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<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77331 ***</div>
<p class='center'>This ebook was created in honor of Distributed Proofreaders 25th Anniversary.</p>
<figure class="figcenter illowp51" id="cover" style="max-width: 112.4375em;">
<img class="w100" src="images/cover.jpg" alt="Book Cover">
</figure>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[1]</span></p>
</div>
<h1>
THE WAY OF ALL EARTH
</h1>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_2"></a><a id="Page_3"></a>[3]</span></p>
</div>
<div class='div-center'><div class='title-border-outer'>
<div class='title-border'>
<p class="center title">THE WAY OF ALL<br> EARTH</p>
<p class="center title-by">BY</p>
<p class='center title-author'><span class='allsmcap'>EDITH BARNARD DELANO</span></p>
<div class='bibleqt'>
<p class="no-indent"><i>Behold, I have set before thee an
open door and no man can shut it.</i></p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Revelation</span></p>
</div>
<div class="center mt4"><figure class="figcenter illowp-colophon" id="colophon" style="max-width: 8em;">
<img class="w100" src="images/colophon.jpg" alt="Colophon">
</figure></div>
<p class="center title-pub">BONI <span class="allsmcap">AND</span> LIVERIGHT</p>
<p class='center title-date'><span class="smcap">Publishers</span>   ::   1925   ::   <span class="smcap">New York</span></p>
</div></div></div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[4]</span></p>
</div>
<p class='center copyright'>
<i>Copyright, 1923, 1924, 1925, by</i><br>
<span class="smcap">Edith Barnard Delano</span>
</p>
<hr class='r5'>
<p class='center'>
<i>Printed in the United States of America</i>
</p>
<p class='center print-history'>
First Printing, March, 1925<br>
Second printing, May, 1925</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[5]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="PART_I">
PART I
</h2>
</div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_6"></a><a id="Page_7"></a>[7]</span></p>
<p class='center half-title'>
THE WAY OF ALL EARTH
</p>
</div>
<h3 id="1">
1
</h3>
<p>Five o’clock; and the lethargic slowness of the
afternoon changed into activity with the abruptness
with which light comes after the turning of an electric
switch. The girls at the desks in the outer room—no
bobbed locks in those days, but grotesque oddities of
coiffure drooping low over foreheads and strangely
puffed out over ears—stood up so unanimously, so instantly,
that it was plain they had been waiting for
the hands of the clock to mark the hour of liberation.
The fugue of typewriters stopped; voices and the
shuffling of feet sounded another rhythm. A stenographer
closed a door behind her, came forward with
red-ruled notebook and pencil and made her way to a
desk near a window, a dissatisfied look on her face;
she would have to get off those letters before she went
home. Men opened and closed the drawers of their
desks; then they, too, followed the girls down the
stairs. One of them raised his arms and yawned.</p>
<p>“This spring weather gets you,” said he.</p>
<p>But nobody answered. The moment of release had
come; in every man’s mind was the thought of getting
away, just as eight hours before they had all been
motivated by the idea of getting to work.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[8]</span></p>
<p>“Take the ferry?” Brice Denison asked a man whose
shoulders brushed his as they went out the door.</p>
<p>“Tube’s quicker,” the other said.</p>
<p>“Well, I’ve got some grass seed to get.” He
plunged into the human stream rushing westward, battling
against the other stream forging to the east.
Sometimes he could thread his way a step or two
ahead of someone in front; sometimes he could do no
more than keep pace with the onward moving crowd—a
long step, a dozen short ones, looking for a gap, taking
it, held again, then on. A street or two crossed,
and the eastward stream grew less; it was possible to
make better progress, to dodge more, to pass a couple
of girls or a man; to walk swiftly under metal projections
where halves of beef hung, and hogs with their
sides held out by wooden pieces displayed the inner
sheathing of their ribs, and crates and baskets of vegetables
lay open to the dust, and fruit stands were piled
high with oranges and apples, and vendors’ carts lined
the curb with boxed strawberries. The air freshened
as Brice reached the street lined on one side with ferries.
He paused at the door of a shop, and stood for
a moment looking at the blue and purple and yellow
blooms.</p>
<p>“I’ll take a couple of those,” he said, and thrust his
hand into a trousers-pocket.</p>
<p>Then over the broad street to the ferry house. Under
a stairway the boy from whom he always bought the
evening paper. He was recognized; the paper he
wanted was snatched from the pile and thrust at him,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[9]</span>
his coins dropped into a waiting hand. Not a second
was lost. Men hurrying to the ferry must not be delayed.
Moments were precious, invaluable. They were
hastening home.</p>
<p>There were trains waiting on the other side. The
ferry docked. Men rushed off, parting to right and
left. Some glanced at the clock, then began to walk
more slowly; others raced, and others went stolidly on
their way, through the gates, on to forward cars. The
forward cars got there a moment sooner. Brice found
a seat, put his baskets of pansies in the rack overhead,
unfolded his evening paper. Other men were doing
the same thing. Their movements might have been
directed as by an orchestra leader. Headlines, first—they
had seen them on news-stands, in other men’s
hands, glanced at them in ferry or tube; then in unison,
with a swishing sound, up and down the car the papers
were turned, folded. The base-ball season was open.
Tired men, with no time for play, lost themselves in the
printed accounts of the game. The train moved out,
a few late-comers passing along the aisle in the hope
of finding seats. A hand fell on Brice’s shoulder.</p>
<p>“Why—hello there, Ned!” he said, as the other
took the place at his side. “Haven’t seen you for
ages!” A wave of self-consciousness passed over him;
that was an inapt thing to say: no, he had not seen
Ned Allen for ages. But the other man ignored any
awkwardness there might have been.</p>
<p>“How’s things?” he asked. “How’s Anne?”</p>
<p>“Fine, fine! How’s Mabel?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[10]</span></p>
<p>“She’s well. Billy’s had measles. I see you’re still
the same old farmer, Brice!”</p>
<p>Brice glanced overhead at his pansies. “Yes. But
I had to buy a lawn-mower when we moved, Ned.
Gosh—those were great old days!”</p>
<p>The other grinned. “Yes. I miss your tool chest.
Like your new house?”</p>
<p>“Not so new, now. Three years, nearly four, isn’t
it? By Jove, it’s five!”</p>
<p>“Five—so it is! We still miss you. Movies near
you?”</p>
<p>“Yes. Oh, yes. Anne’s sort of lost interest. Things
come along, you know. You meet people, all that. I
tell you what, Ned. We want you and Mabel to come
up to dinner some night. Make it soon.”</p>
<p>“That’s indefinite. We’ll do better than that. Anything
on tonight?”</p>
<p>“Not a thing.”</p>
<p>“Well then, you and Anne hop on a train and come
down. Or maybe you keep a car?”</p>
<p>“No such luck!” said Brice, with a comforting
warmth suddenly flaring within him; they had no car
yet, but things were coming along.</p>
<p>“All right. You come down, and we’ll all go to the
movies. Have a bite on the chafing-dish afterwards.
We’ve got a new one—electric. Be like old times.”</p>
<p>“We’ll do it!” said Brice, as the train stopped and
Allen arose. “In time for the second show, anyway.”</p>
<p>He did not open his paper again. Good, that, to
meet Ned, especially today. Good to think of old
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[11]</span>
times. That little two-family house, Ned and Mabel
in the apartment above. The lawn-mower that he borrowed
from Ned when his turn came to cut the small
plot of grass. The tools that Ned borrowed in turn.
Mabel and Anne going shopping together, sometimes
on a matinée spree in town; small triumphs shared,
simple pleasures—good old times, particularly good to
think about tonight. Good to have had them, good to
have gone on to something else; good, very good, still
to be going on.</p>
<p>The train stopped at his station; he thrust his newspaper
into a hip-pocket, took down the baskets of
flowers. A short walk along the side of the tracks, a
turn to the left and a block or two—it was not far to
his house; its convenience had been one of their reasons
for choosing it, but now its nearness to things
had become insignificant. Its importance, its meaning
had grown. It represented something more than any
other house on the street, even than the other houses
that he passed on the more important street. He never
turned into the by-street without a quickening of the
pulse. His eye never caught the gray stucco front
with its roof of red tiles coming oddly down in a sweep
incongruously borrowed from the Chinese without a
warm sense of satisfaction. That house was not like
other houses; it was not like any other house on that
street, even. They were all set on low terraces. Some
were shingled, some stuccoed; some had red roofs, and
others had brown; some were painted in gray or yellow,
with white trimmings and green blinds; some had two
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[12]</span>
smaller windows on the front porch, some had one
larger. Those differences were due to the effulgence
of the builder’s imagination and to the real-estate man’s
knowledge of salesmanship. This was a neighborhood
that was meant for nice people with moderate incomes;
at the time the houses were built there were no
garages, though later several owners had built them,
of cement or corrugated metal, in the tiny back yards.
People who lived in nice neighborhoods, however convenient
to the commuters’ trains, did not want to live
in houses like all the other houses on the street. The
floor plans of all those on Lammermoor Place were as
like as right and left gloves; but outside no two were
alike. Individuality was the keynote; individuality
and a certain smart look. That was what made for
quick sales. No need of substantial building. Looks,
looks—that was what counted. It had counted with
Brice and Anne; but now the house had taken upon
itself for Brice a personality of its own. It was home.
He was going home tonight with grass-seed for that
bare spot on the lawn, and with pansies, and with something
else. Anne would be pleased.</p>
<p>A little girl on roller skates skidded up to him as he
turned the corner, threw herself upon him. He
laughed, held out his hand, and the child set her feet
together and let him drag her along.</p>
<p>“Mrs. Denison’s just come home. She came in an
automobile,” she said. “See—? She hasn’t got out
yet, but she’s there.”</p>
<p>A long gray runabout, “the latest sports model,” was
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[13]</span>
at the curb in front of his house. Brice dropped the
child’s hands as he reached it. His eyes met Anne’s.</p>
<p>“I’ve brought her safe home, you see,” said the man
at the wheel.</p>
<p>“Thanks,” said Brice, dryly, without smiling.</p>
<p>Anne jumped down, spoke a laughing word of farewell
over her shoulder. They went up the walk together.
But in the hall she turned to him with a
look of resentment that was like a hand thrusting him
away.</p>
<p>“I think you might have been ordinarily polite to
Ranney,” she said.</p>
<p>“I thought I was,” said Brice; but without replying
Anne started upstairs. He set his baskets of pansies
on the hall table. From the landing where the stairs
turned she looked down.</p>
<p>“Of course if you really want to make a white spot
on the hall table it’s quite all right to put those wet
things there,” she said. He hastily took them up.
“I can’t see why you like to come home looking like a
delivery boy, anyway,” she added, and went on up to
her room.</p>
<p>Brice carried the pansies through a swinging door
into the kitchen. “Hello, Lucille,” he said to a young
colored woman who turned from the stove to greet him
with an exceptional dental display.</p>
<p>“My, ain’t them pretty!” she said.</p>
<p>“Yes. I’m going to plant them along the porch.”</p>
<p>“That’ll be grand! Mis’ Denison’s awful fond of
flowers.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[14]</span></p>
<p>“Got a tumbler or something?” Brice asked; he
began picking off some of the larger blossoms. The girl
brought him a small slim vase which he held under
the faucet. Water splashed into the sink, spattered
over his hands and coat.</p>
<p>“I’ll wipe you off,” said Lucille. “That faucet cuts
up all the time.”</p>
<p>“Needs a new washer,” said Brice. “I’ll fix it tonight.”
He carried the little vase into the dining-room,
and in the doorway stopped short. There were
flowers on the table, white lilacs and deep red roses,
and thrust between them some purple orchids, such a
forced mingling of the seasons as only the very rich
can achieve. But Brice did not know that. He wondered
vaguely what Anne had paid for them. Then
he set his pansies in front of her place.</p>
<p>She came down in a moment; she was always deft
in her changes of costume. It had not taken long, but
she was fresh and elusively fragrant in a gown Brice
had not seen before. She was smiling.</p>
<p>“You forgot to kiss me when you came in!” said
she.</p>
<p>“I can make up for that,” Brice said. “You look
like a party!”</p>
<p>“This?” she shrugged, turned herself about. “Do
you like me?”</p>
<p>“You bet I like you!”</p>
<p>Lucille came in at the moment, and Anne slid into
her chair at the table. She glanced at the pansies, set
the vase out of the way. During the meal their talk
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[15]</span>
was only casual. For the past few years Anne had
insisted that their one maid should wait upon the table
as nearly as possible in the manner of the more highly-paid
and trained servants of her friends. For a time
Brice found the result diverting. Often it was ludicrous
enough. But even a humorous thing may become
irksome; when the novelty began to wear off, he had
protested.</p>
<p>“Oh, let the girl eat her dinner in peace, Nance,” he
said, “and give us a chance to be human and talk.
I’m getting fed up with having her stand there by
the pantry door, listening to every word we say, and
staring at me every time I put the fork to my
mouth like a dog waiting for a bone. Call it off, can’t
you?”</p>
<p>“No,” said Anne, decidedly. “If I don’t train her
properly while we are alone, what can we do when we
have guests?”</p>
<p>“Let ’em get along as we do. Why not?”</p>
<p>“That’s absurd,” she replied.</p>
<p>It was not until their evening meal was ended and
they went into the greater freedom of the living-room
that there was anything more than broken, polite exchanges
of phrases between them. Brice’s gift of small
talk was largely lacking, and he saw that Anne had
something on her mind. She was always preoccupied,
when she had something on her mind.</p>
<p>“Coffee in the living-room, Lucille,” Anne said to
the girl, from the doorway.</p>
<p>Brice, already lighting his pipe, chuckled. Dinner
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[16]</span>
had rested him. His sense of humor was uppermost
again, and Anne was lovely in the light-colored gown.
“You do keep it up, don’t you, old girl? You’re a
wonder!”</p>
<p>“I don’t know what you mean.”</p>
<p>He looked at her quizzically over the flaming match.
“Coffee—and drawing-room. Gosh!” said he.</p>
<p>“Oh, I see the absurdity of it as well as you do,” she
retorted. “This room——!”</p>
<p>Brice sobered a little. “Nothing the matter with this
room,” he declared. “You’re a great hand at making
a place home-like, old lady. Mighty cozy in here.”</p>
<p>She looked at him for a moment; then she asked,
quietly, “Is that really your ideal, Brice? Cozy?”</p>
<p>“Well, why not? Looks good to me.”</p>
<p>She bit her lip, crossed the floor to press the little
button in an electric lamp. He looked after her,
added, “Not that I don’t wish it were—well, finer, and
larger, and all that—for your sake.”</p>
<p>She came slowly back. He had thrown himself into
a stuffed arm-chair which was worn into a permanent
impress of his figure. They had bought it during the
first year of their marriage, made an event of buying
it, called it his birthday present, that birthday being
two months in the future. He had never been willing
to have it banished to those regions above where most
of their early purchases filled spaces that would otherwise
be vacantly gaping. Pipe-smoke was whirling
about his head. He looked at her through its comforting
haze.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[17]</span></p>
<p>“Look here, Nance,” he said. “Old Grant is going
to resign. I’ve asked for his job.”</p>
<p>Instantly her expression changed.</p>
<p>“Oh, Brice! That will give us—how much does he
get?”</p>
<p>“Well, twelve hundred, maybe fifteen hundred, more
than I’m getting. But I suppose they wouldn’t start
me off with that, you know. Getting the job’s the first
thing.”</p>
<p>“But you will get it. Of course you will. And even
twelve hundred more! Oh, Brice!”</p>
<p>“Don’t count on it too soon, old girl. There’s Farren,
you know. He has more right to it than I have.
And there’s always the chance of their bringing in a
man from outside.”</p>
<p>“Oh! That wouldn’t be fair! And you’ve been
there longer than Farren. Twelve hundred——”</p>
<p>The colored maid, with her cap awry and a grin on
her face, at that moment backed through the portières
that separated the dining-room from the living-room,
bearing a tray too large for the two coffee-cups it held.
She swung around to face Anne, and the coffee splashed
over the rims of the cups to the saucers.</p>
<p>“Where you want it at?” she asked, cheerily.</p>
<p>“I will take it,” said Anne, with dignity, fully conscious
of her husband’s suppressed amusement. “And
the smaller tray next time, Lucille.”</p>
<p>The girl disappeared. “None of that for me,” said
Brice. “Keeps me awake.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[18]</span></p>
<p>Anne’s eyelids flickered. “You will need it tonight,”
said she. “We are going out.”</p>
<p>“That’s so!” said Brice, cheerfully, reaching up for
a cup. “How’d you know? Seen Mabel?”</p>
<p>She looked at him, plainly surprised. “Mabel?”</p>
<p>“Yes, Mabel. Ran into old Ned on the train. Said
he and Mabel had been wanting us over in the evening
for a long time, and why not tonight. So I said we’d
go. Of course. Don’t like to drop away from old
friends.”</p>
<p>Old friends. Ned, and Mabel. There flashed across
Anne’s mind those first years of their married life, when
she and Brice had had the downstairs apartment;
those days when Ned was beginning his career of
selling insurance, when Brice had been so triumphant
over getting the new job with Whitten & Company.
Yes, they were old friends. They had shared the lawn-mower,
taken turns in clearing off the snow, gone to the
movies together, compared the price of groceries, run
in and out half a dozen times a day. Those grubby
years, that she was so glad to have come away from.
She hated to be reminded of them.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry, Brice, I promised Tessie Ogden we’d go
there for bridge.”</p>
<p>“Oh, but look here! Mrs. Ogden won’t mind.
Can’t hurt old Ned’s feelings.”</p>
<p>“I don’t want to hurt them. We’ll have them here
to dinner some time.”</p>
<p>“But it’s been years since we were there, Nance.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[19]</span>
And I said we’d go. They’ll have gotten things
ready—you know how hospitable Mabel is.”</p>
<p>Anne knew. The latest record for the phonograph,
perhaps a game of five-hundred or the movies, and at
the end of the evening something on the chafing-dish,
with Mabel explaining where she had discovered the
recipe. Anne knew all of it. The scurrying of Mabel
to get things in order, Ned hurrying across the tracks
to the delicatessen store. Mabel’s discussion with ten-year-old
Florence about bed-time, Billy’s calls for a
drink of water. An endless retailing of jokes Ned had
read in the paper, by way of conversation. Oh, Anne
knew it all; whenever she thought of it she thanked the
stars of her destiny that they had helped her get away
from it. Even as it was, she had not got very far;
but not back to that, not back to that. She thought of
Tessie Ogden, with her languid voice, thought of the
richness of Tessie’s house, of the people who would
be there.</p>
<p>“I’ll telephone Mabel, Brice,” she said. “I can’t
possibly disappoint Tessie.”</p>
<p>Brice sat up. His pipe had gone out, and he sent
an exploring thumb into its depths. “I can’t see
Tessie’s being disappointed, Nance, by our not turning
up. But Mabel—and old Ned——”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry, Brice. We shall have to go to Tessie’s.
It’s bridge.”</p>
<p>“Well—that’s all the more reason, then. I told you
before, Nance, I am not going to play bridge with that
bunch.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[20]</span></p>
<p>She got up, moved about restlessly. If only Brice
would not make himself so hard to manage.</p>
<p>“Oh, you need not be afraid, this time, of losing,”
she said. “Tessie told me to say that she’d be your
partner. She always wins.”</p>
<p>Brice stood up, crossed to the mantel for tobacco.
“Sweet thing, Tessie,” said he.</p>
<p>Anne flared. “She’s no worse than the facts. The
fact is that my husband is too—too——”</p>
<p>Brice supplied the word. “Stingy.”</p>
<p>“You said it, not I! But there it is, and everybody
knows it, taunts me about it. Laughs at me, probably,
when I’m not there.”</p>
<p>“What do you care?” Brice looked at her with an
oddly lifted eyebrow, a trick of his that she used to
love. Now it exasperated her because it was always
the sign that Brice was opposing his will to hers.
“What do you care what those people think or even
say, Nance? What the dickens do they <em>matter</em>?”</p>
<p>“They are my friends.”</p>
<p>“But are they? What do they mean to you, what
would they do for you, what——”</p>
<p>“Tessie, at least, would play as my husband’s partner
to keep him from losing.”</p>
<p>Brice sat down. He leaned forward with his elbows
on his knees, his fingers fumbling over his pipe, his
eyes on an unimportant figure of the rug.</p>
<p>“Anne,” he said slowly, after a moment of thought,
“it does seem funny to have to try to make you understand.
Can’t you, without our saying anything?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[21]</span></p>
<p>She managed to smile; one prettily shod foot was
swaying a little. “But if you play with Tessie, Brice,
this time you’ll win,” she told him.</p>
<p>He bit his lip. “Look here, Nance,” he said, looking
across at her. “I hate like the dickens to can anything
you want to do, or anything you like to do. But this
playing bridge for money. Honest, old girl, I can’t
choke it down. It’s not playing a square deal with our
life, our income being what it is.”</p>
<p>“Everybody does it. And you’ll win, if you——”</p>
<p>“Everybody does not do it. You may call me anything
you like, but under the circumstances I don’t
think it’s decent. Even if you can afford it—and you
and I cannot, Nance—it’s a mere rushing into something
for the sake of excitement, unwholesome excitement.
If you can’t afford it, it’s all the worse. I am
not gambling. If I have anything to do with it, my
wife doesn’t gamble, either.”</p>
<p>“You played the other night.”</p>
<p>“I did. I’m sorry I did. I felt like a cheap skate
while I was doing it. But we were there, and I’d have
broken up the party if I stayed out. My having lost
has nothing to do with my being unwilling to play
again. I’m glad I lost. Served me right for being a
coward.”</p>
<p>“You lost three dollars and forty cents. Was that
much, for an evening’s amusement?”</p>
<p>“No. But it has nothing whatever to do with it.
I gambled, and I am not going to gamble again.”</p>
<p>For a moment she was too angry to speak; then
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[22]</span>
she stood up. “Brice,” she said, “I don’t think you
quite appreciate what I am trying to do for you.”</p>
<p>“I think you’re a peach, Nance.”</p>
<p>Her head moved impatiently. “You don’t know how
hard I have tried to know the right people. You——”</p>
<p>“What’s the matter with Alice’s set?”</p>
<p>“Nothing. Alice is my best friend. She has always
been, ever since we were born. I met you at her house.
But you know what Alice is, as well as I do. She’s
always had everything. She doesn’t want anything
more. She’s in a rut, and glad she’s in a rut, so long as
George and the children are there with her. The
people I have worked hard to know and make friends
with, for your sake, are people who are not in a rut.
They are rising people. And they’re the right people.
You don’t understand how hard it is to keep up with
them. I struggle and struggle, and you don’t try to
help me at all.”</p>
<p>“Sure I’ll help you! But after all, why the struggle?
Where’s it going to get you?”</p>
<p>“I’m not thinking about myself. I’m thinking about
you, your future. It’s all so I can further your
interests.”</p>
<p>His face clouded. “Where do my interests come in?
We’re getting along.”</p>
<p>“Oh—getting along! You’ll never be a success until
you know the right people. There’s DeLancey Hunt—he’s
made over a hundred thousand this last year, they
say. Meg’s got a new sedan, and Jack gave her a
sapphire bracelet on her birthday. There’s Burson,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[23]</span>
and Harry Claflin, and the Averys. I don’t have to go
over the list. The thing is that they are successful.
And you will never be successful until you get in with
them, know their ways, make friends of them. They
can do things for you.”</p>
<p>“I can’t thrill over that, you know. I don’t want to
climb by means of friends. Nor of people you and I
play around with.”</p>
<p>“I know you don’t. That’s just what I’ve been telling
you. You don’t help——”</p>
<p>“How much’ll it help to let Mrs. Ogden keep me
from losing money at bridge?”</p>
<p>She ignored that. “There’s Ranney Copeland—you
think so much of George and Alice, you ought to
approve of Ranney. He’s George’s brother. But what
do you do, the very first time he offers to help you?
You turn him down flat.”</p>
<p>“I don’t like Ranney Copeland. And I will not play
stocks.”</p>
<p>“Because you’re afraid!”</p>
<p>“Yes. I am afraid. I’m not ashamed of that.”</p>
<p>“Well, I am! You’ve got to push ahead as these
other men do, if you’re going to get anywhere.”</p>
<p>There was silence between them for a full minute.
Then he said, slowly, “Anne, we seem to be talking a
different language, these days.”</p>
<p>“Then it’s because you won’t look at life as it is.
You won’t put your hand out nor make any move to
get ahead. You wait until some change in the office
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[24]</span>
shoves you into a better place. You won’t see things
that——”</p>
<p>“But life has a good many sides to it, old girl. We
used to look at the same side, together, and not think
it so bad.”</p>
<p>“And what was it? What was it, but——”</p>
<p>“Not so bad,” he repeated, “not so bad. Just what a
good many millions of other men and other women are
looking at, and finding it good.”</p>
<p>She waved a hand, indicating the room they were
in, and laughed—not joyously. “This?”</p>
<p>“Well, yes, this—or something like it. Looks all
right to me. Meant a good deal to us, getting these
things together. Watched the house being built—remember?
Pretty good, first time I came home to it
and found you in the kitchen with a smudge on your
nose. Still is pretty good.”</p>
<p>“Honestly, Brice, is that all the ambition you have?”</p>
<p>“Not all. No. I’d like to see you in a limousine of
your own, and a house on a hill-top, if you wanted it.
But, after all, whether they’re big and showy or not,
the things men work for and want are just about the
same. Those other fellows, the ones whose wives
you’re running around with, don’t have any more.”</p>
<p>“Don’t have any more!” she repeated, incredulously.</p>
<p>“No. Home. Money enough to get by with. A
wife, and—and children.”</p>
<p>She clasped her hands together. “Oh! I’m glad,
glad, glad there are no children!”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[25]</span></p>
<p>He was staring again at the figure in the rug. “Yes,”
he said, slowly, “I have known your feeling about that
for some time.”</p>
<p>She jumped up, started to speak, but, instead, went
out of the room. He heard her step overhead.
Presently he went to the telephone and spoke with Ned
Allen. Then for an hour or more he sat in the arm-chair,
his body in its familiar sag to the left; sat there
with his pipe, his eyes still exploring the intricacies of
the pattern of the rug as a sick man will follow the
lines of the wall-paper, idly, perhaps—or perhaps
weaving into them strange figures.</p>
<h3 id="2">
2
</h3>
<p>In the morning she awoke to a spatter from the
bath-room—Brice, as usual, running off all the hot
water while he shaved. But immediately another
thought came to her. Old Mr. Grant was going to
resign. Twelve hundred a year more, maybe fifteen.</p>
<p>At the breakfast table she was smiling, debonnair,
fresh and youthful looking in one of the simple ginghams
that Brice loved. Owing to the demands of the
day’s work, at breakfast the maid did not preside, and
no cap was in evidence. Brice liked his coffee hot
from the stove, so Anne brought it in herself and
poured in a goodly portion of cream. Always, with
Brice, each day began itself; there was no hanging
over of the discussion of the night before.</p>
<p>“When does Mr. Grant go?” she asked.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[26]</span></p>
<p>Brice grinned across at her. “Now don’t you go
counting on that too much, old lady.”</p>
<p>“But of course you’ll get it. I am going to see Alice
about it today.”</p>
<p>He looked blank. “Alice?”</p>
<p>“Yes, of course. George Copeland is a stockholder
in Whitten & Company. A word from him——”</p>
<p>“Oh, please, Nance! You don’t understand.”</p>
<p>Her good humor was not to be shaken. “That is just
what I was trying to tell you last night, my dear.
Everything is done through friendship, nowadays.
That is just the value of my having worked so hard
to make the friends I have. A word from George
Copeland—I rather think nobody will disregard
that!”</p>
<p>“Oh, my dear girl! Look here—you can’t do that.
I won’t have it. It wouldn’t do any good, but I won’t
have it. Think of the position it’d put me in.”</p>
<p>“Oh, very well. You’ll get it, of course, anyway.
And Brice, the Dodsons want to sell their car.”</p>
<p>He got up, laughed, came around the table and bent
over her. “Don’t you go thinking about a car yet, my
child. Plenty of time for that.”</p>
<p>He came back from the hall and kissed her again.
She was all but unconscious of it, yet when the front
door had closed behind him she sat there thinking
about him. Brice, and their life together. Ten years.
What was it that Barrie had called it? Mid-channel,
where the waters were deepest, the seas most rough.
Mid-channel, where the danger was. But there could
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[27]</span>
be no danger in her case. As a matter of fact, she
thought any woman was rather stupid to let danger
come after ten years of experience. Of course, those
first years of adjustment were difficult enough. She
remembered days when she had thrown herself on the
bed and wept, for reasons long since forgotten. She
remembered those moments when little futile discussions
had arisen between them until they loomed like
horrible dark barriers they could never cross to come
heart to heart together again. She remembered how
furious she was when Brice brought carnations on their
first anniversary, forgetting that she loathed the stiff
scent-laden things and adored daffodils. And she
remembered how the next day she wept, and kissed
the empty sleeve of his coat in the closet, because Ned
Allen had let it out that Brice had gone without
luncheon for four days in order to buy them. Oh, it
was difficult enough to adjust one’s self to marriage,
at first. But one learned. Certainly she had learned
in those ten years what to avoid, where to persist, how
to work quietly, when to be tender and yielding. Men
did not learn as readily. Even now Brice did not trust
her to know what was best for them. Yet she knew
how to manage him. In the end he always came round
to her way of thinking. He was going to do that
now. For she wanted things, so many things. There
was no harm in wanting them. The other women
whom she had come to know during the past three or
four years all had them. Their husbands were no
cleverer than Brice. It was only that their attitude
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[28]</span>
towards life was different, their way of looking at
things that made them successful men. She could
discover no other reason for it. She must, must, somehow,
make Brice see things as they did. The rest
would follow; and she wanted the rest, wanted it so.</p>
<p>She looked at the flowers on the dining-table for a
moment, and a slow smile came to her face. It was
good of Ranney Copeland to have sent them; he was
always doing things like that. They must have fresh
water. She divided them, taking some into the living-room.
In the merciless revealing sunlight not even
her determination could make it look gay like Tessie
Ogden’s. Nor like Alice Copeland’s, with its sedate
expensiveness. There was Brice’s old chair, with the
cushions sagging to the left. That, alone, kept it in
the class of the one-living-room house. The other
things had been bought when they moved here from the
two-family house. Then they had been achievements,
definite advances in price and taste over anything they
had possessed before. Now she saw them for what
they were, understood their incongruity, their—her
mind formed the word—their hideousness. Chairs,
department-store Colonial. Too glossy. The rug that
had seemed so fine, and the one small Oriental in front
of the mantel, a later purchase whose price she had
managed to keep from Brice. The one good piece, an
Empire sofa, that somehow made all the rest look
sordid. That, too, a later purchase, bought under
Alice Copeland’s advice, at a price which Alice declared
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[29]</span>
a real bargain, but one that had cost Anne some heart-burnings
when Brice sat for two evenings over their
household accounts because he would not consent to
buying on the installment plan. That lamp on the
table was an earlier purchase. Mabel and Ned had
come down to admire it the day it came home. Perhaps
she had been a little hard about Mabel and Ned last
night; but one had to do hard things, sometimes, for
good to come out of them. It was like surgery. Not
pleasant, but sometimes necessary.</p>
<p>The door bell buzzed in the back of the house. She
jumped up, then sat down again and took up a piece
of embroidery. It rang again, and Lucille poked her
head around the door from the kitchen.</p>
<p>“You answer the do’ bell?” she asked cheerfully.</p>
<p>“Certainly not,” said Anne. “Don’t forget your
white apron.”</p>
<p>The girl brought in a couple of letters and a magazine.
