like that, and old enough to be his mother." +</P> + +<P> +"Now, look here, Aunt Sophy! If you're going to talk that way—— Why, +she's wonderful. She's taught me what it means to really——" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, my land!" Aunt Sophy sat down, looking suddenly very ill. +</P> + +<P> +And then, from the kitchen, Adele's clear young voice: "Heh! What's +the idea! I'm not going to do all the work. Where's everybody?" +</P> + +<P> +Aunt Sophy started up again. She came up to them and put a hand—a +capable, firm, steadying hand—on the arm of each. The woman drew +back, but the boy did not. +</P> + +<P> +"Will you promise me not to do anything for a week? Just a week! Will +you promise me? Will you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Are you going to tell Father?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not for a week, if you'll promise not to see each other in that week. +No, I don't want to send you away, Julia, I don't want to.... You're +not a bad girl. It's just—he's never had—at home they never gave him +a chance. Just a week, Julia. Just a week, Eugene. We can talk +things over then." +</P> + +<P> +Adele's footsteps coming from the kitchen. +</P> + +<P> +"Quick!" +</P> + +<P> +"I promise," said Eugene. Julia said nothing. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, really," said Adele, from the doorway, "you're a nervy lot, +sitting around while I slave in the kitchen. Gene, see if you can open +the olives with this fool can opener. I tried." +</P> + +<P> +There is no knowing what she expected to do in that week, Aunt Sophy; +what miracle she meant to perform. She had no plan in her mind. Just +hope. She looked strangely shrunken and old, suddenly. But when, +three days later, the news came that America was to go into the war she +had her answer. +</P> + +<P> +Flora was beside herself. "Eugene won't have to go. He isn't old +enough, thank God! And by the time he is it will be over. Surely." +She was almost hysterical. +</P> + +<P> +Eugene was in the room. Aunt Sophy looked at him and he looked at Aunt +Sophy. In her eyes was a question. In his was the answer. They said +nothing. The next day Eugene enlisted. In three days he was gone. +Flora took to her bed. Next day Adele, a faint, unwonted color marking +her cheeks, walked into her mother's bedroom and stood at the side of +the recumbent figure. Her father, his hands clasped behind him, was +pacing up and down, now and then kicking a cushion that had fallen to +the floor. He was chewing a dead cigar, one side of his face twisted +curiously over the cylinder in his mouth so that he had a sinister and +crafty look. +</P> + +<P> +"Charnsworth, won't you please stop ramping up and down like that! My +nerves are killing me. I can't help it if the war has done something +or other to your business. I'm sure no wife could have been more +economical than I have. Nothing matters but Eugene, anyway. How could +he do such a thing! I've given my whole life to my children——" +</P> + +<P> +H. Charnsworth kicked the cushion again so that it struck the wall at +the opposite side of the room. Flora drew her breath in between her +teeth as though a knife had entered her heart. +</P> + +<P> +Adele still stood at the side of the bed, looking at her mother. Her +hands were clasped behind her, too. In that moment, as she stood +there, she resembled her mother and her father so startlingly and +simultaneously that the two, had they been less absorbed in their own +affairs, must have marked it. +</P> + +<P> +The girl's head came up stiffly. "Listen. I'm going to marry Daniel +Oakley." +</P> + +<P> +Daniel Oakley was fifty, and a friend of her father's. For years he +had been coming to the house and for years she had ridiculed him. She +and Eugene had called him Sturdy Oak because he was always talking +about his strength and endurance, his walks, his rugged health; +pounding his chest meanwhile and planting his feet far apart. He and +Baldwin had had business relations as well as friendly ones. +</P> + +<P> +At this announcement Flora screamed and sat up in bed. H. Charnsworth +stopped short in his pacing and regarded his daughter with a queer +look; a concentrated look, as though what she had said had set in +motion a whole mass of mental machinery within his brain. +</P> + +<P> +"When did he ask you?" +</P> + +<P> +"He's asked me a dozen times. But it's different now. All the men +will be going to war. There won't be any left. Look at England and +France. I'm not going to be left." She turned squarely toward her +father, her young face set and hard. "You know what I mean. You know +what I mean." +</P> + +<P> +Flora, sitting up in bed, was sobbing. "I think you might have told +your mother, Adele. What are children coming to! You stand there and +say, 'I'm going to marry Daniel Oakley.' Oh, I am so faint ... all of +a sudden ... Get the spirits of ammonia." +</P> + +<P> +Adele turned and walked out of the room. She was married six weeks +later. They had a regular prewar wedding—veil, flowers, dinner, and +all. Aunt Sophy arranged the folds of her gown and draped her veil. +The girl stood