“Get the little tray from the hall-table and bring
them in on that, please, Lucille,” Anne said.</p>
<p>The letters were not interesting. She usually found
herself bored with magazines. One had to look them
over, just as one had to read the novels that were
being talked about and the headlines of newspapers.
She went to the telephone and called up the grocery-man.
More than once Brice had suggested that she
could do better by going to the store herself, that the
morning walk would do her good. But what was the
use? You were only tempted to buy more when you
saw things displayed, and she hated to dress for the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[30]</span>
street early in the morning. Besides, with this new
prospect ahead of them, this new increase of salary,
there would be less need of being careful. Careful—how
she hated being careful. Brice even wanted her
to keep accounts, as if it helped any to know what the
money had been spent for, after it was gone. Brice
didn’t realize how much she saved, anyway. On her
clothes, for example. She had rather a flair for clothes.
It interested her to contrive them out of little or nothing.
Yes, little or nothing, since all she paid for was
the material. People wondered how she managed to
have so many dresses, but that was because she made
them, of course with the help of a cheap little
seamstress. There was a dress on the figure upstairs
now that the seamstress had left for her to finish. She
went up. If she hurried, she could wear it that afternoon.
Alice Copeland was coming to take her to the
country club. It was horrid, not having a car of one’s
own. The Dodsons bought a new car every year; the
one they would sell now was really as good as new.
Brice would not refuse her that. She would not have
to contrive for it as she had for the country-club dues.
And he would not refuse to use the car, as he had persistently
refused to go to the club with her, say what
she would about the desirable people to be met there.
The dues were only a hundred and eighty, after all;
and one did not have to have extras, in spite of what
Brice maintained. But that twelve hundred more they
were going to have, or fifteen hundred, would certainly
ease things. Perhaps she would not get the car this
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[31]</span>
year, after all. That would make Brice happier. How
he did love to save. And there was always Alice.
Alice was always willing to give her a lift. Everyone
knew they were almost like sisters.</p>
<p>They had always been like that, except a little less
intimately during the first few years of her marriage,
when she was in that first flush of excitement at being
married to Brice and having a place of their own, and
Alice was busy with her babies. She and Alice and
Nicky—they had had good times together when they
were children in the up-state town where her father,
Professor Warren, was principal of the high school, and
Alice’s father had owned the big mills. Anne, motherless,
was in a sense everyone’s child. There was old
Miss Willy, her father’s housekeeper, who did what
she could; and Veronica’s mother on one side and the
doctor’s family on the other. Anne was as much at
home in both houses as in her father’s. Doctor Clark
she adored, but there was a perpetual feud between
herself and the doctor’s only son, Ambrose. Neither
Anne nor Ambrose ever thought about the reason for
the feud. It was enough that Veronica was Anne’s
“most intimate friend,” and that Ambrose was forever
wanting Nicky to stop playing with the girls and help
him with some of the strange machines he was always
trying to make. As for Nicky, her disposition towards
the opposite sex was ordained before she was born.
There awaited her arrival five brothers of her own and
one Ambrose, who lived only two houses away, one
ever-adoring Ambrose. Emphatically, Veronica took
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[32]</span>
them all lightly. Alice was a plump, homely, shy little
girl, an adoring slave of both Anne and Nicky, and
always a little afraid of the boys. Naturally enough,
it was Alice who had married first, just as it was natural
that she should have married even more money than
her father possessed. She was still a good deal the
same sort of person as ever, plump and mild, generous,
sentimental; having no troubles of her own, she wore
the burden of others’ troubles on her heart, was forever
being distressed about something. Lately it had been
about Veronica. Why should Nicky persist in scorning
marriage? Why wouldn’t she take Ambrose? Why
did she live in that horrible, slummy part of the city?
Why did she let herself come into contact with all sorts
of grubby people, even have them at her rooms? Why
should any woman on earth want to work, when she
might have a nice home of her own and darling children?
Those were Alice’s arguments, at which Nicky
laughed and wrinkled up her eyes at Anne, or at
Ambrose if he were present. Yet in her heart Anne
agreed more with Alice than with Veronica.</p>
<p>They talked about it that afternoon on the way to
the country club. “Yes,” Anne said, “I do think she’d
be happier married. Ambrose would be easy to
manage.”</p>
<p>“They are both coming out to dinner tomorrow,”
Alice said. “Will you and Brice come, too?”</p>
<p>“Love to. I don’t think Brice and Ambrose see very
much of each other, these days.”</p>
<p>“Men are not like us in that,” Alice remarked.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[33]</span>
“When women don’t see each other often there seems
to be a lessening of intimacy after a while, with
most of us, anyway. Men take up where they left
off.”</p>
<p>“I’ve never thought about it,” Anne returned
lightly. “I know Brice and Ambrose are awfully fond
of each other. Of course, Ambrose detests me. He’s
never forgiven me for marrying Brice, though he did
introduce us. He thinks I’m not good enough for
Brice.”</p>
<p>“Anne, you do exaggerate so,” Alice protested.</p>
<p>“Oh no I don’t. I never got on with Ambrose when
we were children. I don’t get on with him now. I
think he’s stupid, if you ask me. But he’s done awfully
well. I don’t see why Nicky won’t have him. She’d
still have her own way.”</p>
<p>On that mild spring afternoon some of the women
were out on the links; others followed along, commenting,
chatting, languidly paying tribute to the call
of the season. Others sat for a while in the sun on the
great rounded porch that hung above the first tee,
Anne among them. A few days of brisk breeze had
dried the grass, but Anne did not like walking. She
waited with Mrs. Ogden until Alice and the others
returned. Then, in the sudden coolness of the late
afternoon, they all went indoors together.</p>
<p>“Tea, all you people,” Alice Copeland said. “My
party.”</p>
<p>That was the hour that Anne liked best. Usually a
man or two dropped in. Today there was only one,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[34]</span>
Ranney Copeland, who was devoting himself to a
young bride. But now and again his eyes turned
towards Anne. She appeared oblivious, though as the
talk went on her gayety increased. She was standing
at one end of the mantel, teacup in hand. The firelight
slid on the silk over her arm, played on the long line
of her hip, touched one side of her face to rosiness,
emphasizing her slimness, enhancing her air of youthfulness
that for all her thirty-two years was not wholly
fictitious. She was conscious of being well placed.
She liked to feel herself poised, graceful, elegant from
the arch of her foot to the smooth bands of hair under
the close hat. She liked to be standing at ease while
other women were seated.</p>
<p>“Now I,” she was saying across the steaming tea,
“am what the scientists call a throw-back. I’m the
typical old-fashioned woman. It’s the mental attitude
that counts. Mine, you know very well, Jane, is the
sweet, old-fashioned one. I’m sure you have noticed
it.”</p>
<p>“In a Callot model,” Ranney Copeland remarked.
“Or is it a Paquin?”</p>
<p>Anne threw him a swift smile, and stirred her tea;
but not before she had caught an exchange of glances
between two of the women, and a raised eyebrow. Oh
yes, the women understood about her clothes. Still,
she knew how to wear them. Even Alice, with
all her money, never succeeded in looking as well turned
out.</p>
<p>“Is that why you didn’t show up for bridge last
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[35]</span>
night?” Mrs. Ogden inquired. “So you could hold
Brice’s hand in front of the fire, or something?”</p>
<p>“Of course,” Anne said calmly.</p>
<p>“Didn’t the old-fashioned woman always capture her
husband’s pay-envelope on Saturday nights?” another
woman asked.</p>
<p>Anne tilted her chin a little, looked down. “Darling,”
she drawled, with an emphasis too tender.</p>
<p>“What Nance means to imply,” said Tessie Ogden,
who had been twice divorced, “is that she is all for the
sweet sanctity of the family.”</p>
<p>“Thanks, dear,” Anne laughed. “How well you
understand me.”</p>
<p>“Just the same, I don’t blame Nellie Callum for
going to Reno,” said the speaker Anne had first answered.
“Though goodness knows, even that’s getting
to be old-fashioned enough.”</p>
<p>“I hope she stayed at the hotel I advised,” Mrs.
Ogden remarked. “And I gave her a letter to my
lawyer.”</p>
<p>Anne smiled again. “I’m so old-fashioned that I
think marriage is absolutely sacred. I think I even
go further. It’s so sacred that one ought to keep on
trying and trying it, until everyone’s satisfied. Like
you, Tessie dear.”</p>
<p>The little bride’s eyes were round, but the others
laughed. Only Alice Copeland looked distressed.
“Nance never means half she says,” she protested.</p>
<p>“Oh, but I do, dear. That’s part of my Early Victorianism,
my utter sincerity,” Anne returned.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[36]</span></p>
<p>Mrs. Copeland stood up, and the party drifted
towards the place where their wraps were. On the
wide porch of the club-house Anne heard a voice at her
shoulder.</p>
<p>“You are wonderful, Nance,” Ranney Copeland was
saying. “Just how much of that did you mean?”</p>
<p>Anne smiled. “I wonder!” she said, demurely.</p>
<p>But Alice had heard, too. She turned, gave her
brother-in-law a direct look. “She didn’t mean a word
of it, Ranney. And I won’t have you talking to Anne
like that, in whispers.”</p>
<p>Ranney grinned. “Sweet small Cerberus,” said
he.</p>
<p>“You needn’t be rude,” Mrs. Copeland said. “I just
stated a fact. Are you coming, Anne?”</p>
<p>“Pardon me,” said Ranney. “Not my intention to
be rude, my dear girl. But, Alice—one has often
thought of it—just how much good as a watch-dog do
you suppose old Cerberus was? One seems to have
heard of a good many people who successfully crossed
that river.”</p>
<p>Alice had stepped into her car. “Come on, Anne,”
she said, with no further look at the man.</p>
<p>He stepped between Anne and the car, with a
flash of the eyes at her that she did not lose. “Anne
promised to let me take her home. What else do
you suppose I came out for?” he said coolly
to Alice.</p>
<p>Alice Copeland turned her head. Anne said, rather
too quickly, “Sorry, dear. I forgot to mention it. You
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[37]</span>
don’t mind?” Whereupon Mrs. Copeland’s car sped
ahead.</p>
<p>When they had spun through the country-club gates,
Anne spoke. “It is really very thoughtful of you to
give me a lift,” she said. “You knew, as I did, that
Alice was longing to get home to the babies. And I
do live so out of the way!”</p>
<p>The man at the wheel looked at her with a slow
smile. “As you remarked to Tessie just now, ‘Thanks,
dear. How well you understand me.’”</p>
<p>They laughed. Then Anne gave him an upward
glance. “The flowers were lovely, Ranney.”</p>
<p>“I can do so little,” he said, in a low tone.</p>
<p>They went on for half a mile in silence, then abruptly
Anne spoke, her hands folded tightly together in
her lap, her look straining ahead. “Oh, I hate it all!
All!”</p>
<p>His lips twisted. “Then you put up a pretty good
front, my dear girl.”</p>
<p>“But I do hate it. The petty economies, the subterfuges
that they all see through.”</p>
<p>“You should worry! You can out-talk the best of
them.”</p>
<p>“Oh—talk! As if that were all of it. I know what
I have a right to—I know what I owe myself. I know
how I get it, I know what I have to put up with to keep
it. No one else knows, though they think they do.
They can’t, because there’s so much of it. And I hate
it, hate not having things, not being able to meet them
on their own ground, hate living as I do, where I do.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[38]</span>
I hate not having even a car of my own, having to
depend on charity.”</p>
<p>His car rounded a turn of the road, slipped ahead.
“The charity is from you to me,” he told her. “And
I’ve told you how you can very easily manage
the rest.”</p>
<p>“I know, Ranney. But Brice will not hear of it.
Money in the bank. That’s as far as his imagination
will let him go.”</p>
<p>“But it’s perfectly safe, my dear girl. Didn’t you
tell him that?”</p>
<p>“Oh, I told him.”</p>
<p>“It’s done every day. I can’t quite get his point of
view, you know. A quick turn-over. No need of putting
back any more than your original investment.
You’d always have that, and the profits are yours to
do as you like with. It’s perfectly simple. I should
be very glad——”</p>
<p>“It’s no use, Ranney. He simply will not.”</p>
<p>“Let him go to some other broker, then. I can’t
bear to see you——”</p>
<p>She shook her head. “To see it——! But I have
to endure it.”</p>
<p>They were silent a moment. Then he asked, “Look
here, Anne, just how much of all that did you
mean?”</p>
<p>She had forgotten her wild talk at the club. Her
mind had been traveling fast and far, had come back
into more familiar country than that speaker’s platform
by the mantelpiece. “Of what?” she asked.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[39]</span></p>
<p>“What you said about marriage. Just—how—old-fashioned
are you?”</p>
<p>Her heart seemed to leap. She felt a cold breeze on
her cheek. Her lips could scarcely articulate. She
leaned forward a little. “I—don’t—know,” she
whispered.</p>
<p>“Better let me out at the corner,” she said, later, and
walked slowly up the little street with the houses all
trying to be different yet all so alike. Brice was
already home. He had set out the pansies along the
front of the porch, and was running a lawn-mower.
She hated the lawn-mower, but at sight of Brice a
quick touch of compunction swept over her. A sandy-haired
man somewhere in his middle thirties, his broad
frame was already becoming stooped from desk work.
His clothes were inconspicuous, a little shabby, everyday
clothes worn season before last for best, now
thriftily used for the office. There was a sort of
doggedness in the way he pushed the lawn-mower.
Anne knew he was tired.</p>
<p>He stopped when she turned into the short cement
walk that led to the porch, and laughed, rubbing a hand
upward over his brow. “Hello, old girl! Thought I’d
get done before you caught me at it,” he said.</p>
<p>Anne smiled at him. His eyes took in all her spring
prettiness. “I believe you really do like it,” she said.
“Just the same, I wish you wouldn’t.”</p>
<p>“Oh, it’s good exercise. Gosh—a day like this
makes you want to get out and dig, or go fishing or
something, doesn’t it?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[40]</span></p>
<p>“It was lovely at the country club,” she told him.
“Alice and some of the others played golf. The dogwood
is out.”</p>
<p>There was no news as to who would be chosen for
Grant’s place. “Don’t count on it too much,” he told
her when he kissed her good-by the next morning. “It
may be a week before we know, anyway.”</p>
<p>She put her hands on his arms. “Don’t think of it
that way, Brice. You let things slide along so. Make
them give it to you. You know you’re a better man for
the job than Farren.”</p>
<p>His face softened. “Think a lot of the old man,
don’t you?”</p>
<p>“Well—of course,” she said, and kissed him again.</p>
<p>She went upstairs still with that sense of compunction.
All the evening before, all this morning, she had
been very gentle with Brice. He was so good. Of
course he needed prodding. With another sort of wife
he would not have gotten ahead at all. He would have
been like all the other men on the street, humdrum,
satisfied, smug. When they first moved there he had
rather tentatively scraped acquaintance with some of
them. She had been right, quite right, to put a stop to
that. She had learned her lesson. Their earlier friendship
with Mabel and Ned Allen had blocked their
making other friends until they moved. Even before
the new house was ready she had made up her mind
to know only the right people thereafter. She had met
some at Alice’s; through them she told herself she
would meet more. And she had. Brice might walk up
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[41]</span>
the street with the men, or talk a little when he was
out with that miserable lawn-mower; she bowed to the
women, and saw to it that their acquaintance went no
further. Impossible to mix sets. Now things were
coming their way at last. That extra fifteen hundred.
Poor old Brice. It had not been quite fair of her to
talk like that, even among the women she had to amuse.
For she did have to amuse them. Wild talk, quick
talk—what else had she to offer them? They liked it,
accepted her assumption that she was one of them, that
only by the circumstance of Brice’s not having got on
as fast as other men was she unable to go the whole
pace with them. They were kind enough, for the
most part. Occasional snubs did not matter. Tessie
Ogden was a good sort, in spite of her varied matrimonial
ventures; she had no end of money. One could
not afford to be too conservative, unless, of course,
one had wealth and position like Alice’s. Alice could
afford to hold Mrs. Ogden at arm’s length. Alice could
afford anything. Any Copeland could. Ranney Copeland,
as well as Alice’s humdrum George.</p>
<p>Her thoughts brought her up short, there. What
had Ranney meant by his question of the afternoon
before? She flushed. After all, what she had said was
true. They had thought it a joke, all those others.
She really was an old-fashioned woman. Divorce? It
was grubby, rather disgusting, on the whole. A
woman’s job was not to go hunting for one man after
another, but to make the man she had married. As
she intended to make Brice. Good old Brice. She had
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[42]</span>
forgotten to tell him to get home early. They were
going to Alice’s. Perhaps he would like to meet
Ambrose, come out with him. She went to the telephone.</p>
<h3 id="3">
3
</h3>
<p>Alice’s dinners were always sedate and somewhat
elaborate; Anne envied the perfection of service, and
always had an eye to the novelty of the hors d’œuvres.
This evening there were only the six of them and Alice’s
older little girl, who had begged to stay up to see Aunt
Nicky. She was a dark, spindling little thing, with a
rather disconcerting habit of staring. After dinner she
slipped her hand in Veronica’s, and when her mother
insisted that she must go up to bed wound her arms
and legs about Nicky and clung to her.</p>
<p>“But I don’t want to go,” she protested.</p>
<p>Nicky somehow unwound her, held her off a little in
front of her. “Elizabeth,” she said, seriously, “that’s
the best reason in the world for not doing a thing.
Never do anything you don’t want to do. Unless you
have to. This is one of the times that you have to.
So—scoot!”</p>
<p>When the child had departed George Copeland
laughed. “You know I don’t altogether go along with
your philosophy, Veronica, my child,” said he. He
was a tall man, heavy and dark, usually shy. It was
generally supposed that he liked everyone a little, no
one very much, and that in business he knew how to
drive a sharp bargain. Alice adored him.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[43]</span></p>
<p>“George,” Nicky said, looking up at him, “you’re
six feet of sham. It’s precisely your own philosophy.”</p>
<p>Alice flushed a little. “At any rate, Nicky,” said
she, “we’ll admit it is yours. You certainly do only
what you want to. And I must say I think they’re
queer things, sometimes.”</p>
<p>Veronica stared for an instant, then settled back in
her chair. “Ah,” said she. “I thought you and
Ambrose had your heads together at dinner. I see he’s
told you.”</p>
<p>“What is it?” asked Anne. “You’re always quarreling,
you two.”</p>
<p>“I have not been quarreling,” Ambrose declared,
setting his coffee cup on a table. “But there are things
I object to. I’ll admit I said that.”</p>
<p>“And I think you are right, Ambrose,” said Alice.
“Nicky will persist in living alone in a queer part of
the city. That’s stupid, as I see it. Anne agrees with
me. I don’t think any woman living alone ought to
fill up her place with people off the street.”</p>
<p>Nicky laughed. “One person, please. But it
does rather fill up the place. I have to sleep on
the sofa.”</p>
<p>“You don’t even know the girl,” Ambrose affirmed.</p>
<p>“Her name seems to be Stella,” said Nicky. “She
says she’s a thief. And none too straight otherwise.
Also she was uncommonly hungry. So what could I
do?”</p>
<p>“What will you do?” Brice Denison asked, smiling
a little, leaning forward.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[44]</span></p>
<p>“That’s what I came out for,” said Nicky, calmly.
“I’ve got to give her a chance to get away from her
man, you see. And I’m broke.”</p>
<p>“It’s not your affair, I tell you,” said Ambrose,
savagely. “Turn her out, if she hasn’t already left
with everything you possess.”</p>
<p>“It certainly is not your affair, Ambrose,” Nicky
returned. “How much is it yours, George?”</p>
<p>“Why do you put it up to George?” Alice asked
quickly. “If it’s money you want——”</p>
<p>“Well, I do,” said Nicky.</p>
<p>“Is she married?” Alice asked again.</p>
<p>George Copeland said, kindly, ponderously, “Oh,
come now, Alice. How much do you need, Nicky?”</p>
<p>Nicky grinned up at him. “It’s not one of the times
you have to, you know, George!”</p>
<p>George’s hand went into his pocket.</p>
<p>An hour or two later, when the women had gone
upstairs for wraps, Anne said, “Why not come back
with us for the night, Nicky? You won’t have to sleep
on the sofa and I think I have some clothes you might
use for your—thief.”</p>
<p>Nicky laughed. “Thanks. I’ll come. So I won’t
have to go back in the train with Ambrose.”</p>
<p>Alice looked troubled. “Why do you pretend to
hate Ambrose?” she asked. “You don’t really, you
know!”</p>
<p>Nicky was putting on her hat in front of a glass.
“Well, no. I think I’m rather in love with him, really.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[45]</span>
Anyway, part of the time. But this business of marriage——!”</p>
<p>“It’s the only real happiness,” Alice said solemnly.</p>
<p>Veronica turned, eyebrows raised. “Are you happy,
Alice? Are you, Anne? Are George and Brice
happy?”</p>
<p>“Of course we are!” Alice cried, flushing. Anne
echoed, “Of course we are!”</p>
<p>Nicky looked from one to the other. “Of course
and of course you are! Great institution, this marriage,
isn’t it? Nothing to equal it.”</p>
<p>The next morning Anne watched Brice and Veronica
walk off towards the station together. She had gone
through her closets and found a number of last year’s
things for Nicky. She and Nicky’s protégée were
about the same size, it seemed, and she had a pleasant
sense of having been generous. They were mostly
things that could have been made over for herself.
There was a glow of kindliness about her. She even
joked a little with Lucille, and told her about the clever
sandwiches that preceded the dinner at Mrs. Copeland’s.
She went upstairs and threw all the windows
open to the soft breeze. Things were lovely today. It
would have been a day to play in, but there were no
engagements. Well, anyway, she intended to stay at
home and mend. Brice had been rather pathetic that
morning, searching for a shirt with all its buttons. She
smiled at herself indulgently. Good old Brice. She
really neglected him a little, sometimes. She loved to
make pretty things; mending was stupid. But this
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[46]</span>
day she would give up to Brice, make up to him
a little, however secretly, for her moment’s disloyalty
at the club the other day. Not that it was really
disloyalty. It was nothing worse than silly, wild
talk.</p>
<p>The door-bell sounded. In a moment Lucille came
up with a florist’s box. “Mist’ Denison cert’n’y do
think a heap o’ you-all,” said she. “I’m going to git
me a husband.”</p>
<p>Anne laughed. When the girl had left the room she
opened the box. Tulips, this time, and Ranney Copeland’s
card among them. She arranged the flowers
about the house, smiling a little. Then she went back
to her sewing. She sewed on some buttons, and
reached for a basket piled high with stockings. Mending
was stupid work. The curtains blew inward.
Everyone would be out on Main Street. She had not
telephoned the order for dinner. It would please Brice
if she went to the store herself. There was no darning-cotton,
after all. There never was, when you wanted
it. She laughed a little at the eternal elusiveness of
things like darning-cotton, put the basket aside, got
into her trimmest street things.</p>
<p>She had barely turned the corner when a low, brown
car swung up to the curb and stopped just in front of
her.</p>
<p>“Now don’t tell me you were trying to dodge me,”
said Ranney Copeland’s gay voice.</p>
<p>Anne laughed. “I had forgotten you,” she said, giving
him a teasing look.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[47]</span></p>
<p>Ranney’s composure was not shaken at that. He
had stepped to the sidewalk beside her. “I believe you
were coming to meet me,” said he, laughing with her.
“Let me give you a lift, won’t you?”</p>
<p>It was not in Anne to resist stepping into that car;
but when Copeland, at the next corner, turned away
from the main street where the shops were, she protested.
“Oh, I mustn’t, Ranney. I’ve an errand—really.”</p>
<p>“So have I,” he declared, cheerfully. “I’ve got to
show you something I came across the other day.
Won’t take a minute.”</p>
<p>Yet the minute prolonged itself into an hour. The
car spun out of the town, climbed a hill or two with no
lessening of speed, sped away to the open country.
Good company, was Ranney. After all there was all
day for the mending. It had waited so long that it
could very well wait a while longer.</p>
<p>It was past noon when at last the car stopped before
a little gray roadhouse, once the place where a tollkeeper
lived, the old tollgate now standing upright at
one side of the road like a gaunt arm held high in surrender
before the exigencies of modern life. Inside,
in the tiny dining-room, beside a window that looked
into budding apple trees, a table was prepared for two.
At her look Ranney laughed.</p>
<p>“You didn’t think I was going to let you stay in
that house of yours on a day like this, did you?” he
asked.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[48]</span></p>
<p>She flushed. “It is the house that I live in,” she said.
But her attempt at dignity made no impression upon
him.</p>
<p>“Oh, come now! You hate it, and I thought you’d
like this! They give you chicken and waffles. Not
bad.”</p>
<p>Her lip quivered a little as she sat down. This was
it. This was the power she wanted, the power these
people had with their magic of money. To be able
to get away from the little rooms of life, to ignore
distance, to speak a word over the telephone and
find things prepared for you, things, any kind of
things.</p>
<p>Only a minute or two, and some of those things
were there on the table before them. When the waitress
had left the room, Copeland leaned across towards
Anne.</p>
<p>“I didn’t mean to be brutal, you know. Honestly, I
wanted to give you a good time. Anne——?”</p>
<p>“I know, Ranney,” she said, a little wearily.
“You’re a good friend.”</p>
<p>“That’s what I want to be,” said he. Presently he
added, “Anne, I wonder if you know what you’ve
meant to me, these past months.”</p>
<p>“I don’t know, Ranney. Sometimes I’m numb.
Sometimes I don’t know anything, don’t feel anything.”
Why was it that, with him, a sense of utter helplessness
against her fate, against the web she was caught in,
seemed always to close her in? Twelve hundred, fifteen
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[49]</span>
hundred more added to Brice’s salary. What,
after all, would that little bit give them? How far
would she ever be able to get away from that eternal
grubbiness?</p>
<p>“It’s been a good deal, Anne. I wish I could tell
you.”</p>
<p>“No. Don’t.”</p>
<p>“But I wish I could. I want to. You’ve been good,
letting me see so much of you.”</p>
<p>For the first time she thought of that. A good deal.
Yes, it had been that to herself, too. It had seemed
natural enough, yet it was, it had been, a good deal.
Her eyes widened. She gave him a startled look.
“Too much, perhaps, Ranney. Perhaps I had
better——”</p>
<p>“Oh, come now, Nance! Don’t begin to play the
prude, just because the old hens are cackling.
You’re too good a sport for that. Don’t you listen to
Alice.”</p>
<p>He was leaning towards her again.</p>
<p>“Look here, Anne! Just how much did you really
mean of what you said yesterday?”</p>
<p>“Not one word,” she declared.</p>
<p>“I thought that. But why not? Why not, after all?
Why not make a break for it? A woman like you can
get anything she wants.”</p>
<p>Her thought flew to Brice. Abruptly it was as
though his good old red head, his bowed shoulders,
were there before her instead of young Copeland’s
sleek one and his shoulders so carefully tailored.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[50]</span></p>
<p>“But I have everything I want,” she said, her lips
trembling a little.</p>
<p>He laughed. “I said you were a good sport. But I
do want to do something for you, Anne. I wish you’d
make your husband give me that money to invest for
him. There’s a good thing I know of, right now.
You’d have a mighty nice turn-over in only a month or
two.”</p>
<p>She leaned back, and he let her think it out. The
morning’s revulsion of feeling was not entirely banished
by the hour with Ranney. She was still feeling
Brice, in that subconsciousness where a woman’s
thought of her husband is ever present, as the dear old
blunderer who must be protected and cared for. Her
mood was still but little different from what it had
been when she had wanted to mend his stockings and
sew on his buttons. Old Brice—to do something for
him—somehow to protect him from those queer ideas
of his, from his inhibitions. That money. If only he
would! Ease for them both. Yes, for Brice as well as
for herself. Oh, she knew how he thought about it.
He called it gambling. As if everybody didn’t do it.
He said they must have something on hand, something
always available, in case anything happened. As if
men could not always borrow. He loathed credit
accounts, he made himself an object of gloom over
every bill. As though credit were not to be used!
Besides, she could be careful. She would be.</p>
<p>“Ranney,” she said, her face suddenly a little pale,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[51]</span>
“I will do it. We have a common account at the
bank. I will give you the money to invest for us.
And be very grateful.”</p>
<h3 id="4">
4
</h3>
<p>Even more than before she was full of the feeling of
wanting to do something for Brice. As she stepped
out of the tub she remembered that she had not ordered
dinner. She got into a bathrobe and called down to
Lucille.</p>
<p>“No’m, they ain’t any meat,” the girl told her. “I
thought maybe you-all was going out to dinner again,
or else you forgot.”</p>
<p>Anne’s good humor held. “You ought to have
reminded me, Lucille,” she said gently. “But never
mind. You just put on your hat and run over to Main
Street, won’t you? Get a steak, a good thick one.
You’ll have to hurry.”</p>
<p>“Yes’m, I’ll go. It’s plenty o’ time yet.”</p>
<p>Anne heard the pleased note in the girl’s voice.
Ordinarily, of course, it would be wretched discipline
to let her go out except on her regular days. But this
time was exceptional. It was too late for delivery by
the market-man. She went back to her dressing.
Fresh things, everything fresh, the prettiest she had,
and an old dress he was fond of. She would make herself
beautiful.</p>
<p>She was all the gentle wife when he returned, all
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[52]</span>
grace, all fragrance. Her consciousness was pervaded
by the feeling of having done something for him, even
though he was unaware of it, of having protected him
against himself in the matter of the investment through
Ranney. She felt motherly towards him, and wifely,
too. She would be very sweet to him, yielding, caressing.
She felt that she was quite up to being gay and
soothing, as well. As soon as he came in she knew
that there would have to be soothing. He was a little
late, and more than a little frowning. She went at once
to the kitchen to have dinner put on the table. She
talked about light things, little things. He was unresponsive.
When the steak had been served he looked
at the hovering maid and frowned again.</p>
<p>“You may wait in the kitchen, Lucille,” he said. As
the door to the pantry swung to Anne looked at him
with raised eyebrows.</p>
<p>“Something has gone wrong. I can see that,” she
said, gently. “But you can’t talk here. She’ll be listening
just the same, you know.”</p>
<p>Brice ignored that. “Look here, Anne,” said he.