looking at herself in the mirror, a curious half smile +twisting her lips. She seemed slighter and darker than ever. +</P> + +<P> +"In all this white, and my veil, I look just like a fly in a quart of +milk," she said, with a laugh. Then, suddenly, she turned to her aunt, +who stood behind her, and clung to her, holding her tight, tight. "I +can't!" she gasped. "I can't! I can't!" +</P> + +<P> +Aunt Sophy held her off and looked at her, her eyes searching the girl. +</P> + +<P> +"What do you mean, Della? Are you just nervous or do you mean you +don't want to marry him? Do you mean that? Then what are you marrying +for? Tell me! Tell your Aunt Sophy." +</P> + +<P> +But Adele was straightening herself and pulling out the crushed folds +of her veil. "To pay the mortgage on the old homestead, of course. +Just like the girl in the play." She laughed a little. But Aunt Sophy +did not. +</P> + +<P> +"Now look here, Della. If you're——" +</P> + +<P> +But there was a knock at the door. Adele caught up her flowers. "It's +all right," she said. Aunt Sophy stood with her back against the door. +"If it's money," she said. "It is! It is, isn't it! I've got money +saved. It was for you children. I've always been afraid. I knew he +was sailing pretty close, with his speculations and all, since the war. +He can have it all. It isn't too late yet. Adele! Della, my baby." +</P> + +<P> +"Don't, Aunt Sophy. It wouldn't be enough, anyway. Daniel has been +wonderful, really. Dad's been stealing money for years. Dan's. Don't +look like that. I'd have hated being poor, anyway. Never could have +got used to it. It is ridiculous, though, isn't it? Like something in +the movies. I don't mind. I'm lucky, really, when you come to think +of it. A plain little black thing like me." +</P> + +<P> +"But your mother——" +</P> + +<P> +"Mother doesn't know a thing." +</P> + +<P> +Flora wept mistily all through the ceremony, but Adele was composed +enough for two. +</P> + +<P> +When, scarcely a month later, Baldwin came to Sophy Decker, his face +drawn and queer, Sophy knew. +</P> + +<P> +"How much?" she said. +</P> + +<P> +"Thirty thousand will cover it. If you've got more than that——" +</P> + +<P> +"I thought Oakley——Adele said——" +</P> + +<P> +"He did, but he won't any more, and this thing's got to be met. It's +this damned war that's done it. I'd have been all right. People got +scared. They wanted their money. They wanted it in cash." +</P> + +<P> +"Speculating with it, were you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, well, a woman doesn't understand these business deals." +</P> + +<P> +"No, naturally," said Aunt Sophy, "a butterfly like me." +</P> + +<P> +"Sophy, for God's sake don't joke now. I tell you this will cover it, +and everything will be all right. If I had anybody else to go to for +the money I wouldn't ask you. But you'll get it back. You know that." +</P> + +<P> +Aunt Sophy got up, heavily, and went over to her desk. "It was for the +children, anyway. They won't need it now." +</P> + +<P> +He looked up at that. Something in her voice. "Who won't? Why won't +they?" +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know what made me say that. I had a dream." +</P> + +<P> +"Eugene?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, well, we're all nervous. Flora has dreams every night and +presentiments every fifteen minutes. Now, look here, Sophy. About this +money. You'll never know how grateful I am. Flora doesn't understand +these things, but I can talk to you. It's like this——" +</P> + +<P> +"I might as well be honest about it," Sophy interrupted. "I'm doing +it, not for you, but for Flora, and Della—and Eugene. Flora has lived +such a sheltered life. I sometimes wonder if she ever really knew any +of you. Her husband, or her children. I sometimes have the feeling +that Della and Eugene are my children—were my children." +</P> + +<P> +When he came home that night Baldwin told his wife that old Soph was +getting queer. "She talks about the children being hers," he said. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, well, she's awfully fond of them," Flora explained. "And she's +lived her little, narrow life, with nothing to bother her but her hats +and her house. She doesn't know what it means to suffer as a mother +suffers—poor Sophy." +</P> + +<P> +"Um," Baldwin grunted. +</P> + +<P> +When the official notification of Eugene's death came from the War +Department, Aunt Sophy was so calm it might have appeared that Flora +had been right. She took to her bed now in earnest, did Flora. Sophy +neglected everything to give comfort to the stricken two. +</P> + +<P> +"How can you sit there like that!" Flora would rail. "How can you sit +there like that! Even if you weren't his mother, surely you must feel +something." +</P> + +<P> +"It's the way he died that comforts me," said Aunt Sophy. +</P> + +<P> +"What difference does that make!" +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +AMERICAN RED CROSS<BR> + (Croix Rouge Americaine)<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +MY DEAR MRS. BALDWIN: +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> + I am sure you must have been officially notified by the U.S. +War Dept. of the death of your son, Lieut. Eugene H. Baldwin. But I +want to write you what I can of his last hours. I was with him much of +that time as his nurse. I'm sure it must mean much to a mother to hear +from a woman who was privileged to be with her boy at the last. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> + Your son was brought to our hospital one night badly gassed +from the fighting in the Argonne Forest. Ordinarily we do not receive +gassed patients, as they are sent to a special hospital near here. But +two nights before, the Germans wrecked that hospital, so many gassed +patients have come to us. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> + Your son was put in the officers' ward, where the doctors who +examined him told me there was absolutely no hope for him, as he had +inhaled so much gas that it was only a matter of a few hours. I could +scarcely believe that a man so big and strong as he was could not pull +through. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> + The first bad attack he had, losing his breath and nearly +choking, rather frightened him, although the doctor and I were both +with him. He held my hand tightly in his, begging me not to leave him, +and repeating, over and over, that it was good to have a woman near. +He was propped high in bed and put his head on my shoulder while I +fanned him until he breathed more easily. I stayed with him all that +night, though I was not on duty. You see, his eyes also were badly +burned. But before he died he was able to see very well. I stayed +with him every minute of that night and have never seen a finer +character than he showed during all that fight for life. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> + He had several bad attacks that night and came through each one +simply because of his great will power and fighting spirit. After each +attack he would grip my hand and say, "Well, we made it that time, +didn't we, nurse?" Toward morning he asked me if he was going to die. +I could not tell him the truth. He needed all his strength. I told +him he had one chance in a thousand. He seemed to become very strong +then, and sitting bolt upright in bed, he said: "Then I'll fight for +it!" We kept him alive for three days, and actually thought we had won +when on the third day... +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> + But even in your sorrow you must be very proud to have been the +mother of such a son.... +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> + I am a Wisconsin girl—Madison. When this is over and I come +home, will you let me see you so that I may tell you more than I can +possibly write? +<BR><BR> + MARIAN KING +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +It was in March, six months later, that Marian King came. They had +hoped for it, but never expected it. And she came. Four people were +waiting in the living room of the big Baldwin house overlooking the +river. Flora and her husband, Adele and Aunt Sophy. They sat, +waiting. Now and then Adele would rise, nervously, and go to the +window that faced the street. Flora was weeping with audible sniffs. +Baldwin sat in his chair, frowning a little, a dead cigar in one corner +of his mouth. Only Aunt Sophy sat quietly, waiting. +</P> + +<P> +There was little conversation. None in the last five minutes. Flora +broke the silence, dabbing at her face with her handkerchief as she +spoke. +</P> + +<P> +"Sophy, how can you sit there like that? Not that I don't envy you. I +do. I remember I used to feel sorry for you. I used to say 'Poor +Sophy.' But you unmarried ones are the happiest, after all. It's the +married woman who drinks the cup to the last, bitter drop. There you +sit, Sophy, fifty years old, and life hasn't even touched you. You +don't know how cruel life can be to a mother." +</P> + +<P> +Suddenly, "There!" said Adele. The other three in the room stood up +and faced the door. The sound of a motor stopping outside. Daniel +Oakley's hearty voice: "Well, it only took us five minutes from the +station. Pretty good." +</P> + +<P> +Footsteps down the hall. Marian King stood in the doorway. They faced +her, the four—Baldwin and Adele and Flora and Sophy. Marian King stood +a moment, uncertainly, her eyes upon them. She looked at the two older +women with swift, appraising glances. Then she came into the room, +quickly, and put her two hands on Aunt Soph's shoulders and looked into +her eyes straight and sure. +</P> + +<P> +"You must be a very proud woman," she said. "You ought to be a very +proud woman." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR><BR> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of One Basket, by Edna Ferber + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ONE BASKET *** + +***** This file should be named 489-h.htm or 489-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/4/8/489/ + +Produced by Charles Keller. HTML version by Al Haines. + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +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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