“Mrs. Ogden was on the train tonight. Damned chatterer.
She told me she saw you driving with Copeland
this morning. It’s the second time I’ve had that sort
of thing flung at me within the week. I won’t have
it.”</p>
<p>Anne looked at him, her eyebrows slightly raised.
Two little red spots appeared in her cheeks. She
pressed her lips together, touched her foot to the bell
under the table.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[53]</span></p>
<p>“Potatoes, Lucille,” she said, quietly. “And remain
in the room, please.”</p>
<p>The rest of the meal passed in silence. In silence
they passed into the living-room. Brice went for his
pipe, was about to speak when the dusky face under the
white cap appeared between the curtains.</p>
<p>“You-all want any coffee?”</p>
<p>“No!” snapped Brice; and Anne took a seat by the
table under the lamplight.</p>
<p>The pipe under way, Brice, from the hearth-rug,
turned to her. “You heard what I said. I won’t have
it.”</p>
<p>Anne’s tongue touched her lips. She was finding her
rôle of maternal patience difficult, yet something still
remained of that warm protective feeling. Brice’s
furies were soon over.</p>
<p>“I don’t like that man, anyway. I don’t like his
confounded impertinence in trying to get you to give
him that money to invest. When I have any investments
to make I can do it myself. He’s an idler, a
philanderer. I don’t want you seen with him.”</p>
<p>“You are speaking of a very good friend of mine,
Brice.”</p>
<p>“Well, he’s not! None of them are. Another thing
that Ogden woman told me. That speech of yours at
the country club, all that rot about divorce. If that’s
the sort of thing you’ve got to spout to keep up with
them——!”</p>
<p>“You needn’t be vulgar!”</p>
<p>“I’m not as vulgar as they are. Hang it all, Anne,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[54]</span>
I don’t like these new friends of yours. They’re not
our sort. I don’t like them.”</p>
<p>“What do you mean by our sort?”</p>
<p>“We’re not in their class. Not financially or any
other way. And don’t want to be. That’s what I
mean.”</p>
<p>She was angry enough now. “Have we got to go
over this every night?” she demanded, standing and
facing him. “I tell you, Brice, I am getting tired of
it.”</p>
<p>“And God knows I am!”</p>
<p>“There was no harm in my driving with Ranney.
In this year of grace a married woman can do as she
likes. It’s cheap to be jealous.”</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t insult you by being jealous of you.
You see that, Anne, you must see that! But I don’t
like it. Anne—” his voice shook a little, “Anne,
what’s the matter with things the way they used to
be?”</p>
<p>She laughed, but her eyes did not soften. “Warmed-up
meats, and the movies, and a thrill when somebody
gave us a drive in a Ford! Oh, I’m long past that,
Brice.”</p>
<p>He looked at her. His pipe had gone out, and he
lighted it again as carefully as though he were going
through with a ceremony, finally flicking the match
behind the gas-log. Anne stooped and took it out
again, deliberately depositing it in the ash-tray on
the table. Her eyes avoided his. Presently he crossed
the room to the desk they shared, the desk where the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[55]</span>
check-book lay, and in the left-hand pigeonholes,
Brice’s side, neatly bound together with elastic bands,
the household receipts and bills. The desk was a
cheap one. The lid stuck a little, and as he pulled it
open a vase toppled over.</p>
<p>“Damn—!” he ejaculated.</p>
<p>Anne said nothing, but picked up the tulips. Then
she went to the pantry door.</p>
<p>“Lucille, bring a mop and the dust-pan, please,” she
said. The tone put Brice hopelessly in the wrong.</p>
<p>He bit his lip. He had to wait while the girl gathered
the bits of broken glass and dried the floor. Then
he sat down.</p>
<p>Anne looked at his back. What had he gone to the
desk for? She thought quickly. That check-book.
She had not filled in the stub, but the check was gone.
This was no time tonight, when he was in such a mood.
She watched him covertly, thinking quickly, planning.
It was not the first time they had quarreled, come to
a place where going on seemed impossible, where both
had tacitly agreed to stop, where both had adopted a
new manner that dropped a curtain of silence behind
them, shutting out the sordidness and the threatening
disaster of such a scene as they had just been living
through. She found her cue. A change of voice, of
attitude, of manner.</p>
<p>She went to him, passed a hand lightly over his hair.
It cost her something to do that, but the price was,
after all, paid to herself in self-satisfaction at her
magnanimity.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[56]</span></p>
<p>“You’re tired. Don’t work tonight. Let’s have a
game of cribbage or something,” she said.</p>
<p>Brice laid his pipe on the top of the desk—it had
gone out again—and reached up for her hand. He
raised his head, and his eyes were moist. “You’re a
good old girl, Nance!” he said, gruffly.</p>
<p>“What shall we play?” she asked. “Come along—you’re
so tired!”</p>
<p>“In a minute. I took out new life-insurance policy
today. Got to write the check for it. They made me
pay high—I’m a bit below par, it seems. Nothing to
worry about.”</p>
<p>New life-insurance. Then he, too, was counting
on that coming increase in salary. But—that check-book.</p>
<p>“How much—is the premium?” she asked. Her lips
felt dry.</p>
<p>“Two hundred.”</p>
<p>Two hundred, and she had drawn down to less than
that. For his sake, all for his sake; and of course they
would get it back, “turn it over,” but—</p>
<p>“Brice, don’t write the check tonight.”</p>
<p>“It won’t take a minute.”</p>
<p>“Brice, I—Brice—you can’t!”</p>
<p>Something in her voice made him turn again. If it
had only been any other night than this, when he was
overtired. “Brice, I drew some money today.”</p>
<p>His face fell. “How much?” he asked, quietly.</p>
<p>“Four thousand.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[57]</span></p>
<p>That incredulity in his face, that bewilderment.
“What do you mean? What’s happened?”</p>
<p>“Nothing has happened, my dear, except that I am
determined to make you do the right thing, the sort of
thing other men do. You worked hard for that money,
Brice, and you were just keeping it idle there in the
bank. I have invested it for you, for us.”</p>
<p>He stood up. His face was very white. “Would
you mind telling me just what you have done?”</p>
<p>She laughed a little. “Why, I have told you! You
would not do it yourself, so I’ve done it for you.
That’s all. We’ll make a quick turn-over with it.”</p>
<p>“You have drawn out four thousand dollars?”</p>
<p>“Yes. And we’ll make money by it.”</p>
<p>He swallowed, started to speak, swallowed again.
“I have taken out a new policy——”</p>
<p>“But I did not know that!”</p>
<p>“There’s six hundred due on the house on the first
of May. One hundred and eighty-odd in bills.
Anne——”</p>
<p>“You’ll have twelve hundred a year more, maybe
fifteen.”</p>
<p>“Anne! It’s not true! You haven’t drawn out that
money! You know I’ve never been willing to touch
it. We’ve saved it little by little. I oughtn’t have left
it there in the drawing account. Anne!”</p>
<p>“Oh, where’s your nerve, Brice? You’ll get it all
back, and more, ever so much more. Ranney promises
that.”</p>
<p>“Ranney!” His face flooded with color. “That
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[58]</span>
damned scoundrel! Anne, you haven’t put that money
in his hands? Good God, Anne!”</p>
<p>He had grasped her wrists. His face was close to
hers, a new face, furious, threatening, outraged, a terrible
male face. His grasp hurt her. She felt herself
shaking, swept by an anger that was beyond any other
anger she had ever known, anger that was dismay,
that was shame, and fear, and physical pain.</p>
<p>“Anne, what’s this man Copeland to you, that he’s
able to make you do such a thing to me? What’s he
to you?”</p>
<p>Oh, she wanted to hurt him, to hurt him. To strike
him where it would hurt him most.</p>
<p>“Just whatever I want him to be!” she said.</p>
<p>He dropped her wrists. The moment was eternal, a
chaos in which new worlds were forming.</p>
<p>“How much of that talk—at—the—at the country
club—did you really mean?”</p>
<p>“Perhaps you will find that out,” said Anne, “and
sooner than you expect.”</p>
<p>They stared at each other, new people, strange
people. His face grew crimson. A vein stood out in
his forehead.</p>
<p>“You will take those words back,” he said, his eyes
narrowing. “You will take those words—back!”</p>
<p>“I will not. I mean them, every one of them. I
could have Ranney Copeland any moment I wanted
him. And if I did take him, it would be no worse
than other women do all the time. I can’t go on like
this. I tell you I will not, I will not——!”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[59]</span></p>
<p>His lips were pressed together. He had become a
strange man, with new things at work, in him, things
she had never seen before, things she had not thought
possible.</p>
<p>“You are quite right,” he said in a moment. “You
shall not go on like this!”</p>
<p>“What do you mean?”</p>
<p>“I shall see Copeland tomorrow. I’ll put an end to
it. I promise you that. The damned scoundrel.”</p>
<p>“Do you mean you will ask him for that money?”</p>
<p>He laughed shortly.</p>
<p>“You shall not! I tell you, Brice Denison. You’ve
shamed me enough, grubbing along in this hole of a
place, making me go without things, making me—
O-o-oh! You’re no man!”</p>
<p>His face grew pale. “And you think Copeland is?”</p>
<p>“I know he is.”</p>
<p>He turned away, and turned back to her. His hands
were shaking, but his face was still. “You will think
better of this by tomorrow, Anne.”</p>
<p>She looked back at him from the doorway. “I’ll
never think better of it. Never differently, anyway.
You’ll see. Oh, you’ll see!”</p>
<h3 id="5">
5
</h3>
<p>On the morning after her quarrel with Brice she was
brought abruptly out of sleep by a sense of disaster,
of things shattering and falling about her. Then she
remembered.</p>
<p>She had left him downstairs the night before and lain
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[60]</span>
awake for hours before he came up. She had pretended
to be asleep, had listened to his quiet movements,
at last to his breathing from the bed beside her
own. For a long while she lay there awake, knowing
that he was awake, too, wondering whether he was as
tense with anger as she was, whether she had hurt him
enough, hurt him to a realization of his failure, his
weakness. She was not sorry she had hurt him. She
could have hurt him more, more.</p>
<p>At last sleep came; now, when she awoke, it was to
find that he had dressed and left the room. A glance
at the clock told her that he must also, long since,
have left the house.</p>
<p>Very well. After that crisis of last night it would
not be easy to gloss over this quarrel as they had
always done before. There had never been anything
like this. He had misjudged her, set at naught everything
she had done for him. He had scoffed at her
friends, behaved utterly outrageously about Ranney
Copeland. He intended to shame her further by getting
that money back. Well, he shouldn’t. Anyway,
he could not do it at once. Before she and Ranney
had parted yesterday there had been words that came
back to her now.</p>
<p>“Anne, do you know how much I think of you?
Do you, Anne?”</p>
<p>She had parried that. “I know we’re good friends,
Ranney.”</p>
<p>He had put a hand over hers for an instant.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[61]</span>
“Friends! Anne, you don’t know what you’ve been
to me, these past months.”</p>
<p>“You too,” she had murmured.</p>
<p>“I’ve got to go away tomorrow. Only a few days.
When I come back I am going to tell you something.”</p>
<p>After she had given him the check he had looked at
her intently. She had read things in that look.
“You’re not afraid, Anne?”</p>
<p>She had stepped away from him, laughed a little.
“What could I be afraid of—with you, Ranney?” she
had asked.</p>
<p>Yes, she remembered that, now. Yesterday she
had been afraid to think of what meaning there might
lie in his words, in his manner. Today what stood
out was that he would be away for a few days, so
Brice could not get the check back at once, not until
she had further chance to bring him to his senses.</p>
<p>She got up, began to dress. There were small faint
marks on her arm where Brice’s fingers had pressed,
and her anger was fanned to new vigor when she saw
them. That she should have had to stand there, held
like that, hurt like that! Like any common fishwife,
her husband a brute, a brawler. To be forced to
listen, to look at him. Oh yes, she had answered him.
“Whatever I want him to be!” “I am not going on!”
Oh, she had hurt Brice. She was glad she had
hurt him. “I could have Ranney Copeland any moment
I wanted him.” She had watched those words
sting.</p>
<p>How could they go on, with those words, stark,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[62]</span>
between them? She left the table, went into the living-room.
A bit of the broken vase that Lucille had overlooked
gleamed in the sunlight; she picked it up. The
petals of some of the tulips had fallen. A newspaper
lay on the rug. There were matches and burned
tobacco on a tray on the table, and a match on the
floor. The desk was still open. Brice had forgotten
his pipe. The room wore a dissolute air. It was a
place where passion had broken loose and left its
débris. In the cool morning light it looked haggard.
She ran up the stairs to her bedroom.</p>
<p>How was she to go on? If she and Brice really
broke, what would she do? What could she do?
What did any woman do, unless she married again?
What else was there? Work? She had no yearnings
for work. She knew nothing about it, but all that she
wanted to know. She wanted other things. Life.
That was what she wanted so, life. Hadn’t she a right
to it?</p>
<p>She paced up and down the room, still in its disorder
of the night, the sheets thrown back on the
beds, Brice’s soiled collar on the bureau, the dress she
had tossed aside drooping over a chair. Intolerable.
She went to a window. Those houses across the street.
Stupid people. Oh, why wouldn’t Brice see, why
wouldn’t he do what other men did? Why, why? Oh,
hideous, the whole thing, hideous, useless, senseless.
That child across the way on her roller-skates. Such
a noise.</p>
<p>Then she started. Ranney Copeland’s brown car
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[63]</span>
had turned the corner, was stopping at the curb in
front of her house. She drew back, a hand to her
cheek. Then he had not gone away. Perhaps Brice
had seen him already. Her face flamed, her heart
quickened its beat. She laid a hand on the curtain.
Then she felt weak. Not Ranney. Not Ranney getting
out of the car, but Alice. Alice, running up the
cement walk to the steps.</p>
<p>Hastily she looked into the mirror again. Then she
went down. The bell had rung twice. Not like Alice,
that haste. Where was Lucille? She opened the door
herself.</p>
<p>Alice came in. Strange, how anyone as small as
Alice could give such an effect of bustling. Anne took
in at a glance the clothes she had on, and the haste
with which she had donned them.</p>
<p>“Nance! I’m so glad you are home. I’ve come
begging.”</p>
<p>“This room is a sight,” Anne said. “What’s the
matter?”</p>
<p>“George is going to Boston, and I want to go with
him.”</p>
<p>“Why on earth don’t you?”</p>
<p>“It’s the children. You know how I feel about
leaving the children alone with the servants. I tried to
get Miss Whitney, but she’s out on a baby case. Oh,
Anne, darling, couldn’t you and Brice stay at the
house just for two or three nights? I telephoned
Nicky, but she’s getting that miserable girl off somewhere
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[64]</span>
today. You wouldn’t have a thing to do,
really. But you know how I feel about the children.”</p>
<p>Anne’s mind jumped. She and Brice. Two or three
nights. She had wanted to get away, anywhere, just
for a time until things blew over.</p>
<p>“Don’t be silly, Alice,” she said. “Of course we’d
just love to come.”</p>
<p>“You couldn’t come right away, could you? You
can telephone Brice from the house. I’ll drive you
over. I’ve got Ranney’s car. He’s away, and George
took ours down to have something done to it.”</p>
<p>“I’ll have to get a bag, and speak to Lucille.”</p>
<p>“But hurry, like a love, won’t you? George wants
to start early. He’ll probably be there in a fidget by
the time we get back.”</p>
<p>Anne went upstairs, for a moment stood in her bedroom
with her hands pressed to her cheeks. Then she
laughed. Oh, this time Fate had played into her
hands! Not Brice. No, not with Brice. She would
go, not leave him a word, but just go. For two nights.
Only for two nights. It would give him a chance to
think. Give him time to find out, to cool off, to come to
his senses.</p>
<p>She pulled open a drawer, brought a suitcase from
the closet. She would not need much. Five minutes
later she ran down the stairs.</p>
<p>“I must speak to Lucille,” she said.</p>
<p>But Alice Copeland was already opening the front
door. “Oh, you can telephone from the house,” she
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[65]</span>
said. “You don’t mind, do you? I don’t want to
keep George waiting.”</p>
<p>As they turned the corner Anne looked back.
Lucille was standing on the porch, gazing after the
car.</p>
<p>That day and the two following, in the Copelands’
house, gave Anne much time for thinking. The rich
restfulness of the house itself, the quiet perfection of
food and service, even the bed she slept on, with its
deep box spring and mysteriously soft mattress and
embroidered linen, all were as balm to her. For in such
a mood as that in which Anne was it is physical things
that soothe tense nerves. She did not see much of the
children. With childhood’s prescience they understood
well enough that Aunt Nance was not one who
greatly desired their presence.</p>
<p>She had waved farewell to Alice and the impatient
George. Alice had come back three times to kiss the
children over again or to leave more directions with
their nurse.</p>
<p>A New York decorator had “done” Alice’s drawing-room—old
Georgian paneling, furniture whose dignity
matched it, mellow things that were restful and beautiful
and costly. Things, things that she, Anne,
ought to have. Why not? Why had Alice Copeland,
and the women like Alice Copeland, a house like this?
And why, oh, why, had not Anne Denison one like it?</p>
<p>She drifted upstairs to Alice’s sitting-room. She
knew it well, but saw it afresh today. Here were bright
printed linens. Almost unconsciously she computed
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[66]</span>
their cost by the yard. Here were soft chairs, a deep
couch with embroidered pillows, magazines and books,
a telephone under a lacy French doll. She remembered
that she had not spoken to Lucille before she
left, and crossed to the telephone. But she stopped,
the receiver still on its hook. Why should she? Why,
after all, should she give Brice a clew to where she was?
She smiled as the thought came. This was the last
place he would think of her being in, here, domiciled in
the Copeland house as its mistress for the time. She
wanted to punish him, wanted to worry him, to make
him suffer. That was the way to manage him, this
time. Had she not tried other ways, at other times,
and had it all to go over again? She would let him
have time to think, time to realize what she was to
him, time to come to his senses. She raised the
receiver, but instead of her own number she gave that
of the market where she dealt. A roast. He liked
the cold-meat régime. Let him try it. A large roast,
that would last for three dinners; for the rest, she
would trust to Lucille’s ingenuity.</p>
<p>At luncheon she spoke to the maid. “If anyone calls
or telephones, you need not say that I am staying here
while Mrs. Copeland is away. It will not be necessary.
You may just make a note of the calls, and
we will give them to Mrs. Copeland when she gets
back.”</p>
<p>Three quiet days, two nights of soft sleep. On Friday
Alice returned.</p>
<p>“What a darling you’ve been, Nance! The children
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[67]</span>
look splendid,” she said, as though she had left them
for a month and dreaded to find them small shadows
of themselves.</p>
<p>Anne laughed; she was in the mood to laugh easily,
well pleased with herself. “But it’s been heavenly,”
she said.</p>
<p>“I hope Brice didn’t mind. I do hope they made
him comfortable.”</p>
<p>Brice. She had not thought of it, but Alice, of
course, would discover that Brice had not been there.
“To tell you the truth, dear,” she said, “I didn’t bring
Brice. He’s such an old stay-at-home.”</p>
<p>Alice’s face fell. “Oh, my dear, then I shouldn’t
have begged you to come.”</p>
<p>“Nonsense. Brice was probably glad to get rid of
me.”</p>
<p>Anne laughed as she said it, but Alice’s face was
still serious. “Of course you don’t mean that,” she
said. “But just the same, I feel conscience-stricken.
You know I’m a perfect goose about leaving the
children, but I’d rather leave them than be separated
from George, even for a day or two. Silly, isn’t
it?”</p>
<p>It was mid-afternoon when she drove home. From
the car she noticed that the front window shades were
all at different heights. But aside from that the whole
house, even the street itself, struck her as though she
had been away from it for a year. The same, all too
precisely the same, with nothing changed. Yet the details
stood out in new aspects, and aspects not beautiful.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[68]</span>
In the haste of her departure she had forgotten
her key. A disheveled Lucille, capless, untidy, opened
the door for her and stared.</p>
<p>Anne turned and waved to Alice. “Good-by! I’ve
had a wonderful time,” she called out. The car slowly
gathered speed and went on down the narrow street.</p>
<p>“Well, Lucille! You have not changed for the afternoon,
have you?” she said, but still smiling a little.
She was not going to be severe. They all let themselves
go, unless you were right there to stand over
them.</p>
<p>“My land! I thought you-all wasn’t coming back
any more,” said the girl. Anne had started up the
stairs. Lucille was following with the suitcase.</p>
<p>“I have been away with Mrs. Copeland,” said Anne.
“Did you and Mr. Denison get along all right? Did
the roast come?”</p>
<p>“Yes’m, it come. Mist’ Denison ain’t been home las’
night.”</p>
<p>Anne stood still for an instant, went on into her
room. She thought quickly. Must carry it off. “Oh,
that’s true. I forgot he had to go away. Well, we
must have an extra good dinner for him tonight.”</p>
<p>Again she ordered by telephone. Tomorrow, really,
she would begin to go to the store. Then, alone at last
in her own room, she put her things to rights, slept
for an hour, dressed herself in her prettiest. She was
not going to plan the coming interview with Brice. Oh,
he would be glad enough to see her. Time would have
done its work. They had both been rather foolish.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[69]</span>
After dinner there would be a little pretty penitence
on her part, embraces on his.</p>
<p>She waited dinner an hour. Brice did not come.
She thought of telephoning the office, realized that
everyone would have gone home. At last she ate alone.
The dinner was good, and her appetite was good. How
childish Brice was. Once or twice she smiled as she
visualized his coming in, the quiet, cautious opening of
the door, his fumbling in the hall, her placid self there
under the lamp, quite as though nothing unpleasant or
unusual had ever passed between them, quite as though
there had been no absence. “Hello, dear! Late, aren’t
you?” Yes, she smiled. She could afford to wait. She
knew how to manage Brice.</p>
<p>Nine, ten o’clock came, and Brice did not come.
Until long past twelve she sat there, a slowly returning
anger mounting within her. So he had not got over
it yet. He was playing her own game. Lucille had
said that he had not come home at all, the night before.
Oh, if that was what he was going to do, all
right! All right!</p>
<p>Yet she lay far into the night, sleepless, angry, restless,
thinking. It was despicable, his turning the tables
like this. But she would not worry. He needn’t think
she would worry.</p>
<p>In the morning she was aware of Lucille’s curious
eyes. Before noon she telephoned to the office of
Whitten & Company. No, Mr. Denison was not there.
Would the person who answered be so kind as to leave
a message on his desk, asking him to call up his house
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[70]</span>
when he came in? Then she dressed for the street.
On the way to the door she stepped into the kitchen,
and said, quite casually:</p>
<p>“By the way, Lucille, when Mr. Denison calls up,
just say that Mrs. Denison wants to have dinner a
little early this evening, will you?” He would know,
from that.</p>
<p>That afternoon she spent at the country club, went
there and back in Mrs. Ogden’s car. Gayer than usual,
she followed the other women around the links. She
must take some lessons in golf. You weren’t in it,
really, unless you played.</p>
<p>“No’m. Ain’t anybody telephoned,” said Lucille, on
her return. Then she remembered—Saturday! The
office closed early. He would not have gotten her
message.</p>
<p>Again she sat at dinner alone, sat there, not eating.
No appetite. But of course, that tea at the club. No
other reason.</p>
<p>Sunday. No Brice. The long day alone. Again
she lay awake.</p>
<p>On the morrow her anger began to be mixed with
sheer fright. This was not like Brice. Never would
Brice go as far as this, just to frighten her, just to get
even. Something had happened. By mid-afternoon
she realized that she could not, again, sit alone at that
table, wait alone in that room for him. She must
know. Yet something of pride, pride waiting to turn
again into anger, made her want, as it were, to cover
her tracks. Foolish—oh, she knew it was foolish.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[71]</span>
Nothing could, could have happened. Later she would
laugh at her panic. And it might get into the papers.
House telephone numbers could be traced. She went
out to a drugstore, one where she was not known. She
had to gather her courage before she could drop a coin
into the telephone. The police-station. No accident
reported. The hospitals. Nothing. No use calling up
places in town.</p>
<p>She leaned against the wall of the booth for a
moment before she came out of its fetid air. Brice.
Brice. What was it? What was it?</p>
<h3 id="6">
6
</h3>
<p>Yet it was not until the following day that she found
courage enough to do what she knew must be done.
Go to him. That was it. He had always hated to have
her go to the office, yet she had been there five or six
times, knew some of the men there. The meeting
would be none the easier with others around. She would
have to make it casual. She could. Just walk in a
little hurriedly. “Sorry to interrupt, my dear, but I
wanted to tell you——” and so on. That. Just to
see him. Just to show him that she was willing to take
things up where they used to be. She knew she could
count upon Brice to do the same thing.</p>
<p>Half an hour on the train. The ferry. The short
walk. Those doors, where Brice went in every day,
and the elevator. The outer office. A smiling nod to
the man there. One of the partitioned rooms beyond,
that Brice shared with two or three other men. She
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[72]</span>
put her hand on the door. How her heart was beating!
A tap; then she turned the knob, went in.
Brice’s desk by the window, so oddly free from papers.
The men there looked up. Mr. Farren pushed back
his chair, came towards her smiling, hand out.</p>
<p>“Mighty glad to see you, Mrs. Denison. Hope
Denison’s all right?”</p>
<p>Still she smiled. But how stiff her face felt! Must
not let them see, must not let them guess. She must
think quickly, speak naturally. Not ask them, not ask
Farren. No, she must not do that. To think quickly.
That was it. To think of the best thing to do, and to
smile just enough.</p>
<p>“Quite all right, thank you. I wonder—I thought—do
you suppose I could see Mr. Whitten for a
moment?”</p>
<p>She was thankful that idea came to her. Thankful
she managed to speak the words, any words. Thankful
that her voice sounded enough like her own not to
give her away to these men, Brice’s associates for how
many years?</p>
<p>An odd little look came and went in Farren’s eyes.
Why was he so brisk, so exceedingly cheery? Why
was he embarrassed?</p>
<p>“Oh, I’m quite sure you can, Mrs. Denison. Just
a moment. I’ll see.”</p>
<p>Then the room of the head of the firm. Twice before
she had met him, once here in the office, once at
his house when Mrs. Whitten had asked her and Brice
to dine. He received her kindly enough.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[73]</span></p>
<p>“Won’t you sit down, Mrs. Denison? What can I do
for you?”</p>
<p>She sat down, and he turned in his swivel chair to
face her, leaning back with his elbows on its arms, the
tips of his fingers together. She knew that Farren had
closed the door behind him, that a young woman left
a desk in a corner and followed him out. Suddenly
the courage that had carried her on was not there. It
was Brice, Brice she wanted.</p>
<p>“Mr. Whitten,” she said, “I have come to ask about
my husband.”</p>
<p>“Ah. Yes. Of course. I am sorry, Mrs. Denison,
we are all sorry, that things have turned out so.”</p>
<p>“He is not here.”</p>
<p>The old man took up a paper-knife that was on his
desk. “Well, of course, Mrs. Denison, he has told
you that. But we are sorry. I may say that we are
very sorry indeed.”</p>
<p>What did he mean? She could only look at him.</p>
<p>“There was really no necessity for his leaving so
abruptly. In fact, we are disappointed that he felt
he must do so. Disappointed in him. These things—ah—happen.
No good taking them that way. I am
sure that Denison can find a place more—ah—more
fitted to his—ah—hum. We gave him a month, you
know, to look about in.”</p>
<p>Mr. Whitten paused. He had the air of having said
all there was to say. She clasped her hands together
in her lap to still their trembling, leaned a little towards
him.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[74]</span></p>
<p>“Mr. Whitten,” she said, “will you please tell me
just what has happened? Mr. Denison—my husband—has—has
told me very little.”</p>
<p>His eyes sought the window, came back to her,
rested on his hand that fidgeted with the paper cutter.
“Well, my dear lady, there is so very little to tell.
These things happen. There was the question, of
course, of filling the place that will be vacant on the
first of the month. Our Mr. Grant is retiring.”</p>
<p>“Yes, I know.”</p>
<p>“The promotion really lay between your husband
and Mr. Farren. It is the policy of our firm to give
the more responsible positions to men who have, so to
speak, an interest in the firm. A small thing, but a
guarantee of their feeling the responsibility as their
own. On the whole, our choice was for your husband.
A few days ago, on Thursday, I think, we put the
matter before him, suggested his taking up a small
block of the company’s stock. We set the amount as
low as two thousand dollars.”</p>
<p>Anne felt her lips grow cold.</p>
<p>“It was a shock, Mrs. Denison; I may say that it
was a real shock, when your husband confessed that
he had no savings whatever. We had not—ah—thought
him that sort of man. We—hum—expressed
ourselves accordingly. I feel we were quite within
our rights in doing so. Mr. Denison has received a
fair salary here, a very fair salary, and we expect our
men to—ah—to live a little better than within their
means. Our firm is a conservative one. Therefore,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[75]</span>
we expressed ourselves accordingly. Mr. Denison
seemed somewhat nervous. Somewhat wrought up, if
I may say so. Not like himself. He—ah—he stated
that he regretted the firm’s lack of confidence in him,
though I think we had not gone quite so far as to
imply that, and suggested that we might care to fill
his place here. On the whole, Mrs. Denison, that
seemed the best thing to do, since he took it that way,
and considering our sincere disappointment. But we
gave him, of course we gave him a month in which
to look about. We were exceedingly sorry when he
came in the next day and informed us that he had
decided to leave at once. Exceedingly sorry.”</p>
<p>She was not trembling now. It seemed to her that
she had not life enough to tremble, that she was still,
still, with life dead within her, a heaviness that
weighted her whole body. Yet she stood up.</p>
<p>“Thank you, Mr. Whitten,” she said. “You have
told me what I wished to know.”</p>
<p>He held open the door for her. She knew that she
was shaking hands with him, knew that his eyes, really
kindly eyes, were upon her own.</p>
<p>“I am sorry, Mrs. Denison. Great mistake, great
mistake for young people to live up to their means,
beyond them. Great mistake to be hasty.”</p>
<p>That outer office, the elevator, the street. On
Thursday. That was the day after she went to Alice’s.
Thursday. Brice had not gone home. At a street
crossing a bell clanged, and she drew back, feeling her
lips grow cold. An ambulance. Someone must know.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[76]</span>
There must be someone. Ambrose. But he’d take
Brice’s side. If Brice really, really had gone. There
was Nicky.</p>
<p>She walked on and on. What time did Nicky get
home? No matter. She could wait. Or fill in the
time with walking. Then, at last, Nicky’s door.</p>
<p>“Child!” Nicky cried. “What has happened to
you? You look like a ghost!”</p>
<p>“I’ve been—shopping,” said Anne. “I thought, perhaps—tea——”</p>
<p>“You drop down on that sofa,” said Nicky. “I can
do better than tea. You need it.”</p>
<p>“I’d rather have tea.”</p>
<p>She was conscious of Nicky’s eyes furtively on her,
but she talked, talked of anything. Were the clothes
right for that girl? Yes, Alice had been away. With
George. So silly about George. No, the shops had
been stupid. She hadn’t bought anything. It tired
one so, shopping. What had Nicky been doing? Had
she seen Ambrose?</p>
<p>“Saw him last night,” Nicky told her, sipping her
tea.</p>
<p>“Did he—did he say anything about Brice?”</p>
<p>“No. What should he say?”</p>
<p>“Nothing. Only I thought——”</p>
<p>“Look here, Anne, what’s the matter with you?
What’s wrong with Brice?”</p>
<p>“Nothing. How absurd you are, Nick.”</p>
<p>Veronica put down her teacup, stood before Anne
with her hands loosely clasped behind her back.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[77]</span>
“Anne, you’re going to play the devil with Brice, one
of these days,” she said. “You haven’t by any chance
done it already, have you?”</p>
<p>“Just because I asked whether Ambrose had said
anything about him? You do go rather far, Nicky,
even for you!”</p>
<p>“Oh, all right!” said Nicky, with a shrug. “Going?
I’ll be out again soon.”</p>
<p>Lucille at the door, tousled, her apron soiled. No
matter. Just to get up to her room. That horrible
feeling of having been tramping the streets with her
soul bare, for anyone to see, to look into. Like that
dream that comes to everyone of walking abroad without
clothing. Now, quivering, wanting to get away
from the light. But there was something she must
think of. Oh, yes. Must not let the girl see things
were wrong. Back-door gossip.</p>
<p>“Lucille, I’ve had dinner,” she called down the
stairs.</p>
<p>By morning she was braced by that blessing of
womankind, the instinctive demand of preserving appearances
at any cost. One must wait. Hold hard and
wait. Above all, not think. No, not think. Shut the
mind to those thoughts. Shut them out. Wait.</p>
<p>Yet, as though it were indeed a house of death, she
shrank away from the door when the postman rang.
It was nothing, a bill, an advertisement of a millinery
opening. It was after ten o’clock when a messenger-boy
dropped his wheel at the curb and came running
up to the door. Lucille brought her the little book to
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[78]</span>
be signed, with its grimy sheet scribbled over with
names. Not until the girl had vanished into the back
of the house again did she really look at the letter in
her hand. Then her knees trembled, from disappointment
or relief. It was only from Ranney Copeland,
his business address in the corner. So he was back.
In a moment she ran a finger under the flap of the
envelope. Something dropped to the floor, but her
eyes were on what Ranney had scrawled.</p>
<blockquote>
<p>“Dear Nance,—Just back, and find this addressed
to you in my care. When your fortune is made, you’ll
be getting dozens of these. I thought it might amuse
you to taste the first sample. See you soon.</p>
<p class='right pr6'>
Yours,
</p>
<p class="right pr1">
<span class="smcap">Ranney</span>.”
</p>
</blockquote>
<p class='no-indent'>That was all. Some business circular, then. How sick
she felt.</p>
<p>She stooped to the letter that had dropped, turned it
over. The handwriting was Brice’s.</p>
<h3 id="7">
7
</h3>
<p>What becomes of the hours when life stands still?
Anne Denison thought of that, afterward, and wondered.
At the time, during that day and the next,
there was no thought for Anne, but only feeling. Her
world had burst, like an electric bulb, and there was
no light. Nothing was real. The very furniture in her
house took on strange shapes, grotesque. The sunlight
dazzled her. The dark made her want to cry out
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[79]</span>
and beat it away. She was aware of Lucille’s anxious
hovering at times, knew that food was set before her
which she had not ordered and which she did not eat.
Now and again she read Brice’s letter, then hid it
away, locked it away, only to take it out again and
read:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>“Anne, I have been a blind fool. Even when the girl
said you had gone in his car, I couldn’t believe it until
I learned that he had left town. God knows I don’t
want to stand in your way. The four thousand, and
what you can get on the equity in the house, will see
you through until you get your divorce. Let it be
desertion. I will not contest.</p>
<p class="right pr1">
<span class="smcap">Brice</span>.”
</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Gradually, after a day or two, she began again to
think, to reason. It was all plain enough. Those
words she had said when they parted, the night of the
quarrel. “Anything I want him to be” and “Perhaps
you will find that out sooner than you expect.” Her
anger, her miserable, childish anger when she said
them, the satisfaction she had had in hurting him.
Her leaving the next day for Alice’s, and Alice driving
her brother-in-law’s showy car. Lucille on the porch,
staring after them. She could imagine that scene
when Brice returned, and what Lucille must have told
him.</p>
<p>“No, sir, she ain’t come in yet. She went off this
mornin’ with Mist’ Copeland in the car.”</p>
<p>Something like that. And Brice’s anger at her disregard
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[80]</span>
of his wishes, her apparent flaunting of his command
not to be seen again with Ranney Copeland.
Her not coming home. She turned hot and cold when
she thought of what Brice had been through, that next
day, at the office. His shame, when he had had to
confess to Mr. Whitten that he had not so much in the
world as two thousand dollars, the two thousand dollars
that was only half of what she had drawn just
the day before to put into Ranney Copeland’s hands,
the two thousand dollars that would have given him
that coveted and well-deserved better position, a real
place in the world. Yes, her not coming home, after
that next day of his. What sort of night had Brice
spent? What sort of night, while she slept so dreamlessly
in that soft bed of Alice’s? She recalled what
Mr. Whitten had told her. On that Thursday Brice
had gone back, closed up his desk, left.</p>
<p>Strangely enough, for a long time she could not
look at Brice’s bureau. At last she was as strangely
drawn to it, stood before it, touched it and drew away,
before she gathered courage enough to open the
drawers. A few things, only a few things had he taken.
In his closet but one suit was missing, an old one. Her
picture was still on the bureau, that picture she had
had taken last year in the gown she had worn to the
New Year’s dance. There had been another, of young
Anne Warren, that she had declared absurd, with its
hair arranged in that out-of-date way, that she had
made him keep out of sight in the drawer. The frame
was there, empty. She dropped to her knees by the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[81]</span>
bureau. He had taken that young Anne Warren, that
Anne who had won his heart. Anne Denison, Anne in
the ball gown, he had left behind.</p>
<p>Gradually, as the difficulties of the situation made
themselves clear to her, she became filled with a cold
anger against Brice, an anger far different from the
earlier blazing fury. That he should have dared to
believe that thing of her, that he should have dared
to misunderstand her, and put her in this ghastly
position. Oh, yes, she had said those bitter things.
But she had lived with him ten years. How could he,
how could he! Never in her heart had she been unfaithful,
undevoted to him, any more than in her
actions. Of course every woman, in those moments of
desperate rebellion that the closeness of the marriage
bond brings, thinks of what might happen, thinks of
what she might do, thinks perhaps of leaving it all.
But she had never meant it. No, never, never! Deliberately
she closed her mind to what might have been
going on in Brice’s mind. She would not let herself
think again of what he had gone through during those
days of her unexplained absence.</p>
<p>She did not love Ranney Copeland. But she had
loved Brice, and this was what had come of it. Ranney
Copeland? How much of truth was there in what she
had said to Brice, that she could have Ranney Copeland
whenever she wanted him? She thought of that,
shrank away from the thought, grasped at it again.
What else was there?</p>
<p>But first the world had to be faced, people had to
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[82]</span>
be told, and the telling must come from herself, if the
tale were to wear the guise she wished it to. There
came a morning when she telephoned to make sure that
Alice would be at home. An hour later she was
in Alice’s upstairs sitting-room, where Mrs. Copeland
was remonstrating with one of her small daughters who
did not wish to go out for a walk. A patient maid was
standing near holding the other child by the hand.
The little girl who was consciously good eyed the one
before whom Alice was kneeling with that stolid understanding
of childhood, and with something of the
good little girl’s self-complacency at the iniquity of the
naughty one.</p>
<p>“But—I—am—not—going out with Nelly!” Elizabeth
was saying.</p>
<p>“Yes, you are, darling! Come—put your arm in
your coat.”</p>
<p>“Won’t!”</p>
<p>“Put your arm in, darling, for mother.”</p>
<p>“I won’t wear this old coat. I’m going to wear my
new blue coat.”</p>
<p>“I’ll tell you!” Alice’s voice sounded as though she
had just thought of the most wonderful thing. “I’ll
tell you! You shall wear your blue coat the very next
time you go out with mother.”</p>
<p>One thin arm went into the brown coat. “Well.
When am I going out with you, mother?”</p>
<p>“We’ll drive down to meet daddy this afternoon.
There—now kiss me, and run.”</p>
<p>“How wonderful you are with them, Alice,” said
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[83]</span>
Anne, a little sadly, when the children had left the
room. “Where do you get all that patience?”</p>
<p>“Oh, it isn’t patience, really. It’s a sort of trying
to meet them on their own ground, the poor little darlings.
You know how you feel, yourself, sometimes,
about doing things you don’t want to do, and wearing
things you detest.”</p>
<p>“Is there really anything you detest, Alice?”</p>
<p>“Why, yes, of course there is. I don’t think about it
very much, but there must be.”</p>
<p>“Ah, you have everything! Just look at this room
of yours, at this house.”</p>
<p>Alice’s face grew serious. “Nance, I wish you would
let me say something to you.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I know what you want to say.”</p>
<p>“I don’t believe you do, not really. I don’t minimize
the comfort of having things, Nance, just because
I’ve been one of the fortunate ones that have always
had them. But, honestly, Anne dear, it is not things
that make one’s happiness. I’d be happy anywhere,
anyhow, with George and the children. I would. And
you have Brice, Nance. He’s such a dear!”</p>
<p>Again came that ghastly coldness about her lips that
she had felt in Mr. Whitten’s office. How had Brice
dared to make it so difficult for her? She had to hold
hard to that anger against him, had to find something
to give her courage.</p>
<p>“Oh, yes, Brice. That’s what I’ve come here this
morning for, Alice. To tell you, before anyone else.
Brice and I have separated.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[84]</span></p>
<p>Alice stared at her for a moment, then abruptly sat
down. Anne moved a step or two across the room,
back again, let herself sink softly into a low, deep
chair. She thought she had done it well. But why,
why, why did she have to do it at all?</p>
<p>Alice had flushed. “Anne Denison! How can you
say a thing like that? Why, Anne!”</p>
<p>“It is quite true. Of course we are not going to
make a scandal of it. There’s a way of doing
it decently. Desertion, I believe, or something like
that.”</p>
<p>For a long minute Alice Copeland sat there without
moving, looking at Anne. Then tears came to her
eyes. “Nance! It can’t be too late. Let me see
Brice.”</p>
<p>“No use, Alice. Brice has already left town. Oh,
it’s quite all right, much the best thing for us both.”</p>
<p>“You don’t believe that! It isn’t possible that you
can!”</p>
<p>“Oh, please, Alice dear! It’s all settled, or will be,
as soon as the thing can be arranged.”</p>
<p>“But divorce! Anne, you can’t.”</p>
<p>Anne said nothing. Was it all going to be as hard
as this?</p>
<p>“Anne! Why, you’d be like that dreadful Callum
woman we were talking about at the country club that
day, or like Tessie Ogden. The last time she married
again the day after she got her decree.”</p>
<p>“And why not? It’s quite legal, I believe.”</p>
<p>“Legal! After those promises, and the life together?
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[85]</span>
Oh, Anne!” Alice was openly sobbing now. Anne did
not look at her. Presently she spoke again. “Anne,
there isn’t, there couldn’t be anyone else? Brice isn’t
that sort.”</p>
<p>“I told you we’d call it desertion.”</p>
<p>“But Anne, Nance darling, think of the loneliness!
What would you do, what could you do?”</p>
<p>“What does any woman do, any woman like me? I
don’t know how to earn my own living. I’m not young.
I’m not old, either. I want life. Yes, I do, I want
life. Well, how does any woman get it?”</p>
<p>They sat there a while without speaking, without
looking at each other. Presently Alice went to a window
and leaned out. “Don’t let them play off the
sidewalk, Nelly,” she called.</p>
<p>When she came back her manner had changed.
“You’ve told me your news, dear. I suppose I ought
to tell you ours. Or has Ranney already told you?”</p>
<p>“Ranney?”</p>
<p>“His engagement is to be announced at last. I had
come to believe it never would be, but they settled it
while he was there. He’s played fast and loose. She’s
a nice girl. Too nice for Ranney. He’s so different
from George.”</p>
<p>The light in the room had grown strange. Anne’s
lips were cold. She must keep calm, keep smiling.
“Oh, you’re always too hard on Ranney, my dear,” she
heard herself saying. “He’s not a bad sort. I rather
like Ranney. What is the girl’s name?”</p>
<p>A few minutes later Alice followed her out towards
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[86]</span>
the stairs. “Anne, wait a moment. Forgive me for
asking. Have you money enough? Because George
and I——”</p>
<p>“Oh, plenty of money. Plenty. Thanks just the
same, dear. You give Ranney my love and tell him
I’m waiting to hear all about it. I must go now. Don’t
look like that, Alice. I’m all right.”</p>
<p>Alice kissed her. “I can’t bear to think of it,” she
said, with a catch in her voice. “Let me try, let George
go to him. It can’t be too late.”</p>
<p>“Don’t, Alice, please, please,” Anne said. She drew
away. The world went black.</p>
<h3 id="8">
8
</h3>
<p>That night she lay looking out at the stars, and
thinking. Another night came back to her when she
had watched the stars with Brice, while they were
still in that first new, terrible strangeness of union,
of unforeseen distastes, on her part of mute shrinking
from contacts and bareness of mind and body
which Brice took so naturally and joyously. She had
thought Pelham a strange place for him to choose for
their honeymoon; a place where there was nothing to
do, no one to be seen, no one to show herself to. The
cottage on the bank of the stream, their tiny, too-intimate
room with one window, the table where they
had their meals with the old sisters whose sole means
of livelihood came from boarding the casual trout-fishermen
and more frequent lumbermen—she would
have been restive there, if it had not been for Brice’s
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[87]</span>
adoring. That she had welcomed. She would yield
her hand, her lips, with a gratifying feeling of conferring.
At times Brice had taken her gifts hesitantly,
worshipfully; at other times tempestuously. The moments
of devoutness pleased her more. Even in those
early days she had told herself it was that attitude, that
state of mind, that she would foster in him.</p>
<p>On their last evening in the woods it had been Brice
who had shown reluctance to leave them. Even in
that hour Anne was for going on to the next thing, the
new thing, the thing beyond, unafraid of whatever it
might be, purposing always to sway it towards herself,
to make it her own. She had never questioned that
she could influence and form the new life they were
going into together.</p>
<p>But Brice had drawn her out of the cottage that
evening, and they had walked along the rutted road,
the dark woods treading the hill on their left, the stream
murmuring at the foot of the slope like music heard
in a dream. The moon was young and pale, blending
its light with the lambency of the stars. They walked
through mottled shadows, Brice’s arm about her.
Sometimes as they emerged into an unshadowed place
where the moonlight found her hair his arm would
tighten. She would let her head fall back against his
shoulder, gratified at his tremor of emotion, at the
sense of power it gave her.</p>
<p>They came to a place where the road dropped to the
level of the stream, where a broad rock from which
Brice had often fished protruded above a pool where
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[88]</span>
trout would rise a few hours later. They stood there
side by side. Before the silvery beauty gemmed in
the setting of the surrounding woods Brice’s arm had
dropped away. He loved the place. He had led his
love and his emotion to it, and stood with his face
upturned to the stars, wrapt, a votary before the altar
on which he has just laid his gift. Anne felt the withdrawal
of his spirit. She was more conscious of Brice
than of the shimmering water, of the stars. She was
a little teased, amused, impatient at his enraptured,
upturned look. She wanted his return to herself.</p>
<p>“Dear,” she said. “Isn’t it beautiful?”</p>
<p>Brice looked at her. “You are,” he murmured.
“You are beautiful. Our last night here.”</p>
<p>“Are you glad?” she laughed.</p>
<p>He did not answer. He did not touch her, did not
move. All playfulness and all passion seemed to have
left him. He was remote, a being other than the man
who had held and caressed her. She became restive.
She went close to him, brushed against him, raised her
face in the moonlight.</p>
<p>Afterwards they sat on the rock until the moon
dropped over the hill, and the pool lay dark beneath
the shadowing trees, and the stars shone on the face
of the stream, on Brice and herself. She was satisfied.</p>
<p>“We ought to go in,” he said. “I ought not to keep
you out here in the dampness. You might get chilled.”</p>
<p>She smiled to herself, moved her cheek softly against
his, yielded herself more to his arms. “This is so
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[89]</span>
sweet,” she whispered. “And we are going away tomorrow.”</p>
<p>He pressed his lips to her hair, on her closed eyes,
while the stars moved on.</p>
<p>Oh, she would always know how to manage Brice,
how to bring him back to consciousness of her! What
was instinctive at that early time had gradually developed
into a technique that perfected itself as the need
grew for holding him, controlling him. She had believed
that she knew Brice’s mind and heart, all his
impulses and reactions, just as she believed she managed
them all for his well-being and her own. Her
ultimate conception of successful marriage was that
the woman must dominate, possess, and manage the
man; woman’s part was to be the silent mainspring,
man’s the clicking wheels.</p>
<p>Now and again during the years she had been
aware of that same silent withdrawal of Brice’s which
she had first encountered in Pelham under the stars.
She believed it was only his masculine inarticulateness,
or mental indolence, or contentment too absolute to be
broken by speech or action. If by chance she suspected
herself momentarily forgotten or disapproved of,
she had always known what to do. She could make
him see her again as beautiful, admirable, desirable.
If it came to argument, she had always been able to
make him say that she was right, or at any rate to yield
to her. Only this last time had she failed; and she
would not have failed even then, if Brice had not, in
this inexplicable way, disappeared.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[90]</span></p>
<p>But there was the bare, ugly fact. He had disappeared.
He had done the utterly unforeseen, and
now she was lying in Alice’s house, her body filled
with the dull ache of fever, looking again at the passage
of the stars. Tonight the pool was not a peaceful
depth above which she rested in Brice’s arms and drew
him to thought of her. It was not peaceful. It was
an enveloping blackness, hideously silent, that surged
about her and buffeted her about like a leaf in the
wind, helpless, rebellious, longing to rest, longing to
find again some firmness of thought that eluded, that
spun dizzily and mockingly through her brain. She
was alone. There was no Brice. It was as though,
after ten years, he had abruptly thrown her arms from
his neck and sent her into that whirling night of bewilderment
where nothing was as she had known it,
nothing was real.</p>
<p>Yet after all something was real. What Alice had
told her, and the smiling nurse confirmed. Motherhood.
Terrible. A leering joke of Fate, as unexpected,
as cruel, as bewildering as Brice’s behavior. For hours
she was benumbed at the knowledge. She felt about
it as one feels towards death. It could not be true,
there must be some mistake. Yet as in the case of
death, all the while she admitted the inevitableness of
it: as death comes surely to all, so had this thing come
inescapably to her. She would still have to know, tomorrow,
that it was real. For many tomorrows she
would have to bear the burden of it, and alone. In
time, she would have to suffer. Alone. There would
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[91]</span>
be a child, and Brice not there to—to suffer for it.
She thought of that, savagely. Oh, Brice should have
suffered for this, as she would have to suffer! It
wasn’t fair, wasn’t fair. Even if Brice had been there,
it would not have been fair. After ten years, motherhood.
She had never wanted children. She knew why
other women wanted them, some women. They were
hostages to a sort of happiness, to complacency, to
stability, to the holding of their husbands. Oh, yes, to
some women, doubtless, something to love and care for,
something on which to gratify that sentimentality that
she had always scorned. She had not needed children.
She knew how to arrange her life without that bother,
that clutter, as she knew how to hold Brice. A cry
escaped her.</p>
<p>The nurse came, bent above her.</p>
<p>“No, no! I don’t want anything, thank you,” she
said.</p>
<p>That was for the moment true. She would have
welcomed oblivion, anything, anything, that would let
her escape her shattered world. She had believed so
unquestioningly that she understood Brice, knew his
every thought, how to manage him, how to hold him.
And now he had gone. He had deserted her, left her
with this. A child. His child. For she did not think
of it as hers. It was Brice who had loved children,
wanted one of his own, though she had believed she
had convinced him of the inadvisability of having them.
How could they have gotten along with all the added
expense of children? But now—! There was no permanency
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[92]</span>
left. All her plans, all her ideas, were whirling
about her; only those stars were serene.</p>
<p>Sometimes she lay burning with anger which always
resolved into bitterness against Brice. He should be
found, would be, must be. And then—oh, yes!—then
she would know what to do. There would be no more
of those silent withdrawals of his, no more of his futile
rebellions against her will. She had been too soft, too
gentle. She had underestimated his desire and need
of pleasing her. Now there would be the child, a
mighty weapon. And she would use it. As other
women used it. Brice must be found.</p>
<p>It was Nicky who precipitated the affair of the search
for him. The nurse was gone at last, leaving Anne
still languid in body after the fever and shock, but
well enough to go down to Alice’s sitting-room in the
afternoons. She knew that Alice watched her, sensed
Alice’s vague disappointment and was scornfully
amused, however secretly. Doubtless Alice expected
a softening in her, a rosy tenderness of anticipation,
as if any sudden incident could make a person other
than she had always been. For with returning strength
Anne was becoming herself again, calm, measuring,
coolly determined. She was only awaiting the apt moment
for speaking of Brice to Alice and George.</p>
<p>Nicky came in grinning impishly at Anne lying on
Alice’s couch, lithe and graceful, well enough aware
that the gracefulness would pass, making the most of
the moment, one arm above her head, the other hand
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[93]</span>
between the pages of a magazine she had not been
reading.</p>
<p>“So the blow has fallen!” Nicky remarked.</p>
<p>“Nicky, don’t!” cried Alice. “It’s so sweet.”</p>
<p>“Yes, isn’t it? Like all the rest of the bonds of
matrimony. How does Brice take it? Solemnly, I
suppose.”</p>
<p>“Do sit down, Nick,” said Anne, and added, “Brice
doesn’t know the joy in store for him.”</p>
<p>Nicky sat down, and Alice, her eyes on her sewing,
said in a tone which was meant to carry a warning that
the subject was not to be pressed upon, “Brice is away,
Nicky dear. What have you been doing lately?”</p>
<p>Veronica recognized the tone, and laughed aloud.
“What’s up?” she asked, looking from Alice to Anne.</p>
<p>Anne, too, looked at Alice, who had flushed a little.
“Isn’t she a cherub? Alice—I do love you. The plain
truth is, Nicky, that old Brice has gone off. Thinks
he’s left me.”</p>
<p>“Oh, Anne dear!” from Alice, beseechingly.</p>
<p>“I knew there was something queer,” Nicky exclaimed.</p>
<p>Anne stirred; the arm over her head came down.
“Why?”</p>
<p>“Because Ambrose——”</p>
<p>Anne laughed, sat up. “Ambrose! Of course!
Alice—why didn’t we think of that? Of course, Ambrose
knows where he is.”</p>
<p>“Oh, as to what Ambrose knows, or thinks he does,”
Nicky exclaimed. “I’ll leave that to you two! All he
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[94]</span>
would tell me was that old Brice was sick or something.
He said Brice wrote him a letter last week, from Albany
or somewhere, and asked him to be good to you, Anne.
To stand by you or something.”</p>
<p>“From Albany! But that couldn’t have been all,”
Alice cried. “He must have said more than that!”
Anne’s eyes narrowed a little; she was thinking intently.</p>
<p>“All Ambrose told me. But he’s worried about it.
Tried to call up your house, Anne. And went down to
Whitten’s.”</p>
<p>Anne nodded. “Yes. I went there, too. Before I
came to see Alice.”</p>
<p>Nicky chattered a moment or two of other things,
looked at her wrist-watch and said she must fly. Alice
went out of the room with her. When she came back,
she sat down by Anne.</p>
<p>“Darling, I think Nicky came to say that. What
did she mean?”</p>
<p>“I’ve wanted to tell you, Alice. It—isn’t easy.”</p>
<p>“I do think you had better. George could help, I
am sure, if we knew. What was that about Whitten’s?”</p>
<p>“It goes back to the time I came here to look after
the children. We had quarreled, and I did not leave
word for Brice where I had gone. He—thought
things.”</p>
<p>“Oh! But he couldn’t! Not that, Anne!”</p>
<p>“Apparently he did, though. He left me a note. I
told you he had settled things. He thought he had.
By telling me I might divorce him. He even left
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[95]</span>
Whitten’s. Gave up his job. What he told Ambrose
only goes to prove how determined he was.”</p>
<p>“Oh! But now——”</p>
<p>“Yes. That’s just it. Now there is—this. Brice
will have to know this.”</p>
<p>“I knew George could help! He will find Brice,
dear. And then—oh, you’re going to be happy, so
happy, so happy, Nance! You and Brice—and what’s
coming!”</p>
<p>Anne smiled, content for the time to leave it there.
She was still weighted with that unaccustomed lassitude,
and she knew George would act. Gradually she
was able to be about the house again, and at last, one
evening, George brought Ambrose with him for dinner.
Anne sensed a crisis, and was gay throughout the meal.
Afterwards she faced the two men.</p>
<p>“What is it?” she asked. “Out with it, George.
What makes you and Ambrose so solemn? You have
heard from Brice?”</p>
<p>“You know I always said you’d play the devil sooner
or later, Anne,” Ambrose remarked. “Looks like you’d
done it now.”</p>
<p>“Is that what you came here to say?” Anne flashed
at him.</p>
<p>“No. I came to say I have been up to Albany myself.
Brice stopped there overnight. Had only a suitcase
with him. From there he apparently jumped
off.”</p>
<p>“What do you mean, jumped off? If you think Brice
is the sort of man who would——”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[96]</span></p>
<p>“I think I know Brice better than you ever did,”
Ambrose said, savagely. “God—I hate to see his life
ripped up like this.”</p>
<p>Alice protested, “Ambrose!”</p>
<p>“Well, damn it, I do! It’s my opinion Brice stood
things as long as he could, and got out. I don’t blame
him. But I do hate to see it.”</p>
<p>“You are implying that it is my fault,” Anne said.
“I have never done anything, anything, that would
justify Brice’s leaving me.”</p>
<p>“Please, please don’t quarrel,” Alice said.</p>
<p>“I have no intention of quarreling with anybody,”
said Anne. “I never quarrel. I am very much obliged
to Ambrose for going to Albany. I should think you
would all understand that I want Brice to come
back.”</p>
<p>“I know what cost him his job with Whitten,” said
Ambrose.</p>
<p>Anne’s head went up. “I did that for the best,” she
said. “If Brice had waited for me to explain it to him,
he would have seen that. When he comes back, he
will agree with me.” Suddenly she looked at George,
threw out her hands in a gesture of appeal. “George,
you’ll find him, won’t you? Oh, don’t you see? I
want him to come back!”</p>
<p>Ambrose turned away impatiently, but George said,
“Of course you do, Anne. We all do. And as for
finding him, why, a man can’t absolutely disappear.”</p>
<p>“Oh, George,” Alice interjected, “I don’t know.
There was that poor girl who started across the park
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[97]</span>
with a book and box of candy. She was never heard
from.”</p>
<p>“Nonsense, Allie! We’ll have Brice home again in
a day or two. In a week, at latest. Don’t lose your
nerve, Anne.”</p>
<p>“I’m not going to lose my nerve. I know what Alice
is thinking. But it isn’t true. Brice is not dead.”</p>
<p>“You’re right, in that,” said Ambrose. “He’s no
coward.”</p>
<p>“I think we should take every possibility into consideration,”
ventured George. “Not that I——”</p>
<p>“What you are thinking about is not a possibility,”
Anne affirmed. “I’ve told Alice that he sent me a
letter, too.”</p>
<p>George nodded, but Ambrose looked at Anne, frowning.
“Let me tell you, Anne, that you will not help us
find Brice by keeping anything back,” said he.</p>
<p>“I’m not keeping anything back. I said I had told
Alice. I’m willing to tell you. He wrote to me. I got
the letter several days after he was gone, but he had
posted it in New York. He told me to divorce him.
For desertion. He said he would not contest.”</p>
<p>Ambrose bit his lip, walked restlessly about the room.
After a moment Copeland said, “I feel that you ought
to know, Anne, what the detectives said. They believe
there is only one way of finding Brice. To advertise,
to make the thing public.”</p>
<p>Anne paled. Her hand went to her mouth. “Not
that!” she gasped. “I couldn’t stand that!”</p>
<p>Ambrose wheeled towards them. “No. Anne’s
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[98]</span>
right. Not that!” said he. “Brice never in his life
made a move without thinking it through first. He has
gone. Therefore, he wanted to go. Neither Anne nor
you nor I have the right to force him back against his
will. Oh, I know what you’re thinking of, Alice! But
if Brice wanted to cut out his old life, he knew what
he was doing. I say, let the thing drop. Take Brice’s
decision. You’ve no right to do anything else.”</p>
<p>“You’re not considering Anne, nor the child that’s
coming, Ambrose,” George said, mildly. “We’ll find
Brice. There’s no question of that. But of course if
Anne doesn’t wish it, there shall be no publicity.”</p>
<p>“I couldn’t stand it, George,” said Anne, and Alice
added, “Of course not. It’s not to be thought of.”</p>
<p>A week passed, two weeks, and still there was no
word of Brice. Something kept Anne from asking, but
her nervousness grew, and she watched Alice and
George, unfailingly kind, and to her awakening sensitiveness
increasingly anxious. Her strength had returned,
but not her old vigor. She was beginning to
feel it impossible to accept Alice’s hospitality much
longer, yet the idea of returning to that empty house
was curiously repugnant. It was not the old repugnance
towards its smallness and cheapness. It would
remind her so of those last days there when Brice’s
staying away had for the first time given her a doubt
of her own power and rightness. She did not want to
live through days like those again, nor nights like those.
The memory of them gave her an actual quivering of
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[99]</span>
the flesh. She knew that Alice watched her, and turned
her face away when Alice’s eyes would meet her own.
One morning she grasped her courage and said:</p>
<p>“Why not tell me, Alice?”</p>
<p>Alice’s eyes filled with tears. “Darling, it’s so dreadful,”
she said. “We haven’t heard a word. George
has had two detectives. They haven’t a trace of him,
after Albany. George is a director of the bank. He
has found out that Brice took almost no money with
him. It’s so dreadful!”</p>
<p>Anne’s mood alternated between anger and panic.
What should she do, what could she do, if Brice were
not found? How did he dare to remain away? How
did he dare, after those years together, to doubt her
to the point of behaving so unprecedentedly?</p>
<p>It was not until an afternoon when Tessie Ogden
came in, unannounced, that the pride was born which
was to become a force more impelling than anger or
panic. Until that day she had succeeded in eluding
all of Alice’s guests; but Tessie came into the upstairs
sitting-room without warning.</p>
<p>“Oh, you poor, poor darling!” was Mrs. Ogden’s
greeting. Anne had to endure the embrace that followed,
listen to words that her own coolness had no
power of stemming.</p>
<p>“Men, these men! I’ve had my experience, my dear!
You can’t tell me anything about it. It’s just the way
my first husband treated me. Simply went off with
another woman, my dear. So what was I to do?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[100]</span></p>
<p>“What on earth are you talking about, Tessie? Why
the confidence?”</p>
<p>“Don’t pretend with me, Nance darling. I know all
about it. I sympathize. How I sympathize!”</p>
<p>“I don’t understand. There is nothing for you to
know, except that I have been rather ill, while my husband
is away on business.”</p>
<p>Mrs. Ogden laughed, touched Anne’s hand playfully.
“Your Lucille works for me, now. Needs training,
of course, but—! It’s really touching, her devotion
to you, her indignation at the way you were
treated!”</p>
<p>“Why get your news from a servant, Tessie? What
is it worth, from such a source?”</p>
<p>Tessie leaned back in her chair, lighted a cigarette,
smiled languidly.</p>
<p>The next afternoon, when Alice was out, Anne left
the house and walked to the terraced side-street that
she had not seen for weeks. A faint nostalgia gripped
at her throat, not for Brice, not for the house nor the
things in it, but for the security that had slipped away
from her. She had even more distaste than before for
the street and the house, but at least it had represented
an established place in the world, however small, however
undesirable. She could never live there again,
yet she was seeking it out in an unformulated desire
to snatch at some of that lost security. The little girl
who used to run to meet Brice called to her, swirled
up on roller skates. The laundryman’s wagon was at
the curb beyond. The grass on her own plot was long,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[101]</span>
bits of paper and string caught in it. On the porch a
yellowed newspaper had blown into a corner. A folded
circular was stuck between the knob and the door. She
took out her latch-key. How close the hall was!</p>
<p>There was an oblong of white on the rug, where it
had dropped through the letter-slot. She grew dizzy,
grasped at the door for support. Brice.... Why had
they not known he would write?</p>
<p>She picked up the letter without turning it over. She
could not yet look at his writing. She went blindly
into the living-room. The window shades were at uneven
heights. Not his chair. The sofa. Her hat was
so heavy.</p>
<p>Then she turned the letter in her hand. It was not
from Brice. Miss Willy’s handwriting.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_102"></a><a id="Page_103"></a>[103]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="PART_II">
PART II
</h2>
</div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_104"></a><a id="Page_105"></a>[105]</span></p>
</div>
<h3 class='mt4' id="1_1">
1
</h3>
<p>Far from the highways, a hundred miles, two hundred
miles inland from the coast, there are many scattered
villages, many road-strung hamlets like Heathville,
some in the valleys, some daring the hill-tops,
some clustered about an ancient mill now falling to ruin
or transformed to some more placid use. It may be
that over the rutted, narrow roads stage coaches once
swirled by on the way to Albany, disgorging their tired
travelers at the largest house whose size alone now
proclaims its earlier uses. It may be that people built
other houses near the tavern in human gregariousness,
longing to feel themselves in touch with the world of
affairs. There are other roads over which stage coaches
never passed. They remained for the conquest of the
rural-delivery mail carrier. There are a few that even
the mail carrier does not attempt, that climb and wind
and drop to wind again for miles between house and
house. Always where those roads begin there stands
a row of wooden or metal boxes set on posts of varying
height, storm-bent to varying angles, where the postman
stops. The row of boxes and the postman’s automobile
are to the people who live along that road what
stage coach and tavern were to their progenitors—their
link with the world of affairs. Otherwise life goes on
for them with much the same unbroken round as
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[106]</span>
through two centuries. Birth and death, toil and Sunday
rest. Goodnesses, evil. A few fields wrung from
the grip of granite, a few growing back to underbrush.
Sun and blight, good crops and failures. New shingles
on a roof here, a new grave yonder. In every village
there is a church, in every one a schoolhouse with a
flagpole in front.</p>
<p>The road to Heathville begins at a railroad station
where a train from the south stops once a day, not to
be outrivaled by the train from the north. As though
disdaining things as modern as railways, it rises hurriedly
from the station, crosses a bridge and runs for a
mile or two along a crest of red sandstone; then it
takes its own way up hill and down, beside a tumbling
stream winding through fern-sweet woods, past fields
where willow and hazel tread along the brooks, past
rocky pastures where cattle wear their paths among
cedars and laurel and blueberries to graze on the rough
thatch of grass between granite outcroppings. At last
it emerges into a country gentler because it has submitted
to the hand of man. Orchards and great red
barns come closer together. Finally, on the summit of
the last rocky lift, a white church steeple points towards
the gilded cock that sways to the wind and looks
down upon a dozen houses.</p>
<p>Anne arrived there at the hour when dusk had faded
into night, a kindly curtain softly dropped between
her and the life she had left; kindly, as though to blot
distress out of her unhappy consciousness; and softly,
as though to indicate the measure of the life that was
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[107]</span>
waiting for her in the weeks and years to come. But
she was not aware of the dropping of the curtain; she
had no sense of being the spectator at a play. The
drama, or the tragedy, was of herself. What had been
and what was still to come was all that mattered to
her. The people in the train, those she had left behind,
those she might meet in Heathville, all were no more
than settings of her stage. There was no other stage
than hers, no other play than this mad misery of which
she was the victim, this sequence of events which had
caught her up and was carrying her along with it. Yet
as at a play, Anne had a sense of definite divisions of
time. One act was over. Now she was going through
another. Again there should be action, directed by
herself, staged by herself, brought to some conclusion
of her own contriving. For the time being she was
trapped. For months, perhaps for a year, the best she
could do would be to escape those irritating contacts,
to wait with endurance if not with patience, until she
should be physically free again. Looking forward, she
had no intention of remaining in the trap forever.
What if Brice were not found? What if she had indeed
failed with him? What if their marriage were
wrecked forever? Once past this miserable bondage
of the body, would not her courage and her intention
reassert themselves, and her pride? Had those ever
failed her? Could one lose, or drop like a garment, all
one’s characteristics, merely because one had been mistaken
and found one’s self involved in an unwelcome
human commonplace like the one awaiting her? This
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[108]</span>
child—of course one became fond of her own child.
But she was not of the maternal type, not the sort of
woman who would lose her identity in becoming a
mother. The child, if it lived—perhaps it would not!—should
be properly loved and cared for. Of course,
there would be its future to think about. There would
be difficulties there, if Brice did not come back. But
if he did—ah, he would admit, then, how right she had
always been in her ambitions. Yet for the present
there was this slow-dragging time ahead. By that, and
by the uncertainty about Brice, she was trapped.</p>
<p>Only Nicky had approved of her journey. The
thought of it came to Anne on the day she found Miss
Willy’s letter; her plan matured quickly, inevitably.</p>
<p>“Oh, Nance dear,” Alice protested. “You can’t go
away, not with all this uncertainty.”</p>
<p>“The uncertainty is worse here, Alice, than it will
be there. No one knows me there, except Willy. No
one will be watching and speculating.”</p>
<p>They were all in the room when she told of her plan,
Nicky and Ambrose and the Copelands. George Copeland,
large and shy, told her:</p>
<p>“There’s plenty of room here, Anne. Like to have
you.”</p>
<p>“I know you would, George. But don’t you see?
I’ve got to get away.”</p>
<p>Nicky gave Ambrose a look. Anne understood.
They had been talking it over between them, probably
quarreling, as always.</p>
<p>“Anne has the right to do what she wants,” Nicky
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[109]</span>
declared. “Brice seems to have done it. Don’t get
sentimental about it, George, nor you either, Alice.
Anne doesn’t want sympathy, nor a soft bed to lie on.
What she wants now is to get away. Don’t you see
that? To get away. It strikes me as perfectly
natural.”</p>
<p>Alice said nothing. Her eyes rested softly on Anne.
Oddly enough, it was Ambrose who made Anne’s way
clear for her. The house could be rented. It would
bring sixty, perhaps seventy dollars a month, half to be
held as interest on the mortgage, and something, of
course, for upkeep. There was the money that Ranney
Copeland had. George could see to that, properly reinvest
it. There would be an assured income, minute,
to be sure, but something.</p>
<p>On the train Anne thought of her last words with
Nicky. “How did you know?” she had asked, when
they had a moment together alone, before parting.
“How could you know I wanted to get away?”</p>
<p>“Doesn’t everyone?” Nicky returned, with a shrug.</p>
<p>“I never did, before. I wanted to go on into things,
not away. Now I want to get away from everything,
from myself and everything.”</p>
<p>Nicky gave her a look in which mockery lurked.
“Oh, well, as to that! Good luck to you!”</p>
<p>For the last two hours on the train Anne’s thought
blurred like the passing landscape. She saw the river,
the villages and hills, the woods and fields. She sensed
the past, believed she sensed the future. The train
was an overheated, rumbling discomfort that had to be
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[110]</span>
endured, and the country it bore her through mattered
nothing. Her own physical lassitude reacted upon her
mind until both past and future were lost in her miserable
realization of the physical. At last the name of
her station was called. She looked about her on the
dark platform, and almost immediately was aware of
the quaint, small person talking as she came. She had
forgotten how tiny Miss Willy was, and how intensely
herself, whatever the circumstances.</p>
<p>“Annie, dear child! To think of your coming to see
me at last! My beet-greens are up—your dear father
used to love them so. I remember you didn’t, though.
I’ve brought an automobile. It’s Mr. Wilkinson’s.
He’s careful, real careful. Where’s your trunk, child?
I knew you’d be used to riding in them, coming from
the city and all. All those things yours? My, but you
must have a lot of clothes. Still, I dare say you’d need
’em. Living like you do. No, I can get in alone. Let
me look at you! My, but you’re pale, child. You
ain’t sick are you?”</p>
<p>That was Miss Willy.</p>
<p>“And how is dear Brice?” asked Miss Willy, before
they were out of the town. “So handsome! I knew
he would take good care of you.”</p>
<p>“I want to know how you are,” Anne evaded. “I’ll
talk about Brice tomorrow.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I’m well. I’m always well. I can do a day’s
work yet, and not have to thank anybody to help me.
Why, what do you think, child? Somebody called me
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[111]</span>
an old lady, only the other day. Or maybe a few
months ago. Seems like the other day.”</p>
<p>“You’re not old,” Anne said, putting her hand over
Miss Willy’s. Cotton gloves, the finger-tips long, too
long. Knuckles, work-worn, bony, enlarged. Cotton
gloves. Age. She shivered.</p>
<p>“Well, I just guess I am not,” said Miss Willy. “I’m
only just seventy-two. That’s not ninety-two, is it?
No, nor eighty-two. Oh, I can do a day’s work yet!”</p>
<p>The car lurched on, the chatter continued. Anne
caught bits of it as she caught glimpses of woods and
fields under the stars.</p>
<p>“The day you were married. So sweetly innocent.
All in white. I couldn’t help crying. Going off with
the man of your heart. So handsome. Woman’s lot
in life. Life is hard for some. Not that I mean—good
gracious, no! Dear Brice! So good of him to let you
come to see me. Good of him to spare you.”</p>
<p>On and on it went, on and on. Her childhood—like
that, on and on.</p>
<p>“Each day brings it own troubles. Not that I mean—no,
of course not. But sufficient unto the day—<em>you</em>
know. Annie dear—<em>you</em> know!”</p>
<p>“Yes. Yes, of course.”</p>
<p>“I believe you weren’t listening. It’s pretty scenery,
here in the glen. Too dark now to see. But you will
see it. You’re going to stay a while, ain’t you? Annie,
ain’t you going to stay a while? Come so far and all?”</p>
<p>“Yes. I’m going to stay—a while.”</p>
<p>“Dear Brice. So good of him to let you come. I
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[112]</span>
guess he thought you needed the change. It’s wonderful
the way a man will do everything for one he loves.
So romantic. Like Mazeppa. Or Hero and that
what’s-his-name—the one that swam the river.”</p>
<p>“Leander—wasn’t it?”</p>
<p>“Leander. Yes. Pa had a horse once named
Leander. Sorrel. But I’m sure I wouldn’t want anybody
to risk his life swimming a river or anything for
me. Human life—the breath of the Almighty.”</p>
<p>What was she saying? Was it really as bewildering
as it sounded, or was Anne’s own mind chaotic? It
didn’t matter. She heard herself answering again.
“Not a river, was it? A strait.”</p>
<p>“It’s the same thing. Salt water. And whales.
Most uncomfortable, I should think. Night air’s
always damp. Especially if the weather’s cold. That
reminds me. I do hope Dorilliam won’t leave the milk
before we get there. It’ll sour before morning, if he
does.”</p>
<p>At last the chatter ceased. The car made an abrupt
turn. Miss Willy grasped Anne’s arm as it veered.
A small house loomed in the darkness.</p>
<p>“I was afraid to leave the lamp burning,” Miss
Willy said. “You wait outside, child, while I strike a
light.”</p>
<p>The milk was on the doorstep, and a large black cat
that Anne trod on in the dark. Her bags were set
inside at last.</p>
<p>“The kitchen’s no place to bring you into,” said
Miss Willy, “but I got to see to the milk.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[113]</span></p>
<p>Anne sank into a rocking-chair, closed her eyes. In
a moment Miss Willy was back. “My goodness, you’re
pale as an appagotion!” she cried. “I’ll get you some
tea. ’Twon’t take a minute.”</p>
<p>She talked while she busied herself. At the table,
the cat jumped into her lap. “Poor Buster! Poor
little Buster! The lady didn’t mean to walk on his
tail. Auntie’s baby! Ain’t he handsome, Annie? Is
your tea right?”</p>
<p>“You always had a black cat,” Anne said. Willy’s
voice, the jumble of her words. Long ago, childhood,
strangely mixed with the present. What—what—oh,
that languor, that heaviness, and the chatter going on.</p>
<p>“I call myself his auntie. Cats are so sensitive.
He’d feel dreadfully hurt, Buster would, if he suspected
he wasn’t a member of the family. I never was married.
I don’t like to say I’m—but he knows as much as
a child. You’ll see, Anne, he knows just as much as a
child.”</p>
<p>That kitchen. Sounds going on and on. Later, the
narrow dark hall and the straight flight of stairs, the
bedroom above, the bed. Longing for rest, for cool
sheets.</p>
<p>“Now you sleep as late as you can,” said Miss Willy.
“You just make yourself right at home here. To think
of your coming to see me.”</p>
<p>Sleep. This low-ceilinged room her refuge. Sounds
outside, perhaps only insects, but like a lawn-mower,
clicking, rattling, whirling. They reminded her of too
much. Of people on porches, of Brice, walking, walking
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[114]</span>
behind a lawn-mower, of things she wanted to shut
out of her memory forever.</p>
<p>Yet that night she slept soundly and without dreams.
She awoke slowly to realization of where she was. A
band of sunlight lay on the floor, and through the open
windows came the soft sounds of earliest summer, birds,
and a low humming that she could not place. Far off,
someone was whistling. She had not wound her watch.
She went to the window, but to her eyes there was no
beauty. The loveliness of the rolling hills, the freshly
green pastures and orchards, the little garden below
with its neat rows of vegetables already proclaiming old
Willy’s diligence—this was only the country. Always
she had thought of the country as of a place where
lives were rough and barren of enjoyment, crude, as
necessary to the maintenance of man as were mills, but
as far beyond her interest as the manufacture of soap.
The morning was warm, but she shivered. To be here,
in this emptiness! That church up the road; across
the way the gray house with an ell, and the few other
houses beyond—what sort of people could live in those
houses, center their lives about that bare church? Bare—yes,
that was it; she had come to this bareness, to
hide. To hide; but not to remain. Impossible, that.
Time would pass, the long dragging months. Meanwhile,
she would have to make things as easy as possible.
Willy was happy at having her. Willy was kind
and willing, devoted.</p>
<p>“I let you get your sleep out,” Miss Willy said, beaming,
when at last Anne went down to the kitchen. “I
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[115]</span>
always say there’s nothing like sleep for the young.
As for me, I like to get up in the morning, so’s to get
my chores out of the way. My, you look pretty!”</p>
<p>Anne breakfasted at the kitchen table, the cat Buster
staring up at her with yellow eyes and Miss Willy talking
the while.</p>
<p>“Auntie’s boy was naughty this morning. He caught
a poor, poor little robin. Come out to the porch, Annie-my-dear.
I’ll show you the nest.”</p>
<p>Anne felt no interest in nests, nor in the wide-opened
beaks that arose from the one in the grapevine, but it
was easier to follow old Willy than to remain indoors.
Alone, she would have to think. The garden was a
tangled, blossomy place, iris and peonies massed in
bloom, roses budding; bees hummed there, a cat-bird
called.</p>
<p>“The flowers take care of themselves,” said Miss
Willy. “Funny how the Lord seems to be able to trust
things that are only meant for looks to take care of
themselves, while what’s meant for use has to give us
a lot of hard work and all. I want you should see my
vegetables.”</p>
<p>They passed a row of flaunting rhubarb. A cooped
hen beat back and forth behind slats because her chicks
were rambling and scratching under the broad leaves.</p>
<p>“There, look at my beet-greens. And the radishes.
They’re not quite ready. I got the peas in good and
early. Ain’t it a handsome sight?”</p>
<p>Anne had to say something; the small bright-eyed
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[116]</span>
face was expectant. “Wonderful! Who does it all for
you?”</p>
<p>Miss Willy laughed. “I just knew you’d ask that.
Nobody does it but me. Not a soul helps me. I just
guess I can do my day’s work yet.”</p>
<p>“But, Willy, you don’t plant and dig. You can’t!”</p>
<p>The little head tossed. “Oh, don’t I? It’s my garden.
I do it all. Well”—she gave Anne a fleeting look—“well—all
but the spading. Dorilliam does that. I
don’t want to take praise for what I don’t do. And—my
gracious!—that reminds me! I ought to’ve gone
over this morning and had him drive down for your
trunk. Now I can’t get him till noon. You did bring
a trunk, didn’t you? You going to stay a while?”</p>
<p>Suddenly Anne felt dizzy. “Can’t we go back to the
house?” she asked. “Can’t we go in? I must tell
you——”</p>
<p>In the cool kitchen Anne told her. Miss Willy sat
upright, sometimes her eyes on Anne’s face, sometimes
on the hands folded tightly together on her apron. She
asked no question, made no comment. When Anne
had stopped speaking she sat for another moment
silent; her lips twitched a little. Then she said, not
looking at Anne:</p>
<p>“And to think it was me you came to. I—I’ve
always wanted a baby to hold all I’d a mind to.”</p>
<p>Anne pressed her hands to her cheeks, started to
speak again.</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t talk any more, if I were you,” said Miss
Willy. “I can see you been through a lot. Talking
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[117]</span>
won’t help it. You’ll feel different, after the baby
comes.”</p>
<p>“Ah—different! I hope so. But the baby is such a
small part of it.”</p>
<p>“No it ain’t, either. You’ll see.”</p>
<p>“I suppose there is always a way out of everything,”
Anne said, from her mood of utter weariness. “We
may both die.”</p>
<p>Miss Willy stood up. “Now look here, Anne Warren!
I’m glad you come to my house. I’m glad to
have you here. I want you should stay. But it’s my
house, and there’s one thing I won’t have in my house.
I won’t have the Lord’s ways blasphemed nor questioned.”</p>
<p>Anne flushed. “I can go, I suppose.”</p>
<p>“Well, you won’t go. You’ll stay where you be.
But you’ll use what sense you got while you’re doing it.”</p>
<p>“Willy——!”</p>
<p>“I mean it. And I’ll say whatever I’ve a mind to.
There ain’t anybody else to do it, and I knew you when
you were a child. You were a little cantankerous imp,
all the time wanting your own way, no matter what it
might lead to. Many’s the time I longed to turn you
over my knee. Many’s the time I wondered whether
Solomon didn’t know better than folks nowadays, when
he said that about sparing the rod. Still and all, a
man with as many wives as he had must have been tried
beyond patience when it come to the children. So I
never laid hands on you, more’s the pity, and you’re
past spanking, now. But you’ll stay here and act sensible.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[118]</span>
And you won’t talk about dying. That’s in the
Lord’s hands, not yours.”</p>
<p>Anne stood up. How weary she was, how spent.
How futile and foolish old Willy, with her primitive
talk. That to go on for months. Yet after her waiting
was over there would be other months. “Dear old
Willy, you are kind. I want to stay here for a time,
until—afterwards. I can pay a little.”</p>
<p>“Well then, so you shall,” said Miss Willy. “It’s a
grand thing, to feel independent. Like me.”</p>
<h3 id="2_1">
2
</h3>
<p>The days were long, but she dreaded the fall of evening,
when the insects began their rattling song. There
were letters from Alice. Twice Ambrose wrote, inclosing
the monthly check. There was no word of Brice.
On that subject Ambrose wrote only a line each time.
Alice recounted in detail, from which Anne’s mind
shrank away, his endeavors and George’s. What it all
summed up to was that Brice had vanished. And the
crickets and locusts clicked on, like lawn-mowers.
George still wished for publicity, but to that Anne
refused her consent. She could see those headlines, or
the veiled salaciousness of those small surreptitious
paragraphs in the column marked “Personal.” Her
affairs should never be aired there. Never would she
consent to that final blow to her pride, never to the
surmises and smiles that would cause. Besides, now
she did not want him to come back, did not want to see
him. He had done enough, hurt her too much, put too
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[119]</span>
much upon her. Let him stay away forever! She tore
Alice’s letter to bits, wept with anger. Miss Willy,
hearing the sobs, ran to the gray house across the road,
came back with the doctor.</p>
<p>It was the beginning of a friendship. A grizzled man,
humorous, short of temper, Anne liked him. Gradually
she came to look forward to his visits, always
unexpected, apt to be lingering.</p>
<p>“Well, what of it?” he asked her one day when she
complained of a headache. “Be gone by tomorrow.”</p>
<p>She was nettled. That, from a doctor. “But what
of today? It’s really quite bad.”</p>
<p>“I dare say. But you’ve got to expect a pain here
or there. I’m not going to dose you for that, Mrs.
Denison.”</p>
<p>“Do you treat all your patients this way?”</p>
<p>“Not all. But part of the time. Words to you,
syrup to others. When there’s nothing the matter with
’em.”</p>
<p>“You think there is nothing the matter with me?”</p>
<p>“You’re sharing the common lot. Women in your
condition always think it’s uncommon. But it isn’t.”</p>
<p>She flushed. Her condition, the common lot. “I
know what you mean. But my position is not quite
the same——”</p>
<p>“I wonder if you do know what I mean?” he interrupted.
“I’m not thinking of your physical condition.
Call it mental. Or moral, if you like.”</p>
<p>“Doctor Severance! Moral!”</p>
<p>“Yes. Not speaking of morals. You find yourself
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[120]</span>
in a situation. I’m a physician, so I called it a condition.
You think it’s uncommon, unique, I dare say.
It is not. Not a bit of it!”</p>
<p>“Who has been talking to you of my affairs, Doctor
Severance?”</p>
<p>“You have. Not in words, no. Nor anyone else.
No need to. Plain enough. Something’s gone wrong.
You think it’s shaking the world. All women do. A
teacup drops, there’s no other teacup. But isn’t there?
Patterns vary, of course. But there remain plenty of
teacups. All hold tea or coffee, most have handles.”
He smiled, kindly, tolerantly. “Be mistress of yourself,
Mrs. Denison, though your teacups smash.”</p>
<p>Anne stood up, biting her lip. “It seems to me,” she
said, “that I have been mistress of myself!”</p>
<p>“Possibly too much, in a sense,” said he. “Bluff.
All women use bluff. Some can’t find anything better.
Some don’t want to. Some don’t need to. Some get
away with it, even to bluffing themselves. You’ve been
trying to do that, Mrs. Denison. I doubt if you can.”</p>
<p>“What else can one do?” she cried, with a gesture of
impotence.</p>
<p>“Ha! Think it out. There’s a prescription for you.
A new one,” he chuckled, “for headaches.”</p>
<p>Others of his prescriptions she tried to follow. She
must walk every day, he insisted, meet the neighbors.
But she had never walked without objective. Up
the hill past the church, over the covered bridge to the
store, where men and children stopped talking when
she entered and stared at her curiously; in the other
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[121]</span>
direction, down the road to nowhere, and back again.
There was no sense in that. Better stay in the garden
with Willy, or sit in the kitchen while Willy was busy
at stove or sink. Aimless walks were intolerable.</p>
<p>“All right, then,” said the doctor. “See that hill
over there? You walk to the top of that hill every
day. No detours. There’s a brook or two. Jump
them. Bit of a marsh. Find the tough clumps of grass.
Wet feet won’t hurt you. Rocks. Go over them.
Don’t go around. Straight up and straight back, if
you want to.”</p>
<p>“But there are cattle!” she protested.</p>
<p>“Plenty,” said he. “Good company, cattle. Try to
find out what they’re thinking.”</p>
<p>“But the sun is so hot!”</p>
<p>“All right. Go at night, then,” he laughed. “Good
medicine, madam!”</p>
<p>For a time she obeyed him. When the sun dropped
below the hill’s summit she would go warily down
through the fields, over the marsh and the deep, narrow
brooklets, watchfully among the cattle who stared,
slowly followed, at last overcame their own shyness
and her panic and nosed at her hands and her skirt.</p>
<p>“Take ’em some salt,” said Miss Willy.</p>
<p>Anne laughed aloud the first time she felt the warm
roughness of their tongues on her palm and discovered
that after all she was not afraid.</p>
<p>At first she thought only of reaching the top of the
hill and returning. So much to be done with, got out
of the way. But one day she lingered there until sunset.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[122]</span>
Another, she came back with her hands full of
forget-me-nots. It was cool on the shaded hillside,
warm on the crest, where the sun still shone. The
rocks had gray velvet over them. There were strange
little blossoms in the grass. Things she had never
noticed before began to present themselves. The walk
began to be not merely a prescription, a climb up a
hillside. Gradually it was becoming an adventure, an
exploration. But there were days so hot that she could
not go out, even when the shadows were long; days
when the walls of the house seemed to flicker in the
intensity of the heat like the air above a fire. Then
even the twitter of birds rasped her nerves. The humming
of bees and the cooing of doves were as irritating
as a siren’s whistle. There were days when she was
too languid to do more than lie on her bed and endure;
other hours when the attempt at enduring became
almost madness, when she could have shrieked aloud
in protest at her helplessness. That was what hurt.
To be helpless, to have to wait, to endure, rebellious
and bitter at the thought of what life had done to her.
Life, and Brice. No, she did not want Brice to come
back. She hated Brice, hated those years when his
silence had fooled her, hated her memories and could
not get away from them. They pursued. To look at
the sun did not shut them out, nor to cover her eyes.
Memories? They leaped out at her. That sofa.
Brice’s frown of anxiety. The chair in the living-room,
hideous, out of place. Why hadn’t he let her tuck it
away upstairs? Why did she remember it so?</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[123]</span></p>
<p>When she had been there a while the neighbors
began to call. Prim women, strangely dressed, figures
bulging or angular.</p>
<p>“Oh, I can’t see anyone,” Anne said, when the first
ones came. “Tell them I’m not at home, or something.”</p>
<p>Miss Willy stood in the bedroom door. For a
moment she pressed her lips together. Then she said,
“Now look here, Annie Warren, I won’t have you
behave so. They’ve come to call. You put on that
lavender dress and come down.”</p>
<p>“You’re not dressed up,” Anne said, smiling a little.
During her childhood Willy had called her Annie. She
had loathed the diminutive. Willy knew it. But
Willy knew, too, that in submitting to that Anne would
have to submit to more. It held her in bounds, became
the symbol of Willy’s authority. Willy was taking the
same line now.</p>
<p>“I’m folks. I’m not company. You do as I tell
you.”</p>
<p>Anne did more, did her best, but she could not make
conversation with them. Their talk was of gardens
and children, of intimate illnesses and more intimate
affairs in their neighbors’ houses.</p>
<p>“I suppose they are curious about me,” she said,
one day, when she was watching old Willy perform the
rite of making doughnuts.</p>
<p>“That’s as may be,” said Miss Willy, dryly. “When
you’ve lived in the country as long as I have you’ll
know the easiest way to stop folks from bein’ curious is
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[124]</span>
to get in the first word. I told ’em you are my niece. I
lied. But I don’t doubt the Lord will forgive me. I
said you’s a widow, come to live with me to help
out. I said you’s going to take care of me in my old
age. No harm in that. It’s a long way off from me
yet, praise be. You don’t have to be scared.”</p>
<p>“Willy! Do I deserve that?” Anne cried, not so
much in protest as in wonderment. It was like looking
into a mirror, and finding an unaccustomed expression
on her own face.</p>
<p>“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Miss Willy, dryly. “I
been wondering a good deal. I don’t know what you
aim to do. But it seems to me you’re not bracing
yourself. You’re hiding away from yourself. Trying
to. Nobody can, in the end, far as I know.”</p>
<p>Anne thought a moment. “Yes,” she said, “yes.
That is just what I am trying to do. What else is
there?”</p>
<p>“You got your life to live.”</p>
<p>“My life. You call it my life. It is not. This thing
that is coming, and what Brice has done to me—my
life, my own life has been taken away from me. I’m
walled in. I’m trapped.”</p>
<p>“Most folks are walled in, with one thing or another.
I never met one that wasn’t. You ain’t making use of
your wall.”</p>
<p>“Use of it?”</p>
<p>“What else are walls for?” asked Willy, waving a
long fork over the frying pan. “Folks wouldn’t build
’em for nothing. They don’t, if it’s only to get the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[125]</span>
rocks out o’ the fields. God doesn’t, either. Walls are
useful, if it’s only to brace up against.”</p>
<p>“Oh, what can I do? It’s easy enough to talk about
bracing, setting one’s feet firm! My whole world has
slipped. What is left?”</p>
<p>Miss Willy smiled. “I am, for one thing.” She
returned to the table, began to cut out more rings of
dough.</p>
<p>Anne reached her hand across. “Willy, I’m not
ungrateful. I appreciate everything you do for me. I
know I don’t pay what it’s worth——”</p>
<p>“Now look here, Anne Warren! I take your pay
’cause I got to, and to make you feel better. But when
you talk about gratitude—well, that’s your business,
not mine. Folks that do things for gratitude do them
from vanity. I hope I ain’t vain. Maybe I am. But
I try not to be. Our Lord wasn’t vain when he healed
the leper and raised up the dead.”</p>
<p>She dropped a plateful of rings into the smoking
fat. Anne’s eyes were smarting. “Willy, you make
me ashamed,” she murmured.</p>
<p>“That’s good,” said Miss Willy.</p>
<p>“What can I do? Don’t you see how helpless I
am?”</p>
<p>“Well, since you ask, there’s one thing you can do.
You can think of the folks around here as folks, not
lumps of clay. That’s what you been doing. But you
listen to me, Anne Warren! There’s all sorts of clay.
I’m not saying you’re our sort. Some clay’s good for
bricks, and some for fine china. There’s some that
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[126]</span>
ain’t good for a thing, as far as I know, but to keep
things from growing. Still and all, the Almighty used
clay. Didn’t look about him for anything better.
He’d just finished making a new world, too, all spick
and span, with flowers and waters and snakes and
everything. Might have taken his pick, but he found
clay plenty good enough. There! That’s the last.
Want a hot one?”</p>
<p>Anne took the doughnut, went out of doors to a
chair under the apple tree. The old woman’s talk had
startled her. Notwithstanding a lurking sense of
shame and deserved admonishment her thoughts were
not of herself. Where had old Willy learned her philosophy?
Surely philosophy, or wisdom, did not accrue
to one. It was no thistle-seed, to be blown white-winged
on the wind, to germinate wherever it fell, on
rock or roadside or—clay. Willy’s life had been bare,
so bare. Anne’s thought brought back, in one of those
oddly photographic flashes with which the mind
visualizes a long train of circumstance in a single
picture, the coming of Willy to her father’s house and
events leading up to it. There had been many women,
called, in the small-town phraseology, housekeepers.
Between the time of her mother’s death and the coming
of Willy, Professor Warren’s continuous advertisements
for help were the joke and the pity of his
neighbors. Anne could not remember her mother, but
she remembered the succession of housekeepers, not
as individuals, but as people who got in her way, who
tried to restrain her, on whom she used all her childish
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[127]</span>
arts of retaliation and torment until they left in despair
or dudgeon. She remembered the day when Miss
Willy came, a small gray-clad person with a carpet bag
that instantly claimed the child’s attention and afterward
became an object of admiration. There was no
other like it in town, and she used to bribe Alice into
docility, and even occasionally Nicky, by a sight of it
in the attic. Sometimes Nicky held out for the further
bribe of being allowed to march up and down the length
of the attic with it in her hands, while Alice and Anne
would chant, “Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are
marching.” Alice always wanted to sing “Onward
Christian Soldiers,” but Nicky and Anne agreed that a
carpet bag was not an appropriate implement for
Christian soldiers. Besides, one couldn’t step as
quickly to that tune as to the other.</p>
<p>But that first day Anne had eyed Miss Willy
solemnly, biding her time. She had no doubt that
this new one would be like the others, easy to vanquish.</p>
<p>“Her name’s Willy,” she told her father that night at
the supper table. The professor, harassed, poor man,
as he always was when confronted with his daughter
after a long day at the high school, weakly remonstrated.
“That’s what she said it was,” Anne insisted.
“She told me to call her that.”</p>
<p>“But, surely,” the professor protested, weakly, looking
to the end of the table for help. Miss Willy was all
placidity.</p>
<p>“She can, if she’s a mind to,” said she.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[128]</span></p>
<p>The good man’s frown of helpless perplexity had not
lessened. “But surely, there must be another name,
a name more, ah——”</p>
<p>“I know,” Miss Willy had answered, tranquilly.
“Folks do seem to find it kind o’ queer. But that’s
what I was christened. After my pa. Not Willamena
nor anything like that. Just plain Willy.”</p>
<p>“Then I think your—ah—last name——”</p>
<p>“It don’t make much difference. That’s Willis.”</p>
<p>Anne was still solemn, her eyes demurely downcast.
Willy Willis. She’d know how to deal with that! But
her hopes and intentions met their small Waterloo no
later than that same night. The campaign was short
and decisive.</p>
<p>“I get to bed by myself,” she told Willy. But Willy
replied, “Not this night, you don’t. Not till I get those
snarls out o’ your hair, anyway.”</p>
<p>“I like it this way. I don’t like to have anybody
else comb my hair.”</p>
<p>“Liking ain’t getting. You stand still. I won’t
hurt any more than I got to. But those snarls come
out.”</p>
<p>So Miss Willy remained, saw her married, and a
year or two later watched while the professor’s life
ebbed, while Anne and Brice were hurrying towards
the town Anne had left with so little reluctance. Then
she had come back to Heathville. That was old
Willy’s life, as Anne knew it. Where and how had
wisdom, philosophy, come to her?</p>
<p>That evening Anne asked, “Willy, have you ever
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[129]</span>
lived anywhere else but here and with father and me?”</p>
<p>Miss Willy was knitting. “No,” she said. “Never
was much of a mover.”</p>
<p>Anne smiled. “How did you happen to come to us?”</p>
<p>“I wanted my freedom,” said Willy.</p>
<p>“Freedom?”</p>
<p>“Yes. I guess maybe most folks do, sooner or later.
My aunt was a good woman. This was her house. She
took me in when ma died. But I wanted my freedom.
So when I saw your pa’s advertisement, I packed up
and went. Then I come back again. The house had
been shut up for years. My land, it was dirty! I
don’t know when I’ve had such a good time as I did
cleaning it up. And the garden all weeds. When I
was a girl, this place used to seem kind of little, shut
off in the hills the way it is and all. There didn’t seem
to be anything to do. Now—dear me, sirs! The days
ain’t half long enough.”</p>
<p>“I must help you more,” Anne said.</p>
<p>Miss Willy looked over her spectacles, went on with
her knitting, changing a needle. “I wasn’t hinting,”
said she. “I like the work. Funny, it’s just what my
aunt used to do, when I was a girl. Maybe the difference
is now it’s my own. I don’t know. Only, I’m
free now. I guess folks get to know about that, when
they’re old. I had a squirrel once. It lived in a cage
for years. Went round and round on a wheel thing at
one side of the cage. I thought, ‘Poor thing! It’s old.
It ain’t got long to live. I’ll give it its freedom before
it dies.’ So I set the cage on the porch, and opened
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[130]</span>
the door. The squirrel went out like a flash, and ran
up a tree. But the next day it was back in its cage
again, making the wheel go round and round.”</p>
<p>There were days when the heat was less, when midsummer
quietude brooded upon the hills, and fields
exhaled the odors of growing things and woods exuded
their winter-stored moisture to the summons of the
wind across the tree-tops; long mornings when Anne
listlessly washed the dishes and made the beds and
dusted, while old Willy toiled outside; and long afternoons
when Anne walked, sometimes on the road
through the glen, sometimes to the doctor’s prescribed
hill-top and back, sometimes, as her strength grew, to
farther pastures. To those walks she was driven and
lured: driven by her desire to get away from the house,
from Willy’s chatter, from her own thoughts; and
lured as a child goes looking for fairies by a feeling
that never quite came to consciousness that somewhere,
sometime, she would find something, some balm of the
spirit, some response or enlightenment. Sometimes
she walked in desperation, taking with her the burden
of her rebellion. This place, to be buried here! She
must, must get away, anywhere, anywhere. But at
least the long walks gave her dreamless sleep. In
August Nicky came for a Sunday. Alice and the
children were at the seashore. Nicky was in a quiet
mood; they spent the long afternoon under the apple
tree.</p>
<p>“You look at me as though I were one of your
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[131]</span>‘cases,’” Anne said, aware of Veronica’s covert
inspection.</p>
<p>“Do I?” Nicky calmly responded. “I wasn’t thinking
about you at all, if you want to know. I was thinking
about myself—and Ambrose.”</p>
<p>“He’d be glad to know that.”</p>
<p>Nicky was lounging back, one knee over the other,
arms under her head. “You know, Anne—this mess
of yours—it’s made me like Ambrose rather better.”</p>
<p>“Because I’ve proved your contention that marriage
is a failure? Made you think you are right in your
eternal argument with Ambrose?”</p>
<p>“Oh, no. I always knew I was. But Ambrose has
been so mad about it. He was always so darned meek,
before. I rather prefer Ambrose mad.”</p>
<p>“The rôle of the strong man, the cave-man,” Anne
laughed. “Even you can’t escape the feminine complex,
Nick, the longing to cling, to have something to
cling to.”</p>
<p>Nicky chuckled. “There’s only one George,” she
said, cryptically. “And time hasn’t finished with
George yet, nor with Alice. One thing I’ve noticed
about clinging vines, feminine and otherwise. They
rot the stump they cling to. If it isn’t a stump, they
smother it, keep it from fruiting. And if by any
chance the old tree’s too strong for them, the vine is
no good. There you are.”</p>
<p>Anne sat up. “Well, I have failed. I admit that.
Or to put it the other way, maybe the right way, Brice
failed. But just the same, Nicky, it does not have to
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[132]</span>
be failure. There ought to be a sense of duty, if
nothing more, that would bind. Brice failed in that. I
never did.”</p>
<p>“Didn’t you? But anyway, this rot about duty.
Oh, I know it has its uses. It helps along the propagation
of the race. But when you think what it does
to poor old humanity—! No, old girl. If I should
marry I’d have to be jolly well certain that there’d be
something more left after ten years than mere duty.
That salt would have no savor for me. As it hasn’t for
Brice, apparently.”</p>
<p>“I have stopped thinking about Brice. I prefer to
stop talking about him.”</p>
<p>“All right, after I’ve given you a message from
Ambrose. They’ve done all they can to trace Brice.
Ambrose asked me to say that he cannot collect on
the life insurance for you. Not evidence enough. He
wants to know if you’d like to sell the house. He’d buy
it himself on a quit-claim deed. Nobody else would,
without Brice’s signature.”</p>
<p>“How Ambrose must have loved offering me
charity,” said Anne, bitterly. “Tell him I thank him
beyond words. But I have enough. Between forty
and fifty a month.”</p>
<p>Nicky sat up, too. “Good Lord, Anne! Is that all?
What’ll you—do?” she cried.</p>
<p>Anne bit her lip, made a helpless gesture with her
hands.</p>
<p>Yet gradually, during the weeks she had been in
Heathville, her sense of values had been readjusting
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[133]</span>
themselves. Here there was all but nothing to spend
money for.</p>
<p>“Why, you’re richer than anybody in this whole village,”
Miss Willy had said, “unless it’s that Kent man
and the doctor. Even the minister only gets two
hundred a year, and he’s well off. Forty dollars a
month—my land!”</p>
<p>She was watching the old woman at work in her
garden one day, squatting between the rows, weeding.
“Why do you work so for those things, stupid things
like beets and carrots?” she asked.</p>
<p>“They’re for winter. The cabbages, too, and potatoes.
Of course.”</p>
<p>“But why do you grow them at all? Why not buy
them?”</p>
<p>Miss Willy looked up. “I just told you. They are
for winter. What else’ll we eat?”</p>
<p>“But there’s a store!”</p>
<p>“A store? My goodness, child! Folks around here
don’t buy things like them at the store. It don’t keep
’em, anyway. But even if it did, who’d buy what they
grow in the garden?”</p>
<p>Yet even then Anne did not dream of the ways and
means, the contrivings and savings, that went into life
in the village, Miss Willy’s and that of her neighbors.
Their meals were plain enough. Anne observed, without
comment, that whatever was bought or brought in
from the garden was eaten, sooner or later, to the last
mouthful, by human or cat or fowl. Nothing was
wasted.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[134]</span></p>
<p>She had noticed the clothes worn by the women, and
there was the affair of Miss Willy’s best bonnet,
donned only for Sundays and the monthly church
supper. “I do think it becomes me,” said Willy complacently.
“I’ve had it six years going on seven. It’s
just as good as new.”</p>
<p>Then there was the boy Dorilliam. The name had
amused her. She repeated it, smiling, one evening, and
Miss Willy said, “Yes, it’s real high-sounding. He’s
the seventh. Mis’ Wells, she wanted a girl, all the rest
being boys. Had her heart set on calling it Dora.
When it come, well, she was always romantic, Mis’
Wells was, and she never had much of a chance to
break out. I guess it did her some good to call him
Dorilliam.”</p>
<p>During the midsummer heat Anne protested against
the old woman’s eternal work in the garden; she would
pay Dorilliam to hoe.</p>
<p>“But it’s twenty cents an hour!” Miss Willy cried.
“My goodness, child! Twenty cents for one hour, and
sugar the price it is.”</p>
<p>In the early coolness of September her walks became
longer. The heaviness of her languor was less, yet one
day when she reached the crest of the hill and sat down
in the shade of a weather-worn maple she knew that
she was tired, not with that terrible weight of the spirit
which had shadowed her for so long, borne her down,
but as a workman is tired at noon and sits down, gratefully,
that his body may refresh itself with food and
rest and cessation from toil. From where she sat no
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[135]</span>
habitation of man was to be seen. The world seemed
a place empty of animate life, for even the cattle were
below in the marsh, out of sight. Haze lay on the hills,
merging them into the sky. The patches of sweetfern
were already darkening to ripeness, and the rock
at her side was warm to the touch. Asters and goldenrod
glowed in the sunlight, the sumach was red.
Beyond, down the valley, here and there in the woods,
a white birch shone, slender, fastidious, seeming to
tread its way daintily forward to the eye’s finding, like
a conscious beauty at a ball. Upon the meadows cloud-shadows
lingered, and under the maple was shade,
quiet and shade.</p>
<p>Different. Why were things different, today?
Many times she had looked on the same scene, inwardly
shrunk from its emptiness. But this quietude
in the drenching sunlight and the cool shade, this was
not emptiness. Peace. Yes, it was a sort of peace,
but something was going on in it, through it. There
was life working. Not hurrying, not crowding, silent,
but working on and on. Trees gnarled by winter
storms, rocks laid bare and carved by frost and ice; a
land worn rugged and seamed from its age-long battle,
but still with vitality and a germ of things to be, things
that would die to grow again, grow and become lovely
with a perpetual renewing. And even after fruition
and harvest, through winter, to spring, on and on,
ever to be renewed. Life. Suddenly, there under the
sheltering boughs of the old tree, there facing the sunlight,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[136]</span>
she put her hand to her heart. Another heart
within her was beating, another life had stirred.</p>
<p>For an hour she sat there, her arms clasping her
knees, her head bowed above them. A great stillness
pervaded her. Life going on, herself part of it, needed.
That was it, needed. Fitting in with it. Necessary to
its scheme, a part of its plan; a utensil of service, and
servant as well. And for so long she had thought there
was no plan at all; or, if there were, that its parts were
hopelessly jumbled. Strange. If one were a part, or
were needed, then there was something to do, something
to wait for, to hope for.</p>
<p>At last she stood up, and looked again over the
drowsy loveliness of the world. Slowly she went down
the hill, and placidly. There was nothing to hurry for,
no need now to walk and walk so that she could not
think. When she came in sight of the spire and houses
of Heathville, even those looked different, less poor and
sordid, friendlier. Miss Willy was not in the kitchen.
There came a faint echo of hammering from the direction
of the hen-house, and Anne took her way towards
it. The downy chicks that had scratched under the
rhubarb had long since grown into frisky birds large
enough to be promoted to the privilege of roosting with
their mothers and aunts in the hen-house. Miss Willy
was there now, mysteriously wielding a hammer.</p>
<p>“What on earth are you doing?” Anne asked, from
the doorway. “Carpentering—you?”</p>
<p>Miss Willy turned, her mouth as full of nails as a
seamstress’s of pins. “I’m making a walk for that
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[137]</span>
poor blind chicken,” said she. She took the nails from
between her lips, and pointed with pride to a contrivance
she had achieved, a board slanting from floor
to roost, with occasional cross-pieces on it. “There,
look at that! Ain’t that grand? Dunno why I didn’t
think of it before. That poor chicken has been trying
its level best to jump on the roost every night, and
bumping its head on the board and all. Must a felt
like a body knocking at the Gate and Saint Peter away
on vacation.”</p>
<p>“But what good is that queer-looking board?”</p>
<p>“Can’t you see, child? Use your eyes! That’s a
walk. I been coming out here every night to put that
poor thing on its roost. Come winter, and I’d get good
and tired of it. Besides, think of its feelings. Now
I’ll just train it to peck around and find its own walk
and climb up. Get on the roost like its folks, without
having to be helped all the time. Nobody likes to
be helped all the time.”</p>
<p>Anne’s face softened a little. “And I would have
killed that blind chicken long ago,” she said, thoughtfully.</p>
<p>“Well, then, I wouldn’t. Lots o’ folks with two eyes
in their head see less than that chicken and have no
more sense. It’s got a right to live.”</p>
<h3 id="3_1">
3
</h3>
<p>When autumn came, Dorilliam set up a stove in
the front parlor, that room which until Anne’s arrival
had been kept for the most part closed, a ceremonial
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[138]</span>
elegance of which Miss Willy was very proud. The
house itself had none of the dignity of the doctor’s and
some of the other older ones. Apparently it represented
the imaginative efflorescence of some country
builder of half a century before, limited in means and
method. There were but two sizable rooms on the first
floor, parlor and kitchen. Miss Willy’s bedroom
opened off from the kitchen, little more than a large
cupboard, its space amply filled with bed and pine
bureau, while back of the kitchen, longer than the
house itself, was the shed where wood was stored and
a miscellany of oddments that were mysteries to
Anne. She had pleaded to have the wall-papered fireboard
taken away from the parlor. An open fire would
have made of the room a different place. But Miss
Willy looked troubled.</p>
<p>“But how’d we heat your bedroom?” she asked.
“Mine’s real nice and warm, opening off from the
kitchen like it does. But if the stove pipe don’t run up
through yours, child, how’ll we heat it?”</p>
<p>For the first time Anne understood the purpose of
the round hole in her floor that had seemed so mysterious,
the hole through which she could see one red rose
on the parlor carpet. She had supposed that it was
left for the purpose of being able to look down upon
callers. It amused her to be brought face to face with
so elemental a problem as heating a house. It had
startled her to find that there was no bathroom, surprised
her that the water in the kitchen came from a
pump, not from a faucet. Yet those things did not
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[139]</span>
concern her, and in the matter of the fireplace she
yielded. In time Dorilliam set up a stove. When she
first saw Willy come staggering in with an armful of
wood, she protested. It was not woman’s work.
Dorilliam must do it. But thereafter, mysteriously,
the fire in the stove seemed to feed itself, and in the
evenings old Willy would drop wearily into her chair
and nod. Vaguely Anne wondered why she was so
tired, now that the garden work was over, the small
crops harvested and stored away in the cellar. Yet,
after all, the endless monotony of the days were enough
to weary anyone. Morning, drudgery, night, morning
again, and more drudgery. That summed up life in
Heathville, as far as she could discern.</p>
<p>With the autumn rains her restlessness returned and
times of rebellion, now not against the coming of the
child, but at the aridity she was living through. Alice
wrote insistently that she should come to stay with
her and George, later to go to a hospital. Anne refused
less because of reluctance to accept Alice’s bounty than
because she was unwilling to encounter old friends, old
acquaintances, to have to meet their pity or amusement.
Now she would not let her mind dwell upon the
difficulties of the future because that would be bad
for the child. This was a time when she could do
nothing but wait, and this was as good a place as any.
Later, of course, she must find some means of making
a real livelihood. Live in Heathville, her child, hers?
Of course she would find some means of escaping that.</p>
<p>During the radiant days of October she frequently
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[140]</span>
drove with the doctor on his rounds in a small battered
car that possessed a personality of its own. She liked
the doctor. He was “country-queer,” as he described
himself, but his was the only mind she had encountered
in Heathville that could think, or express its thoughts.
As to that, she believed that Dorilliam’s mother and
the other women she had met did not think at all, but
lived by instinct, or went about their tasks like trained
animals, except that for them there was no reward of
caress or tidbit. Purposeless, stupid, they seemed to
her. Dr. Severance was neither. He called his car
Sally.</p>
<p>“Named her after an old mare I had. Died in the
harness, as I hope to. One thing she does almost as
well as old Sally did. She gets me there.”</p>
<p>Yet apparently Sally did not always hold that intention.
More than once the doctor had to dismount and
do mysterious things to Sally, almost at times, as Anne
once told him, laughing, amounting to major operations.
Once Sally’s temperament overcame her not
far from a small brown cottage set back in the woods;
after some minutes of futile ministrations on the doctor’s
part, Sally still remained where she had stopped,
soundless and motionless. Anne had stepped down
and was walking along the road through the yellow
leaves. As she repassed the cottage a man came out
and after a look towards the car beyond smiled at
Anne. She had become used by now to the friendly
custom in the country of taking acquaintanceship for
granted. They walked back to the car together. The
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[141]</span>
doctor, hands on hip, glared in mock ferociousness at
the other man.</p>
<p>“Come to try one of your faith cures on her, I suppose,”
he growled.</p>
<p>The other man chuckled. “Might try it on you,
Tom,” he remarked. “You’re a little excited, aren’t
you?”</p>
<p>“Well, I’ve worked on the blame thing an hour at
least. She won’t go,” spluttered the doctor.</p>
<p>“That’s like you medical men. You fiddle and tinker
and dose, and think you’ve done all of it. You’re
always forgetting there’s something else.”</p>
<p>The doctor snorted. “I’ve heard you say that before!
Look here, you Rufus—you use faith on Sally
and get her to start, and I’ll take up some stock in that
faith of yours.”</p>
<p>The man called Rufus had moved to the side of the
car. His hair was quite white, his shoulders were
stooped, and life had worn marks on his face; but he
bore the indefinable stamp of the intellectual. Anne
decided at once that he was not a native of Heathville.
He seemed to smile easily, or else the smile
never quite left his eyes. Now he bent towards the
driving-wheel of the car, peering as though from near-sightedness,
and stood up to grin at the doctor.</p>
<p>“I’ve long since discovered, as I’ve told you before—as
you say, Tom, quite as you say!—that there is
some eternal spark that moves things. There must be
a spark, Tom, somewhere. In the case of your Sally
why not turn on your spark, Tom, and see——”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[142]</span></p>
<p>The doctor’s mouth opened. A blank look came over
his face. But he, too, came up to the side of the car.
He reached over, touched a small lever, and instantly
Sally responded with rattles and tremblings.</p>
<p>“Hell!” said the doctor. Anne laughed aloud, long
and gayly as she had not laughed in months. “I beg
your pardon,” the doctor muttered. “Ladies present.”</p>
<p>But Anne’s laugh still rang out, and the man called
Rufus was chuckling with her. The doctor was red.
He climbed into the car.</p>
<p>“Who was that?” asked Anne, when they had passed
the brown house with the woods at its back.</p>
<p>“Old fool,” said the doctor.</p>
<p>Anne bit her lip. “Well, but who else?”</p>
<p>The doctor permitted himself to smile. “Name’s
Kent, though you’re likely to hear him called ‘The fellow
that bought the Carscadden place.’ Nobody knew
where he came from, nor who he was. Had to call him
something, so the title sort o’ got itself hung on to him.
Folks thought, I believe, he was some relation of the
Carscaddens, who hadn’t lived there for a generation.”</p>
<p>“Does he live there alone?”</p>
<p>“Lord, no; got a Jap servant, for one thing, and
a wife, and there’s always a houseful o’ lame ducks,
human and otherwise. You’ll have to go there and
make his acquaintance some day. He’s a great friend
of mine, really. But Sally don’t like him.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” said Anne. “Because of his principles, I
suppose?”</p>
<p>The doctor sniffed. “Something like that,” said he.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[143]</span></p>
<p>Another day they were driving along together,
slowly, in the lace-like shade of the woods. Anne had
been saying little; these drives with the doctor brought
a measure of soothing to her spirit. By this time the
brilliance of the autumn foliage was past, lying in
golden tribute on the earth that had given it life. Now
and again the little car would stop before some house
while the doctor went in, leaving Anne musing, outside.</p>
<p>“Good people, those,” the old man said, as he drove
away from one little house.</p>
<p>“And so poor,” said Anne. “I saw four or five
children there, in that tiny house.”</p>
<p>The doctor considered a moment. “In one sense,”
he said slowly, thinking it out, “poverty is having the
consciousness of poverty. Those people have never
had more. They have no consciousness of being poor.
They are not poor.”</p>
<p>“Oh, but the fact remains that they are. Look at
the house, think of the lack of advantages.”</p>
<p>“And what are those?”</p>
<p>“Advantages? But, surely, one knows!”</p>
<p>“No, no! What are they, really, comprehensively?
Can you say, Mrs. Denison? In the sense in which
you mean, all a matter of comparison, aren’t they?
Well, comparison with what? With something a man
has not got and thinks he wants, or thinks he ought
to have, or thinks somebody else has gotten ahead
of him by possessing? What’s the end of that sort
of thinking?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[144]</span></p>
<p>“Ah, but not to think, not to want, not to aspire!”</p>
<p>“I wasn’t talking of aspirations.”</p>
<p>“But weren’t you?”</p>
<p>The doctor shook his head. “You’ll have to take
that up with Rufus some day.”</p>
<p>“That queer man?”</p>
<p>“Yes, he’s queer. Old fool, as I said. Not that he’s
old as he looks. But he is queer, though he’s got a
lot of sound sense in him, too. He’s thought things
out. You’ll have to know Rufus.”</p>
<p>“If he has thought out some sort of philosophy like
the one you’ve been propounding it’s greatly to his
credit, but it doesn’t affect the real question of poverty,
does it?”</p>
<p>“Doesn’t it? Well, you’ll see. But let me tell
you this, Mrs. Denison: the normal man is never a
poor man.”</p>
<p>“Perhaps that accounts for so few being normal.
So many are poor.”</p>
<p>“I don’t mean it that way. You know I don’t. I
mean that the normal man cannot be poor, because
he has all there is that’s worth while, because being
normal about sums up to having a good digestion,
doing a day’s work, getting a little happiness and giving
some. Get that into life, and you’ve got about all
there is, in the ultimate analysis.”</p>
<p>“I hear a doctor talking,” Anne commented, and
added, “Your friend back there suggested one more
element. He mentioned a spark.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[145]</span></p>
<p>The doctor looked down at her sideways, pursing
his lips. “H’m!” said he.</p>
<p>Her thoughts went back again and again to that
conversation. Was that all? Must she endure, and
find nothing more than that? Health and work, it
summed up to, for happiness was only a fleeting illusion.
She saw no riches in the doctor’s circle. Poverty
was not merely having no money, and she shrank
from poverty for herself and the child. Thinness of
joy, meagerness? No, no! That should not be.</p>
<p>The thought set her pacing restlessly up and down
the small overheated room on an evening when the
rain beat against the windows. It was Sunday, and
Willy observed the day by going to church in the
morning, whatever the weather, and by having their
dinner at two o’clock instead of at noon. The displaced
meal hour set the day awry. Except for that
there seemed to be no change from other days. Willy
was forever busy at something.</p>
<p>“My goodness, child, that lamp’s smoking,” she said,
when she came into the room. She took the low rocking-chair
by the table, the cat Buster jumping into her
lap. “I been thinking,” she went on. “When I was
a child, they used to call Sunday the Lord’s day. That’s
funny, now ain’t it?”</p>
<p>Even old Willy’s chatter was better than the dreary
persistence of the rain. “Funny?” Anne asked, smiling
a little. “Why?”</p>
<p>“As if every day isn’t the Lord’s day,” said Willy,
her faded eyes looking at Anne, looking away again.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[146]</span>
“I just guess he sees to that. He’s got us all in his
hand every day, Sundays and all; and every day,
come day go day, he keeps right on working and looking
out for us.”</p>
<p>Anne smiled a little. She had heard a good deal
of Willy’s primitive theology during the past months.</p>
<p>“Not but what I know Sunday’s by rights set apart
for us humans,” Willy went on. “A good thing it is,
too. I’ve heard folks talk hard things about men,
and about women, too, that does one way on weekdays
and another on Sundays. But I say—land!—it’s
better to behave decent one day of the week than
never at all, poor critters. And if that’s being a hypocrite,
well, it’s better to be a hypocrite one day than
seven.”</p>
<p>Anne laughed aloud. Miss Willy stroked Buster,
who purred like a tea-kettle.</p>
<p>“Another funny thing is how people’s mistakes get
mixed up with their sins, in folks’s minds. I don’t doubt
the Lord sees which is which. I don’t doubt he’s
capable of handling ’em both. But I often think folks
try too hard to do the untangling themselves. I don’t
know. But I’m going on seventy-three. I’ve come to
the conclusion we’d be better off if we’d just leave
it all to the Lord.”</p>
<p>“That’s a comfortable doctrine, my dear,” Anne
remarked. “But if you’d let it work out, wouldn’t it
be a little like giving the kitten the work-basket to
play with?”</p>
<p>Miss Willy looked at her over the top of her spectacles.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[147]</span>
“That’s just what the good Lord has done,”
said she, “given us the work-basket to play with. And
a real good snarl we make out of it, most of us. But
having given us a work-basket apiece, as you might
say, he don’t expect the kittens to take on themselves
to say who’s to blame for the tangles. That’s where
we don’t follow the Lord’s way.”</p>
<p>“There’s no question of that,” Anne agreed.</p>
<p>“No. And that’s what you’re doing, Anne Warren.
You and Brice had one work-basket between you.
Somehow it’s got into an awful mess. So you’re
scratching at Brice, thinking it’s his fault.”</p>
<p>“I don’t want to talk about Brice.”</p>
<p>“I dare say. But I’m going to talk about him.
Whenever I’ve a mind to. Right now what I got
to say is, that baby that’s coming has got a right to
his father, and his father has got a right to him.”</p>
<p>“Brice has gone. They have tried to find him. He’s
gone.”</p>
<p>“Yes. Maybe. But you’re forgetting that he’s the
baby’s father. I know. I don’t say they haven’t done
all they could do to get hold of Brice. But they
ought to do more than they can. There ain’t anything
impossible, after you get it done. The baby belongs
to him.”</p>
<p>Anne jumped to her feet. “No! No, he’s mine! All
mine!”</p>
<p>“He’s the Lord’s, Anne Warren. And the Lord’s
fixed it so’s he had to have father and mother both.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[148]</span>
You’re setting yourself up in the Lord’s place when
you pass judgment on Brice.”</p>
<p>“He has set judgment upon himself. He has gone.
If he never sees his son, that will be judgment. He
deserves it. I am not sorry. No, I’m not sorry.”</p>
<h3 id="4_1">
4
</h3>
<p>After a time of weakness when she scarcely realized
the small creature at her side, after other days of
watching him with wonder, and days of sitting in the
sunny window behind the geraniums with the baby
asleep in a basket nearby, Anne said to Miss Willy:</p>
<p>“His name is Warren.”</p>
<p>Willy looked at her. Anne saw protest in the look,
but she smiled, serenely, securely. “His name is Warren,”
she repeated.</p>
<p>“H’m,” said old Willy. “Well. After your poor
dear father. Well, you’re his mother. I suppose you
got a right to call him what you’re a mind to.”</p>
<p>“I am his mother. Oh, I am,” Anne agreed, lifting
the baby, snuggling him up to her face. She knew
well enough what Willy implied. For this was Brice’s
child, like Brice in every small feature, like him even
in the soft, reddish hair on his head. But her whole
being protested against what Willy wanted. Another
Brice—all the more reason why he should not bear
Brice’s name. No one should have a share in him,
Brice least of all. She denied Brice’s share in him,
even to herself. He was hers, all hers, miraculously
flesh of her flesh, hers to love, to mold. He should be
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[149]</span>
more and more hers. Often during that marvelous
spring and summer the same jealous thought returned
to her. The child flourished and grew, a sunny baby.
His first smile was for Willy.</p>
<p>“Look at that, now,” the old woman cried. “Who’d
a thought it? He knows me. He knows his old
Willy.”</p>
<p>Anne snatched the baby up to her breast. She had
watched for that first smile, longed for it, wanted it for
herself. But a moment afterwards she was ashamed.
Willy was the slave of them both, toiling and loving
with a devotion as absolute as that of the nun whose
life is centered in the cross on the altar and the red
light before it, who spends her nights on her knees
and would starve herself, castigate herself, readily give
up her body and soul and her life bit by bit that her
Lord might perceive and accept her adoration. Willy
would come in a dozen times during the day to look
at the child. Her face became rapt when his tiny
fingers curled about one of hers.</p>
<p>“To think this should happen to me,” she said more
than once. “To think of your baby being right here
in my house, where I can see him and all.”</p>
<p>Then she would trot off to her work again, trotting
more slowly and falteringly as the months passed.
Anne, absorbed in the child, took it as a matter of
course that things were done for them both. She did
not observe that Willy’s hours of work were longer
than they had ever been. One day in the spring she
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[150]</span>
surprised the old woman spading the garden, and
remonstrated.</p>
<p>“I can do it,” said Willy. “I like to do it.”</p>
<p>“Nonsense,” said Anne. “Dorilliam can do it in half
the time. I’ll go up the hill after supper and tell him
to come tomorrow.”</p>
<p>“Now look here, Anne Warren, I won’t have you
wasting your money that way. You got to save.”</p>
<p>Anne laughed a little. “Save out of what I have?
What’s the use? It would never amount to anything.”</p>
<p>“You got plenty to save something out of, if you
don’t go frittering it away. You got to save for
Warren’s education.”</p>
<p>“Land,” said Dorilliam’s mother, when she dropped
in one morning while the baby was having his bath
by the kitchen stove, “mine never had all those fixin’s.
I just washed ’em off when they were dirty, and kept
’em well fed, and let ’em cry and let ’em sleep. A
baby ain’t only a baby, when all’s said and done.”</p>
<p>Anne said nothing. That, doubtless, was true, as
far as it went. But to compare the young Warren with
these country children? As well compare grain-sacks
and silk. There were things about her child that she
had never observed in others. She never tired of
pondering on all his small perfections. Her state was
not peace, but absorption. The rest of the world was
shut out, thrust aside, while she tended her baby and
watched the developing wondrousness of him. For the
first time in her life she was absorbed in something
besides herself, yet this was inextricably herself, her
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[151]</span>
own as nothing else had ever been. As his individuality
developed she hugged that thought to her more and
more. Even while she adored them and gloried in
them, she was jealous of the will and impulses that
came from somewhere within his small self. For when
young Warren wanted to sleep or to stay awake, he
did so. When he was hungry, he made his want known
vociferously. He loved the warm water about his
plump little body, and yelled when he was lifted out
of it. He hated to have his nose and his ears touched,
and decisively said so. Here was something apart
from his mother, not hers at all, needs and preferences
not springing from her, the will of another creature
to which she must yield, which she resented and feared
and adored.</p>
<p>“Got a will of his own,” said Willy one day when
the two of them had tried in vain for an hour or more
to get him to sleep. When their patience was threadbare,
both vanquished by the utter helplessness of the
adult before a baby’s unreasoned persistence, the boy
had abruptly stopped crying, looked into the old
woman’s face, smiled divinely, and dropped into slumber.
She laid him down on the sofa. “Just wanted to
make us understand once for all that he wouldn’t go
to sleep till he got good and ready,” said she.</p>
<p>Anne bent over the child. “He’s his mother’s own
boy,” she said, with the fatuous sentimentality of the
parent who has just been worsted in a battle with her
offspring and finds balm in her tenderness, pride in the
strength of the victor.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[152]</span></p>
<p>Miss Willy sniffed. “He is, and he isn’t,” said she.
She had no sooner dropped into the rocking-chair than
Buster jumped into her lap. “Some of him’s yours
and some is his father’s. You needn’t look at me that
way, Anne Warren. And some of him belongs to himself,
and a good part’s the Lord’s. What the Lord
means him to be you can’t tell much about. It’s got
to come out. I’ve always noticed that the Lord does
a lot of mixing of his stuffs, before he finishes a job.
Same as I do with my bread. And when he’s got a
thing turned out at last, it’s cram full of most everything,
good and bad, sense and foolishness. It works
pretty well, but it needs a whole lot of oiling to keep it
a-going. The baby’s like that. There’s a lot in that
baby that’s going to come out, do what you will. You
got to help him get started, but I guess when you think
he’s all finished it’ll be just about the time he’s beginning
to run with his own machinery, and if you poke
your hand into it you’ll likely get pinched. He belongs
to himself, Anne, and don’t you forget that. Not
that you’re likely to get much of a chance to.”</p>
<p>Anne smiled. Willy was not a mother, Willy could
not know.</p>
<p>There is no chart which tells how a mother’s time
goes. Anne did not know how the months went. In
the autumn Alice and George stopped for an hour.
They had been motoring, and Alice was anxious to get
back to the children.</p>
<p>“Darling, are you comfortable here? Why won’t
you come back with us?” Alice asked.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[153]</span></p>
<p>Anne laughed. “No, I’m not comfortable, as you
know comfort, Alice. But this is the place for me
until Wanny is a little older. Of course I am not going
to live here forever. When he is old enough to play
with other children I shall have to take him away from
here. There will be the question of school, too. I
shall have to learn how to make money.”</p>
<p>They were alone under the apple tree. George had
driven to the store for gasoline. For a moment Alice
looked off, vaguely, at a distant hill-top where already
a maple gleamed yellow; then without turning to Anne
she asked,</p>
<p>“Did you hear that Ranney is married?”</p>
<p>“I supposed he would be. In the spring, wasn’t it?”</p>
<p>Alice shook her head. “No, just lately. Not to that
girl he was engaged to. He treated that nice girl so
badly. Kept putting things off. He has married a
woman who was divorced. He’s so different from
George. One wouldn’t think they could be brothers.”</p>
<p>Winter came and went by, and in earliest spring,
before the glaze ice was gone, Miss Willy fell. Anne
came down one morning to find the kitchen cold. She
called, opened the door of the old woman’s bedroom.
Then throwing a shawl about her she went out of
doors. At the door of the hen-house she found her,
huddled, eyes dim with pain.</p>
<p>“No, don’t you lift me,” said Willy, her lips blue,
her face gray in the sunlight. “Something’s broke.”</p>
<p>Anne sped across the road for the doctor and on for
Dorilliam, who came running back with his father and
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[154]</span>
a brother or two. They carried old Willy into the bedroom
off the kitchen, and for an hour while young
Warren shrieked unregarded Anne stood by and
helped. When the worst of it was over Miss Willy’s
lips quivered to a smile. Anne followed the doctor
out of doors. She was shaken and trembling. It was
the first time she had ever seen torture administered
that healing might come.</p>
<p>“No, she’s not likely to die,” the doctor told her.
“Of course she has worked pretty hard, but it’s amazing
how much vitality there is in her sort. I’ve known
bones to knit even at her age. But with a broken
hip—well, she may get around some, after a time.”</p>
<p>After a time. Anne looked at him, pale. He patted
her shoulder. “Don’t worry too much, Mrs. Denison,”
he told her. “Whatever happens, you can comfort
yourself with one thing. It means a lot to Miss Willy
to know you are here. I shall never forget the light
in her face the day she told me her widowed niece had
come to take care of her in her old age. They so
dread being a burden, these people. And they dread
even more having to be taken care of by strangers,
maybe to go on the town.”</p>
<p>To take care of her. That brave lie told to shield
Anne’s pride. She went back to the kitchen. To take
care of her.</p>
<p>Bit by bit, Anne learned what that meant, to take
care of someone. Day by day she learned what it had
meant that old Willy had taken care of herself and the
boy.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[155]</span></p>
<p>Things, unimagined things, things vaguely known
about but never realized, had to be done, and not by
someone else whom she could dismiss from her thoughts
with pay; elemental things, that she had always taken
for granted. The fire in the kitchen stove would not
keep burning unless it were fed with some regularity.
After a week that stove seemed to Anne like some
ravenous maw that was always yawning, always devouring,
never to be satisfied. There were twenty-two
steps from the wood-pile at the end of the shed, with
a step up and a step down each way. Twenty-two
steps, to bring in coal or wood, that Miss Willy, at
seventy-four, had trod how many times a day? There
was food to be cooked, food that mysteriously scorched,
or came from the stove as mysteriously hard. Water,
the pump over the kitchen sink the only means of getting
it. How had old Willy ever, oh, ever carried all
those pails and pitchers of water upstairs and down
again, for Anne’s needs and Warren’s? And she had
always thought of water and food and fire quite simply
as things that were, that existed, like air and sunlight,
made for man’s use, and there waiting, simply, infallibly
there.</p>
<p>Then, there was time. Hitherto time had been divided
into a few broad parts, bed-time and rising-time,
breakfast- and luncheon- and dinner-time; or, at Miss
Willy’s, dinner- and supper-time. Now there were
many bewildering subdivisions, and one had to hasten
to meet them before their requirements or demands or
whatever they were used for slipped over into another
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[156]</span>
of the strange subdivisions, disastrously. Time to get
up—oh, yes, but time also to make the fire, time to get
it to going, time to get the stove hot and the breakfast
cooked, time for young Warren’s increasing needs,
while in her consciousness was always the fact that
Miss Willy lay, patient, waiting, perhaps suffering.
There were hens and the chicks to be fed, then a rushing
for dinner. And in between, where there was not
room to crowd a single second’s endeavor, a whole multitude
of tasks that must somehow be got through.
Cleaning. And washing. What those things did to
her back, so much younger than Willy’s.</p>
<p>“It’s awful, you having to do everything,” Miss
Willy said to her one day when she brought the boy
into the room all fresh and rosy from his bath. She
had got up at five that morning, but things were still
waiting. Yet she looked down at Willy and laughed.</p>
<p>“It is. It is, isn’t it? Because I’m such a duffer
at it, Willykin. You don’t know!”</p>
<p>Miss Willy did not laugh with her. Her lips trembled.
“But if you wasn’t here, Anne, I’d—maybe I’d
have to—go on—the town.”</p>
<p>Anne put the boy on the floor—he was beginning to
creep about—and sat on the side of the bed.</p>
<p>“Willy,” she said, “something is happening to me.
I don’t know what it is. But I think I was never so
happy in my life nor so disgusted with myself. I do
hate to see you lying there, but I think perhaps your
breaking your funny old bones was just your last fine
sacrifice for me. I think——”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[157]</span></p>
<p>But that was too much for old Willy. Her eyes
struck dim fire. “Now look here, Annie Warren,”
said she, with the first return of her old spirit that she
had shown since her fall, “if you think the Lord’s put
me here so’s you can get hold of a mite of sense, you’re
mistaken. That’s putting too much on the Lord. I
slipped on the ice because I wasn’t looking out. That’s
what did it. My own fault. But I do say it’s high
time you knew how to do things. Not that I should
want you to tire yourself out. And—my goodness!
Quick! Look at that child! He’ll be on the stove in
a minute!”</p>
<p>Anne flew.</p>
<p>There were days, a while later, when she got up at
four, when to stay in bed would have been sheer unwarrantable
luxury, though her body still ached for
rest and she told herself that she could not go through
with the work ahead of her. Yet she arose, and the
day’s work caught her up, whirled her on with it, herself
not the force that accomplished but the means, the
mere tool of that force.</p>
<p>When spring reluctantly gave way to summer people
in Heathville hastily made their gardens. It was not
safe to plant earlier lest the tender green shoots be
nipped by late frost, nor later lest the first hot spell of
June wither them.</p>
<p>“Memorial Day, that’s the right time to plant,” said
old Deacon Bassett who lived up the road. “You ain’t
likely to get caught either goin’ or comin’.”</p>
<p>Dorilliam had done the plowing, the spading, the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[158]</span>
leveling. Anne had supposed that Dorilliam would do
all the rest. She had never felt interested in gardening,
and now her time was too full to contemplate added
work out of doors. But she sat at the kitchen table
one night with pencil and paper after paying Dorilliam,
her pocket-book open, what remained of its contents
spread out before her. There had to be extra milk
now, quarts of it, for young Warren. Oranges, too,
that now had become not the inevitable breakfast fruit,
but a daily expense of five cents, ten cents, a staggering
total each month. The boy was beginning to walk;
the delicate shoes she sent to town for wore out in a
few weeks. Old Willy had always done their washing.
That Anne was incapable of, and it had to be paid for.
Moreover, she had discovered the extreme meagerness
of the old woman’s supply of bedding and towels, and
had bought more. Pity she had not thought of bringing
some from that house whose contents she had never
wanted to see again. The people who had rented it
at first had departed. The next tenants had wanted
it unfurnished, and she had insisted that everything
should be sent to the auction rooms, everything, everything.
She wanted nothing, no reminders. They
brought a small fraction of what they had cost. At
old Willy’s command, for it was more than suggestion,
the little sum had been deposited in a savings bank,
to be used for the boy’s education. That could not be
touched. With herself as housekeeper, more was spent
than under old Willy’s close management for food and
fuel. Even kerosene had to be bought oftener. And
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[159]</span>
now loomed the question of the garden. Anne counted
her money, tried to estimate the hours during the summer
that she would need Dorilliam, added up what that
would cost, deducted. It could not be done. She
spoke of it to Willy, the next day.</p>
<p>“I’ve decided that we won’t have a garden this year,
dear,” said she. “I’m no gardener. You know that.
We’ll just do without.”</p>
<p>For a moment the old woman lay without looking
at Anne, without speaking. Her face against the pillow
was wrinkled and pallid. Her age might have been
beyond computing, like the Sphinx’s, and as silently
as the Sphinx she might have been pondering the proposition
implied in Anne’s words. Then she spoke.</p>
<p>“What’ll we eat?” she asked.</p>
<p>“Oh, anything, everything,” Anne said lightly, even
while an inner sense warned her that the question was
not a light one. “There’s always something to eat,
isn’t there?”</p>
<p>“Well, what?” Willy persisted.</p>
<p>There is no question as tormenting as the one which
puts its solution on the questioner. Old Willy lay
looking impassively at a crack in the wall, but Anne
looked at Willy. “There is always something to eat,
isn’t there?” she had asked. But was there? Food.
Food, the elemental, primal, ultimate necessity. Was
it indeed always there? She thought of her pocket-book,
her sheets of figuring. The thing faced her,
simply, starkly, naked, stripped of everything, as hideous
and uncompromising as a skeleton: was food always
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[160]</span>
there? What would they eat? Where would it
come from?</p>
<p>It was breath-taking, bewildering. She busied herself
again and again with her pencil and paper, then
consulted Dorilliam. Something, some remote shame
or pride, forbade her from talking to Willy. That old
woman lying there, who had met this problem so many
years, now so helpless, probably thinking and thinking,
perhaps worrying. No. If she had the thing to
go through with, she would do it alone, for Dorilliam
did not count as a person except in the sense of being
a workman of sorts and of having to be paid.</p>
<p>“What you want to buy seeds for?” he asked, when
she asked him as casually as she could what she would
need to buy.</p>
<p>“To plant in the garden,” said she, sternly. She was
always suspecting that Dorilliam held her in secret
amusement and scorn, as those countrymen do who
know a few things beyond the scope of someone they
confront, and believe their knowledge surpasses all
of the others. But the boy was honestly puzzled.</p>
<p>“Yeah. But what you want to buy ’em for? Why
don’t you plant what you got?”</p>
<p>“What I have?”</p>
<p>“Sure. She’s got ’em saved up, ain’t she? Everybody
saves ’em up for next year.”</p>
<p>So after all she spoke to Willy again about the garden,
went to the place where Willy had stored the
saved seeds, in jars and small packets tied about with
bits of string. Economy had never held anything of
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[161]</span>
beauty for Anne, but when she brought out those seeds,
fruit of an old woman’s toil, so carefully cured and
saved that the soil might be fruitful again the next year,
something gripped at her throat. Here was a poignant
significance that rose up at her. Here, too, was the
germ of a new perception. The garden was made and
tended that they might have something to eat. As simple
as that. But there was more in it than that stark
necessity. It was the child of other gardens. In the
little packets of saved seeds there was not only harvest,
but a link with gardens of other summers, with
summers to come, as old Willy’s toil was linked with
the labor of the ages, as her own would be. On and
on, the treadmill, unending, however one ached. And
after she had talked with Willy as to methods and
means, she was confronted with her stupendous ignorance
of what seemed so simple, what was, indeed, so
elemental.</p>
<p>“Why, you just scrape out a row, and put ’em into
it,” said Willy. “Then you cover ’em up.”</p>
<p>“With what?” she asked, for she had seen newspapers
carefully spread over some of the old woman’s
tender “cuttings” and wondered if that were a rite to
be observed with everything else.</p>
<p>“Good land, child, ain’t you got any sense at all?
You cover ’em up with dirt, and pat ’em all down, of
course.”</p>
<p>Anne laughed a little. “Do they have to be patted?
Shall I pull up the blankets and hear them say their
prayers, too?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[162]</span></p>
<p>Willy sniffed. “You don’t have to blaspheme just
because you’re so ignorant,” said she, “though lots of
folks do. Yes, they do have to be patted, or else trod
on. The dirt’s got to touch ’em, or else they won’t
sprout. And the dirt’s got to be fine, not all lumps.
Sakes alive, I wish I could get out o’ this bed.”</p>
<p>“That’s sheer pride and jealousy, Willy. You think
I can’t make this garden, and you want to do it yourself,”
Anne laughed. But when she confronted the
actual task she did not laugh. Before, she felt herself
potentially able to cope with it. It must be quite
simple, like driving a Ford, because people of such
inferior intelligence mastered it. Of course it was not
fit work for her, and she had not a minute to spare for
it. But it must be easy enough, since even an old
woman like Willy had accomplished it. Her only difficulty
would be in finding time. So one morning she
got up at four, just as dawn was flushing on the western
hills, and betook herself to the place Dorilliam
had raked at such a cost. Scrape out a row, Willy
had said, and make the dirt fine. Easy, until her
shoulders ached with the weight of the hoe.</p>
<p>Her row turned out to be a wandering path of varying
depth. She dropped in the seeds. Willy had said
there were enough in the bundle for a whole row, but
they mysteriously gave out before the row was half
filled. She considered the problem, carefully picked
out seeds enough for the rest of the row. Then came
the affair of making the dirt fine, to cover them with.
She could not. It was heavy with dew, refused to
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[163]</span>
crumble, persisted in becoming a tough, clayey substance
under her hands. She had been out two hours,
Warren’s cries could be heard, she was aching and
angry. She had not achieved one single row in this
miserable garden, and the piece of smoothed land
stretched before her into a leering expanse as broad
as an ocean. It was the first time she had ever discovered
that to work with nature one must use nature’s
time, wait on her moods. When she went to
the garden again, later in the day, she was amazed to
find that the earth crumbled easily enough. Thereafter
she rose at the same early hour, but worked at
other things until the garden was ready.</p>
<p>A few weeks later, again directed by one of Deacon
Bassett’s pronouncements, she was working there with
a hoe, the baby happy and noisy, playing in the dirt,
his attention absorbed by filling a tin can with a hole
in the bottom, watching the soil sift out, and filling
the can again. Someone spoke to him over the fence.
Anne looked up and nodded, but Warren deserted his
game and promptly performed the acrobatic feat of
making himself into a small pyramid, bracing his feet
until they were steady by resting his hands on the
ground, his inevitable method of arising. Then he
toddled and tumbled towards Dorilliam.</p>
<p>“What’s them things for?” Dorilliam presently
asked. He had come near, holding Warren’s hand.</p>
<p>Anne sat back, wearily, but with a sense of triumph,
too. “Them things” were an achievement, and she
took pride in making them well, first by scraping the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[164]</span>
earth up with a hoe, then rounding it off with her
hands.</p>
<p>“They’re the hills for the corn, of course,” said she.
“This is the week for corn. What should they be?”
She rather enjoyed snubbing Dorilliam.</p>
<p>“I dunno,” said the boy. “Never saw nothing like
’em before.”</p>
<p>“And you’ve lived in the country all your life. I’m
surprised at you. Mr. Bassett says it’s much better
to plant corn in hills than in rows. It doesn’t blow
over as easily.”</p>
<p>Dorilliam’s slow grin was a thing to see. “Here,
you gimme that hoe,” said he, and forsook Warren’s
hand so abruptly that the baby sat down with a soft
thud. Dorilliam scraped out a shallow hole.</p>
<p>“Now that,” said he, “is a hill. You put your corn
in there on top. Then you cover it over. Then you
stomp on it. That’s the way to plant corn. Them
things you made, they ain’t hills. They’re Mount
Ararats.”</p>
<p>“My goodness,” Anne murmured, meekly. “A hill
upside down.”</p>
<p>But the incident gave her a new feeling of humility,
of helplessness, of respect: humility, that she, Anne
Denison, should cope so badly with such primitive affairs;
helplessness, because there seemed so many difficulties,
however absurd and small; respect for these
country people, even for Dorilliam, that they could
perform with ease what she found so intricate.</p>
<p>Long before the last row was planted and walked
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[165]</span>
on there were green things beginning to show in the
first ones. By that time she had formed quite a friendship
with the Deacon, a stern, gray old man. Often
after supper he would come down the road to inspect
her labors. Sometimes, when a new problem came up,
she would tuck Warren under her arm and run to Bassett’s
house for advice.</p>
<p>“Yes,” she complacently told him one evening,
“they’re coming along.” That was a phrase he used;
she had unconsciously adopted it. “And I do think
Miss Willy’s seeds are wonderful. Ever so many more
come up than I’ve planted, it seems to me.”</p>
<p>Bassett rubbed his chin. He shaved on Sundays
only. “Yeus. Well, mebbe,” said he. “But I
shouldn’t be s’prised if a good many of those green
shoots are weeds. I s’ppose you ain’t got around to
weedin’ yet.”</p>
<p>That, when she had begun to tell herself that her
labors were all but over. She thought of her aching
arms, of tasks waiting indoors, thought yearningly of
Dorilliam. But old Willy had managed without the
boy. So would she. Many an evening after she had
washed the day’s grime from Warren and got him to
sleep, and laundered some of his small garments, and
made the kitchen neat after supper, she worked on her
knees between the rows, weeding until it was too dark
to see. Yet do what she might, there were disasters.</p>
<p>“Seems like our beet-greens is terrible slow, this
year,” said Miss Willy. “You got ’em in in time, too.
It’s funny, what a difference there is in seasons.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[166]</span></p>
<p>No need to tell her that all the young beets had been
carefully, laboriously, back-breakingly weeded up.
And such futile things, anyway, beet-greens. To get
the best of one, merely by being. It shamed her, that
difficulty of coping with little things that she had
scarcely realized existed except as insignificant parts
of a whole that ordered itself. She had always been
willing to battle with what she conceived to be big
things, those that meant conflict with people. There
was exhilaration in that. It got one somewhere. But
this daily, hurrying conflict with nature and the bare
routine of living was bewildering. It entangled her
in all sorts of complicated trivialities, as though it could
make any difference, for example, whether one planted
corn in rows or in holes or on small Mount Ararats.
To find that it did make a difference, that one had to
discover and yield to the preferences of corn and of
beans, was bewildering.</p>
<p>Bewildering; but slowly out of bewilderment there
came a feeling of conducting a campaign. She was
not going to let herself be conquered by a vegetable
garden. It grew in importance, became a battle-ground.
Eventually, victorious, she had such a feeling
of triumph and achievement as not even the arrival
of Warren had given her,—Wanny, that small-featured
replica of Brice. The garden with all its failures and
oddities, not in the least like Miss Willy’s neat, straight-rowed
one, was a thing of her own creating, wrought by
her own labor, by the veritable sweat of her brow and
the grime of her hands and the ache of her body, something
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[167]</span>
that contributed to the very foundation of life,
something, quite simply, to eat. It was as though she
had caused earth or air or water to come into existence.
She had caused food to be. She did not regard
her performance nor its results as beautiful, nor
as clever, nor as amusing, nor as something bound up
with the future, like Wanny. She had brought something
that was elemental out of nothingness. She had
become creative of that which was the very basis of
existence.</p>
<h3 id="5_1">
5
</h3>
<p>So the summer passed in toil. No time for thoughts,
nor for thought. No time, really, for anything, with
so much to be done, so little that could be left undone.
Hens, Anne discovered, could be as clamorous as
babies. When a prideful, clucking absurdity emerged
from a hidden nest with a brood of chicks she could
have crushed the lot of them. They were hated, but
they were important, for they were food, and after a
day or two their very helplessness and dependency
captured her. She was indignant and sorrowful when
one fell prey to Buster’s rapaciousness. Miss Willy
frequently asked after her flowers. There were weeds
among them that Anne told herself could not go unregarded,
whatever happened. The peonies bloomed so
generously. How could she let their brave beauty
smother in weeds? After a summer rain, the hollyhocks
lay on the ground. There was no time for it,
but she must find stakes, tie them up.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[168]</span></p>
<p>By midsummer Wanny was toddling everywhere.
He possessed an ingenuity for getting into mischief beyond
anything his mother had ever encountered. If
he were silent or out of sight for too long she had to
drop everything, hunt for him. And his clothes, those
small costly shoes that wore out so soon, the rompers
that had to be fresh every morning. There were days
when his bath was no more than a hasty sponging away
of grime before he was put to sleep, nights when she
was so weary that she dropped on her bed without undressing,
to wake in the dawn with a crowding sense of
things waiting to be done, in a panic of fear lest she
had over-slept. Everything was in the present. The
future was something she had no time to think about.
Work. Two to care for, three to provide for, hurriedly,
rather chaotically.</p>
<p>Winter came, when she had thought there would be
more time. But again there were stoves, lamps, sewing.
The child had outgrown the first baby coat Alice
had sent. Anne contrived to make him another out
of an old skirt of her own. It had no air of elegance.
She laughed when she dressed him in it.</p>
<p>“Pitty, pitty,” said Warren, smoothing his bulging
front.</p>
<p>“Not so very pretty, old man,” Anne laughed. “But
it will keep you warm.”</p>
<p>“Pretty is as pretty does,” said old Willy, and Anne,
“Goodness, I hope not. If his looks had to be
measured by his behavior——!”</p>
<p>Two years before she could not have tolerated that
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[169]</span>
garment. Now she could laugh at it, was even rather
proud of it. But she did not for more than a moment
think of the change in herself. There was something
else waiting to be done. Orderliness she had not begun
to learn. There were neighbor women who came to
see Miss Willy, bringing gifts of pies and doughnuts
and “tastes” of jelly and jam and pickles. Seeing Miss
Willy’s enjoyment of the delicacies, Anne remembered
that the old woman had always managed to put up some
of her own. Now the pantry shelves held none. She
had never thought of making any. Where had Willy
found time to do it? How did those other women,
busy mothers of families, find time? Even the mere
thought of their dish-washing staggered Anne’s imagination,
now that she knew how mysteriously dishes
piled up for only three. And there was their mending,
their cooking, their washing. Yet those over-worked
women found time to come to Miss Willy’s and
“visit” sometimes for an hour or more. Anne found
herself listening to their talk. It was no longer of
trivialities beyond or beneath her scope and her interest;
it was of things become vital. They had been
vague, dull, toiling creatures without imagination, without
grace, uninteresting. Now they emerged into
separate entities, personalities with feelings and impulses
which she recognized, more skilled and experienced
than herself in things of first importance. There
was so much that they knew and that she did not, and
things they achieved daily, as a matter of course, simply
and neatly, that staggered her efforts and ingenuity
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[170]</span>
to perform and left her worn with fatigue after
trying.</p>
<p>“The working classes”—she remembered that she
used to think of the working classes, in the old days,
with something akin to disgust. She had never been
able to understand Nicky’s interest in them, nor how
she had been able to endure daily contact with them.
Either they toiled with an impenetrable, ineffectual,
stolid indifference, or they disagreeably or violently
protested against their lot, deviously trying to better it
at the cost of the comfort of people who were more
fortunate than themselves. They were unreasonably
envious, and their morals were as sordid as their way
of living. She had always felt injured and angry when
one of her maids had asked for extra time off. She
remembered her amused scorn when they spent their
earnings for some foolish finery to be worn on one or
two afternoons of the week.</p>
<p>These women who dropped in to see Willy were toilers
in a labor unending. She knew about that, now.
As far as she could perceive, theirs was a labor without
result or reward, just a grind, day after day, year after
year. Now she knew that they were not sunk in a
dull state of mental and spiritual stagnation. They
were not clamorously trying to better their lot at the
expense of others. Apparently they shattered no more
of the Ten Commandments than anyone else did.
Sometimes she wondered what secret revolts of the soul
might be theirs, or whether they had souls at all in the
sense of possessing a well-spring of feeling and thought
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[171]</span>
and aspiration. They concerned themselves with
things she had never supposed required thought or were
bound up with feeling or led to aspiration, but indubitably
aspiration and feeling and thought played a
part in their lives.</p>
<p>At first they had been shy with her. One or two had
told her hesitatingly how fine it was for Miss Willy
to have her there. They thought of her as the niece
from the city who went about always dressed up and
sat around while Miss Willy waited on her. Now they
found her aproned, busy, and there was always the
child to talk about. Anne found herself listening with
absorbed interest to tales of other children’s illnesses.
She was not bored when Mrs. Ware told how her Julia
had broken her collar-bone, nor when Mrs. Beaman
told how her twins in one winter had measles and
chicken pox and whooping cough, alternately, “so’s we
were no sooner gettin’ out o’ one thing with Elizabeth
than we come down with the same thing with Florence;
and by the time Florence was better, Elizabeth
had started on something else.” Those things were not
trivial. They were not disgusting. They were not unpleasant
diseases that troublesome children persisted in
having, so that one wondered how mothers endured
them. They were dangers that lurked for Wanny.
Those women were mothers. So was she.</p>
<p>She took Wanny to the Christmas tree at the church.
His round-eyed wonder was a revelation, something
that pierced to her heart. Mrs. Beaman gave him an
orange. When he held it in both hands, stared at it,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[172]</span>
it was not an orange, but a symbol, a mystery. He
had seen it taken from a box under the tree. Therefore
it was endued with beauties and wonders beyond
all other oranges. Anne, looking up, met Mrs. Beaman’s
glance, her tolerant, understanding smile.</p>
<p>A few days thereafter Mrs. Wells ran down the road
bearing a plate wrapped up in a napkin. Hot rolls.
“I thought maybe they’d go good for supper,” said
she.</p>
<p>“Land! I should think so,” old Willy said. “We
ain’t had any home-made bread since I don’t know
when.”</p>
<p>The visitor looked at Anne. “Why, you don’t buy
all your bread, do you?”</p>
<p>“I can’t make it,” Anne said.</p>
<p>“But it costs so much at the store.”</p>
<p>The next day Anne bundled up Wanny and walked
up the road to the Bassetts’s. The children of that
house had long ago gone away, the old couple were
alone, and Mrs. Bassett was known as the best housekeeper
in Heathville, eternally busy.</p>
<p>“Will you teach me how to make bread?” Anne
asked, and could see the flattered look in the old
woman’s eyes.</p>
<p>Her first loaves were an achievement that gave her
a satisfaction scarcely less than her conquest of the
garden.</p>
<p>“What’s that I smell?” old Willy called out, from the
bedroom. “You ain’t ever trying to make bread, child!
You’ll just waste the flour.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[173]</span></p>
<p>“Not I,” Anne declared, coming in with a freshly
baked loaf turned out on a towel. “Look at that!
Willy, when I think of the money we’ve spent at that
store for bread——!”</p>
<p>Old Willy’s lips quivered. “I got to get out o’ this
bed,” said she. “You can’t do all the work yourself,
and takin’ on more all the time.”</p>
<p>Anne put the loaf down, came and stood near the
bed. “Willy,” she said, “it’s the strangest thing. No
matter how much more I find to do, I always seem
to find time to do it in. And stranger still, I rather
like doing it. It makes me feel so important.”</p>
<p>Gradually the women who had been coming to see
Miss Willy lingered to chat with Anne. Recipes were
given, that had to be explained. Flower seeds were
brought in small bits of brown paper, and about their
flowers odd sentiments lingered, odd to Anne because
at first they seemed so trivial.</p>
<p>“That’s ‘Impatience,’” said one, presenting a slim
sprig of green planted in a can from which the label
had been removed. “‘Impatience,’ though some folks
call it ‘Patience’. Either way it’s the truth, for it’s
always in a hurry to bloom, and it blooms all the
time.”</p>
<p>There were slips of geranium, too, and a small,
prickly cactus. Anne thought of Alice’s masses of
flowers, of those she herself had always managed to
buy for the dining-room, and of lilacs and orchids, and
tulips; Tulips that fell. But these little struggling
things in pots and cans had personality, identity. They
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[174]</span>
were a nuisance at first, because she was forever forgetting
to water them; but when she discovered them
drooping, and watched for them to revive, they assumed
an importance beyond reason. They were gifts.
She could not let them die. Then they bloomed.</p>
<p>By the time spring came again Miss Willy was hobbling
about with a crutch and a cane. The crutch
Anne had to buy. That month she began to do their
washing. The cane was brought out of a chest in
the attic.</p>
<p>“My poor grandfather’s cane,” said Miss Willy.
“You can see his name on the silver band. Poor man.
I’m afraid he drank a good deal. My grandmother
married again. But after all, I’m sure there’s nothing
like young love, my dear. I’ve been thinking. When
Wanny grows up——”</p>
<p>So Willy was almost herself once more, though she
was never again able to do active work. She could
sit in the window behind the flowers and sew, and knit
stockings for Warren. It lifted a good deal from Anne
to have her watch the boy, whose capacity for mischief
increased every day.</p>
<p>“What that child does think up,” said Willy. He
had climbed on a chair when no one was looking and
dropped soap into a stew Anne was making for dinner.
They discovered it when he danced up and down,
clapping his hands and shouting:</p>
<p>“Oh, ’ook at the bubbles! ’ook at the bubbles on
the stove! Pretty bubbles! Wanny makes ooooh
pretty bubbles!”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[175]</span></p>
<p>Then, from the chair where his mother had forcefully
deposited him, he howled miserably. “Don’t
like Wanny’s bubbles! Bad Mums don’t like Wanny’s
bubbles!”</p>
<p>Anne looked dolefully at Willy. “Stew enough for
two days. Oh dear! All that good meat!”</p>
<p>Miss Willy’s placidity was not ruffled. “He was
only just doing what you do yourself, and what most
folks do,” said she.</p>
<p>“I never put soap in the stew,” Anne protested,
laughing ruefully.</p>
<p>“I ain’t so sure about that. But what I meant was
he only sees things from where he stands. You got
to make allowances for that.”</p>
<p>In the course of the months Anne had achieved some
measure of orderliness. Work did not crowd as much
as before. She found herself looking forward with
unsuspected eagerness to the time when the garden
could be planted. It was good to see the snows melting,
good to see the brown earth emerging and drying,
good to bring in pussy-willows and to wander with Warren
through the moist woods to find hepaticas, even
good to hear the hylas again. One night when the
others were asleep she stood at her window and looked
out. The moon was high. Earth and sky were inherent
parts of the same beauty, hesitant, translucent.
In the moonlight even the familiar garden and roads
and fields wore an effect of luminous unreality. The
world slept, yet it was breathing and dreaming. It
called her to go forth into its hesitant loveliness, to
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[176]</span>
penetrate and become a part of its dream. The boy
was sleeping with his face buried in his pillow, the red
curls on his neck damp and sweet. He could be
trusted not to wake. She crept down the stairs. The
doors were never locked.</p>
<p>It was strange to be walking along the road in this
strange light. Even the shadows were softer, melting
and merging into the earth. On and on she walked,
slowly, through a world creating itself anew, through
sweet woods, between fields fragrant with the moist
breath of night, past a marsh where the hylas piped,
little Pans, plaintive, luring, singing of joys that might
be or joys to come.</p>
<p>Abruptly, where the road wound through a stretch
of woods, she stopped. Something moved there. Once
fear would have held her, but she had come to know
how needless fear was in that far-away countryside.</p>
<p>“I hope I have not frightened you?” a voice asked.</p>
<p>Strange, to hear again a voice of cultivation, words
enunciated with careless precision. Suddenly she remembered.
Not far beyond was the house of the man
who had come out to the doctor’s car on the day it
had stalled, the man the doctor termed “old fool.”</p>
<p>“Not exactly,” she said, quietly. “I’m afraid I
have walked rather farther than I meant to.”</p>
<p>He had come nearer. He was hatless, and she remembered
how white his hair had looked that day,
and realized that its whiteness gave him that strange
appearance now in the dim light.</p>
<p>“Yes. One has to come out on a night like this,” he
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[177]</span>
said. “I’ve an idea that the real purpose of the moon
is to keep the balance even. The sun works. The
moon calms and blesses. We need both work and calm,
to keep the balance true.”</p>
<p>Anne smiled faintly. How odd he was, to speak
like that, without preface, to a stranger.</p>
<p>“There are various other things one needs, are there
not?” she suggested, falling into his mood.</p>
<p>“Yes. Oh, yes. But they all come into the two
categories. Work, not necessarily what one does not
love or enjoy, but work, occupation. And calm. ‘Ease
and alternate labor.’ What else is there?”</p>
<p>They had fallen into step. After a moment she
said, “I think you are laughing at me.”</p>
<p>He grasped at a bough that projected across the
road, its buds just beginning to open, snapped it off,
the sound of its breaking distinct in the night’s stillness.</p>
<p>“Forgive me. Not at you. I should not have said
that. Nor felt it. It’s only fair that life should give
us the obvious things, make us go searching for the
others.”</p>
<p>“So there is something else?”</p>
<p>She knew he turned to look at her. “You came
out to find it, didn’t you? And I came out.”</p>
<p>They walked on a little. “Does one find, I wonder?”
she murmured.</p>
<p>They had reached the edge of the woods. Before
them a meadow lay flooded with moonlight, gleaming
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[178]</span>
like a sea becalmed. They stood still, held by its
beauty.</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” he said presently. “But if one
may still search, still come out, into this!”</p>
<p>“It’s beautiful,” she said softly. “But there’s no
answer there.”</p>
<p>“I’m not so sure. Not that it matters, the answer.
It’s the search, the fact that one can come out, that
one wants to.”</p>
<p>“Is that enough?” Unconsciously they spoke almost
in whispers, as though to speak aloud would be to
break the spell of the night.</p>
<p>“Not enough, no. But there’s always the belief or
the hope that there’s something to be found. Else one
would not come out.”</p>
<p>“I wonder,” she said.</p>
<p>“Oh, we all wonder. But we all know it’s there.”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>He waited. “Rhythm, I think. Or call it God.”</p>
<p>They were silent a moment. Then, without seeming
to know she was there, he walked away.</p>
<h3 id="6_1">
6
</h3>
<p>The first day she permitted Miss Willy to go as
far as the garden Anne proudly pointed. “There!”
she exclaimed. “Look at that, all ready for the seeds.
I did it myself, too. Dorilliam did nothing but the
plowing.”</p>
<p>“Wanny helped,” the youngster boasted.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[179]</span></p>
<p>“Not the hoeing and raking! You never did, Anne
Warren!” old Willy cried.</p>
<p>Anne laughed, brushed a hand upward across her
damp forehead. “But I did. I’m so proud of it. I
call that a good job well done.”</p>
<p>A letter received from Alice about that time amused
her. Alice and George were taking the children to
Europe for the summer. Would not Anne use their
house while they were gone? The servants would be
there, the house going on as usual. There would be the
car, and Warren would like the children’s playthings,
the sand-pile and swing in the yard. There was plenty
of room for Miss Willy, too. Anne’s first thought was,
“Why, I couldn’t leave the garden!” Then she laughed
aloud. But it was quite true. That garden had been
conquered the year before. Now it was hers, and she
could not tolerate the thought of leaving it. That
summer there were no such mistakes as had baffled
her last year, for old Willy looked on and advised.
Anne was bending over the wash-tubs every week, rejoicing
in the flapping white things on the line. She
was making their bread, and under Willy’s direction
canning fruits and young tender vegetables in glass
jars for winter. Warren, with his increased capacity
for getting out of sight and into mischief, was even
more care than before. Yet she had an elated consciousness
of living.</p>
<p>One July day when the heat was so intense that
Willy had not ventured out of doors, Anne was hanging
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[180]</span>
out clothes, grateful that the weekly washing was
done. The old woman came to the kitchen door.</p>
<p>“Wanny with you?” she called.</p>
<p>Anne put the last clothes-pin in place, took up her
basket. “That monkey! Has he slipped off again?
I’ll have to go look for him.”</p>
<p>She went, calling, and presently Warren came running
towards her, his face mottled with crimson, torn
with briers, and both his closed fists dripping red.
But he was smiling angelically.</p>
<p>“I brought you some, too, Mums,” said he, opening
his hands and holding them up to her. He had been
tightly grasping the raspberries.</p>
<p>“He ought to be spanked,” said Miss Willy.</p>
<p>Anne looked over the child’s head, and smiled. He
was standing in one of the tubs getting scoured, his
dimpled body rising from the suds in which he was
infinitely more interested than in cleanliness.</p>
<p>“Will you do the spanking?” she asked.</p>
<p>Miss Willy looked at her over her spectacles, said
not a word more.</p>
<p>That afternoon the child was sleepy. His forehead
was hot. “Don’t want to go out in the garden. Want
to stay here,” he said later, and Anne, who was starting
the fire for supper, absently agreed.</p>
<p>“All right, old man. But don’t get in mother’s
way.”</p>
<p>Then she heard a cry from Miss Willy. Another
moment and she was kneeling on the floor, lifting the
child to her breast, shrieking.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[181]</span></p>
<p>“Stop that! Leave him there! Don’t take him up!
It’s a spasm,” she heard Willy say.</p>
<p>“He’s dying! My baby’s dying!”</p>
<p>“He ain’t, either! You leave him right there, and
run for the doctor. I’ll get the kettle on. Give me a
spoon to put in his mouth. Now run——!”</p>
<p>The little body was stiff, the child’s eyes rolled upward.</p>
<p>“If the doctor ain’t there, get Mis’ Beaman,” Willy
called after her.</p>
<p>She stumbled on the steps, caught herself, raced
on. The doctor was not there. Mrs. Beaman turned
from the stove, the twins and the other children staring
open-mouthed at the frantic woman who had burst in
upon them.</p>
<p>“My baby! Convulsions—he’s dying,” Anne
panted.</p>
<p>Instantly Mrs. Beaman grasped a steaming tea-kettle
from the stove and held it towards Anne. “Take that
and run,” said she. “Here you, Johnny, you carry this
pot. Never mind the potatoes in it, they won’t do
any harm. Now I’ll get the mustard——”</p>
<p>Ten minutes, half an hour, and Wanny was wrapped
in a blanket, relaxed, his eyes closed. Mrs. Beaman
laughed.</p>
<p>“I used to think you used a good many things to
bathe him with, when he was a baby,” she said, “but
I guess it’s the first time he ever had a hot bath with
potatoes floating around in the water.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[182]</span></p>
<p>Anne was still trembling. “If you hadn’t come!
You saved my boy.”</p>
<p>Late in August Nicky came for a week. She watched
Anne at first curiously, making no comment on her
varied activities. Human work in the garden was over
until time for harvesting. There were hours in the
long afternoons when the two could sit in the shade
or walk through the woods.</p>
<p>“Anne,” Veronica asked one day, “do you ever have
time to think?”</p>
<p>Anne laughed. “Yes, with my hands.”</p>
<p>“I’ve never seen you look so happy, so satisfied.”</p>
<p>“Why shouldn’t I be?”</p>
<p>“That, from Nance Denison! But you aren’t Nance
Denison.”</p>
<p>Anne leaned forward, her hands dropped beyond
her knees. “Oh, yes I am. Don’t you think I am not,
Nicky old girl. I always wanted to do things, my
own things, have my own way. Now I’m doing them,
reveling in having my own way. Of course I’m
happy!”</p>
<p>“And satisfied?”</p>
<p>“Oh, well, that! There always has to be something
beyond. Of course I’m not going to stay here forever.”</p>
<p>“That’s really what I came about, Nance.” Anne
looked at her questioningly. “There’s a new home for
working girls. A sort of hotel, really, but they want
to provide something more for the girls than other
homes do. They want a hostess, a woman who has
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[183]</span>
been used to things. I can get you the job if you want
it.”</p>
<p>“There’s Wanny.”</p>
<p>“You could have Wanny with you. The pay isn’t
bad.”</p>
<p>Anne stood up, her hands behind her back. There
was the garden, the house, the hen-house, the hills
and ripening fields.</p>
<p>“Nicky, I can’t,” she said. “Not while old Willy
lives.”</p>
<p>Nicky lay back, stretched her arms over her head,
yawned. “You’re growing up, Anne,” said she.</p>
<p>Afterwards, Anne wondered at herself a little. It
was true that a few years before she would have taken
the chance without thinking of anyone who stood in
the way. If she had heard of some other woman making
such a choice she would have scorned her for it,
set her down in the same category into which she had
dismissed people like those who were now her neighbors,
as being of no account, bound by their own dullness
and stupidity and lack of initiative, without intention,
without aspiration. Her mind was still groping.
She could not have told why she had permitted
herself to be held by allegiance to old Willy. But,
however vaguely, she was beginning to feel that there
was something beyond initiative and aspiration, some
established necessary sequence, perhaps even some purpose.</p>
<p>Several times she had encountered the man Kent on
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[184]</span>
the road or in the store. Once he had said to Warren:</p>
<p>“You come to see me, and I’ll show you something!”</p>
<p>She thought of him as of one who could speak her
old language, remembered his odd way of coming
abruptly to things that were commonly left unspoken
or only touched upon after a preface of intimacy, as
though they were common enough to be taken for
granted, so much a part of one’s habitual thought as
to come naturally to any man’s lips. Her harvesting
work was done for the year. The little place was neat
for winter, the pantry shelves were filled. She smiled
when she looked at those rows of bright jars. She,
Anne Denison, “forehanded!” On a day in late September
she took her son by the hand and set forth.
Not that Warren permitted himself to be held in leash
for long. His legs were sturdy. How she loved them,
their curves and dimples and bruises. He would trot
ahead of her to kick up the leaves, go foraging into
the woods, spring out upon her at the next turn. He
howled when he investigated a chestnut burr, a moment
later joyously presented her with a spray of
asters. Walks with Wanny had their variety. Before
they came in sight of the cottage her ears caught the
sound of music. A piano, played rather superbly, she
thought. In spite of her restraining call Warren flew
to the door, hammered upon it.</p>
<p>“I want to see what that noise is. Let me in. I
want to see.”</p>
<p>As she reached the door it opened, and Kent stood
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[185]</span>
there, laughing. He took the child’s hand, closed the
door behind them, and came down the walk towards
Anne.</p>
<p>“We’ve interrupted you,” she said, with an air of
apology.</p>
<p>But he shook his head. “No. I was playing to
my wife. But she’s asleep now. It always quiets
her.”</p>
<p>“I am sorry. I did not know Mrs. Kent was ill.”</p>
<p>His face bore a worn look, as of one who had not
slept. “Always ill. I am very glad you came to see
me.”</p>
<p>“I have been thinking so much, Mr. Kent, of some
of the things you said to me that night when I was so
wild as to walk in the moonlight.” He looked at her
questioningly, yet she did not find it difficult to speak
simply of what had seemed so simple to him.</p>
<p>He nodded. “Ah—yes.” Then his manner changed.
He looked down at Warren. “How would you like
to come into my garden? I could show you something
there.”</p>
<p>“There isn’t any garden any more. We’ve dug the
potatoes,” said Warren.</p>
<p>“There is always a garden,” the man said, laughing.
“Come along!”</p>
<p>He led the way with the boy, talking and answering,
for there had to be a good deal of answering, with
Warren.</p>
<p>“This is a funny garden,” said Warren.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[186]</span></p>
<p>“You just wait,” laughed Kent. “And don’t stumble.”</p>
<p>The path led down sharply. Anne drew a quick
breath when it ended abruptly in a cleared space at
the base of the hill, a space perhaps a full hundred
yards across, leveled and smooth, the woods closing
it in, sunlight drenching it. Only a few bronzed leaves
clung to the low-growing oaks against its forested wall.
For the rest, it was raked clean, like a house swept
and garnished. And that, thought Anne, was what it
must be, a house here in the woods, with the sky for
its roof. There were borders where even now a late
rose or two braved the cold nights. At one side a
long shallow pool, its banks strengthened with field
stones, caught a bit of the sky’s blue. Just beyond
was an arbor, white, grape-trellised, and at other places
two long low benches of gleaming white. On one of
these lay a doll, large as a baby and as daintily dressed,
its legs hanging limply over the side. On the floor
of the arbor, in a spot of sunlight, a dog lay. It got
up when it saw Kent, hobbled joyously towards him on
three legs. He stooped and patted it. Warren drew
back towards his mother.</p>
<p>“I never saw a dog like that,” he said. “Where’s
all of him?”</p>
<p>“The rest of him, you mean?” Kent laughed aloud.
“Well, once he was caught in a trap. The trap bit
off his paw. But there are no other dogs here, you
see, so he doesn’t realize how different he is. We
don’t remind him of it.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[187]</span></p>
<p>Anne remembered, something the doctor had said
that first time. “A lot of lame ducks.” This, apparently,
was one of them. Then she became aware
of a face in the depths of the arbor, a form there.</p>
<p>“Jenny,” Kent called. “You Jenny there! Come
out here and say ‘how do’ to the lady and the young
man I’ve brought to call on you.”</p>
<p>It was a child; or, surely, the laugh came from a
girl who was not quite past childhood. A girl of
thirteen or so, Anne thought, when she haltingly
emerged. As she came she seemed to help herself by
the side of the arbor where shade lay deepest. Her
face wore that curious agedness of the city child who
has long been ill.</p>
<p>“A-a-ah! No you don’t,” Kent called out, laughing.
“Don’t you touch that crutch, Jenny!”</p>
<p>“I ain’t, honest I ain’t, Mr. Kent. It’s on the
bench!”</p>
<p>“Then you’re cheating. You’re holding on to the
wall.”</p>
<p>The girl giggled delightedly, as at some huge joke.
“But I got to.”</p>
<p>“Now hear that! I told you to come here. Now
then, come along. Come along.”</p>
<p>She came to the opening of the arbor, bracing herself
by a hand on its side. Anne saw that her body
was twisted, restricted by some muscular impediment,
perhaps a form of paralysis. Jenny was smiling, and
Kent shook his head.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[188]</span></p>
<p>“Won’t do, Jenny. You let go of that door, and
come out here.”</p>
<p>“But I can’t, Mr. Kent. Honest I can’t.”</p>
<p>“Come!”</p>
<p>She took a step or two forward, wavered. Anne
would have jumped to her side, but Kent’s raised hand
warned her back.</p>
<p>“Now you see that you can. Come along!”</p>
<p>A step or two more, and suddenly the girl fell awkwardly,
sprawling, laughing. “Gee, ain’t he funny!”
she cried.</p>
<p>Kent helped her up, took her arm and led her to one
of the benches. “Now next time, young woman, you’ll
walk. Tumbling has gone out of fashion. Do you
hear?” he warned her.</p>
<p>“It’s a heavenly place,” Anne said, “a sort of magic
garden, as though the fairies had lived here a while and
then forgotten it.”</p>
<p>Kent nodded. “I made it for my wife. We just
about live down here, in the summer. You see, she’s
afraid of the woods, and as they shut in the garden
she’s safe here. She’s afraid to run away, except by
the path, and we can watch that.”</p>
<p>In spite of herself Anne stared.</p>
<p>“Yes, she is like that,” Kent said, quietly. “As I
said, it’s the reason for our living here. Where we
lived before she was forever running away, slipping
past all our vigilance. It wasn’t good for her to
be constantly watched and she needed the air. Now
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[189]</span>
she is happier. She has some freedom, but she is
safe.”</p>
<p>Before the strange revelation Anne knew nothing
to say. Kent went on, as though musing: “That doll
over there. It is hers. I shall have to take it back
to the house before she wakes up, or she’ll cry for
it. She calls it her baby, yet at times, you see, she
forgets it. When she is very bad. Yes, she is like
that.”</p>
<p>Presently Anne said, “The little girl there——”</p>
<p>Kent smiled. “Oh, Jenny. Yes. We have them
here. First one, then another. Jenny will soon be
all right. She went on two crutches a few months
ago.”</p>
<p>He had indeed shown her something in his garden.
Anne was certain of that. His wife “like that,” the
lame dog, the child Jenny. She thought of their meeting
in the moonlight, and his words, “Not that it
matters, the answer. It’s the search.” Now, in the
light of what he had shown her, those words did not
ring true. For what was his search, how much was
he seeking? Obviously, the man was not impoverished.
He was not held to Heathville by that dumb and stupid
allegiance to the soil that she read in the simpler people.
Yet there he stayed with a mad wife and a lame
dog and children like Jenny. “We have them here.
First one, then another.” He was not searching, not
seeking. He was submitting, letting himself be held.
By what?</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[190]</span></p>
<p>She had been held by old Willy, as Kent was held
by his wife.</p>
<p>Throughout the winter the old woman seemed as
mentally brisk as ever. “My land,” she said, one
cold Sunday morning, “I do wish I could get up the
hill to church. Makes me feel downright wicked, to
be so mad about it. Not that I s’ppose it’s any worse
to get mad because you can’t go to church than because
you can’t dance or something, nor any better, either.”</p>
<p>Anne laughed. “I don’t believe it will be held up
against you because you can’t go to church,” said
she.</p>
<p>Miss Willy sniffed. “I was talking about getting
mad, not about going to church,” she said.</p>
<p>Anne laughed. “Well, I’m sorry you can’t get to
church, then.”</p>
<p>“So am I. I do want something awful to see that
new bonnet the minister’s wife got in the missionary
box.”</p>
<p>“Willy! You wicked old woman! You’ve fooled
me for years. I thought you went to church to say
your prayers. I didn’t dream your mind was so set on
worldly things.”</p>
<p>Miss Willy sniffed. “I do go to church to say my
prayers, when I can get there. And if a body’s mind
wasn’t mixed up with worldly things, what would there
be to pray about?” she demanded.</p>
<p>There came a day in April when the sun shone and
from Anne’s window all the world wore a fresh morning
face after rain. Dressing, she looked out upon the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[191]</span>
familiar scene, now as unconsciously cherished as the
features of a beloved. Then she turned to the bed
where Warren, now in his fourth year, lay asleep. He
had long since refused to submit to a day-time nap,
though after his day’s intensive play he was willing
enough to go to bed with the chickens. But no birds
could wake him early in the morning. He lay now
with his arms and legs outstretched, strong and plump,
his firm flesh tanned by sun and weather. He was
her life, her blessing. Whenever she saw him like that
a surge of love all but choked her. She bent over him
before she left the room. He would sleep for hours
longer.</p>
<p>She went down quietly, started the kitchen fire as
noiselessly as she could, went out to the hens. The
morning air was sweet. Good to breathe it in. She
raised her face in the sunshine. When she went in
again she set the simple breakfast to cooking. There
was no sound from Miss Willy’s room. Strange, for
the old woman had not lost her life-long habit of waking
with the dawn. She would wait patiently until
Anne could find time to help her dress, but always she
called out a morning greeting. Anne softly turned the
knob of the bedroom door. The little figure was lying
on its side, one hand under a withered cheek. Anne’s
heart leaped. That stillness, and the posture like a
child asleep, secure in a mothering presence near by.
She bent over the bed.</p>
<p>Miss Willy was, indeed, asleep. Past waking.</p>
<p>Presently Anne went across the road for the doctor.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[192]</span>
He made his brief examination, and stood up, looking
at Anne who was unaware of the tears on her cheeks.</p>
<p>“Yes,” he told her, gently, “yes, she’s gone. Worn
out. That’s the best way to go. Finished her work.”</p>
<p>“Sleep at the end of the day,” Anne murmured.</p>
<p>The doctor nodded. “Like David. You remember?
‘Who after he had served his own generation by
the will of God, fell on sleep, and was laid with his
fathers.’ What’s better than to serve one’s own generation?”</p>
<p>“She did that.”</p>
<p>The doctor turned away. “I’ll send women to you,”
he said, from the door.</p>
<p>They came, those women. Quietly, reverently they
came, not reluctantly to that task from which Anne
shrank, but taking it as one of the things to be done,
by its very inevitableness removed from horror. She
heard them moving about the room, speaking in low
voices behind the closed door. They asked her to
heat water, and when she had it ready one of them
said:</p>
<p>“Now don’t you feel so bad. Her time had come.”</p>
<p>Dorilliam’s mother came out to the kitchen. “I
didn’t like to open the bureau without you said so. But
I know where the things are. She’s had ’em laid away
a long time. She told me about ’em.”</p>
<p>Anne helped them find the poor, decent clothes, so
plain, so clean. So Willy had thought of her burial,
even while she thought so much of living. Death—Anne
remembered the day her father died. Willy had
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[193]</span>
been alone with him. She and Brice had hurried, but
arrived too late. She had been a little in awe of that
silent presence, even afraid. She had cried out to
Brice when strange men with black bags passed the
parlor door on the way upstairs, and Brice had closed
the door and put his arms about her, closed the door
against her dread. Now there was no Brice.</p>
<p>Hurriedly she put that memory from her. There
was nothing of fear connected with Willy’s lying there.
Why remember that shielding from that other fear?
She had felt no grief for her father; they had never
been close together. After he died she had been sorry
that they had never been closer. This was different.
Not grief, but something gentler, something more
poignant. Or was grief like this? Death like this
quiet passing seemed scarcely mysterious, but only a
part of the inevitable round of things. Now she knew
something about that round of things. There was winter,
a going to sleep, and spring following winter. She
thought of Miss Willy’s springtime, of the little toiling
creature who had wanted her freedom. Had she
found freedom now? Or what? For there was spring.</p>
<p>“You’d better let me take Wanny home with me,”
said Mrs. Beaman. “The twins’ll just love looking
after him. It ain’t good for children to be in the house
when there’s death.”</p>
<p>Anne kissed her. “If you’ll take him for a few
hours, later,” she said. “For a day or two I can tell
him Miss Willy’s asleep in there.”</p>
<p>So the child played about as usual, whispering when
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[194]</span>
he came into the kitchen, tiptoeing past the closed door.
Willy was asleep. He understood that, and Anne
dwelt on the thought of it.</p>
<p>Mrs. Bassett came over the first day, a slender, thin-lipped
woman, with some sprays of geranium in her
hand. “Seems like I never get much time to grow
flowers,” she said, “but there’s these.”</p>
<p>Another brought heliotrope, another a basket of crocuses.
One came with nasturtiums. “Seems real nice
to see ’em this time o’ year, don’t it?” she asked, with
pride. “They do real well in my south windows.
They come from some seeds she gave me once.”</p>
<p>At night another came, a great white bloom in her
hand and on her face the look of a votary. “My
night-bloomin’ cereus. ’Twon’t last, but she always
come over to see it, the night ’twas due to come out. I
want she should have it.”</p>
<p>On the day when Anne sent Warren to play with the
Beaman children the neighbors gathered solemnly in
the parlor, presently to follow Miss Willy, who never
had led before. Anne stood by the grave lined with
evergreen boughs. There was greenery, too, over the
mound of fresh earth.</p>
<p>“Who did that?” she asked, as they came away.</p>
<p>“Why, we all did. We always do that, for a neighbor.”</p>
<p>Those women, unimaginative, she had thought them,
their lives but one long labor, too barren for sentiment;
yet when the time for sentiment came they had done
that tender service.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[195]</span></p>
<p>On the day after the funeral Warren went into the
bedroom, stood looking at the bed. “Where’s auntie?”
he asked. “When did she wake up?”</p>
<p>“She’s gone away, Wanny. Where she won’t have
to go to sleep any more.”</p>
<p>The child stared at her. “Where’s that?”</p>
<p>“Ever so far away. Where the spring lives before
it comes. Where the baby birds come from, and baby
boys and girls, before they are born.” She had no
sooner spoken the words than she was conscious of the
fatuity of them. Why should she cheat the child with
sentimentality? Why not try to tell him the truth?
Why deck it out in inanities? But Warren’s eyes were
alight and wide-opened.</p>
<p>“Where the fairies live?” he asked.</p>
<p>“Perhaps,” she said. “I don’t know.”</p>
<p>“Oh, well,” said Wanny, “she won’t like it much
there. Not without me. I guess she’ll come back
soon.”</p>
<p>But a day or two afterwards he came to his mother
with quivering lip. “I want auntie. Why don’t she
come back? Will you tell her to hurry?”</p>
<p>Anne turned her face away. “I want her, too, my
lamb. But she can’t come.”</p>
<p>“Why can’t she come? Has she lost her crutch?”</p>
<p>“Yes. She’s lost it.”</p>
<p>“Why don’t you take it to her, then?”</p>
<p>“I can’t, Wanny. I can’t go where she is.”</p>
<p>“Well, where is she? That’s what I want to know.”</p>
<p>How much theology did one give a child? There
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[196]</span>
had to be something. What could one say? She took
him in her arms. “Auntie is with her Heavenly Father,
my dear. He loves her, and needs her.”</p>
<p>“How do you know he does?”</p>
<p>Theology had its difficulties. “I do know. He’s my
Heavenly Father, too. So I know. Just the way you
know mother loves you.”</p>
<p>Wanny thought about that. “Have I got one, too?”
he asked.</p>
<p>She kissed his curls. “Of course. We all have.
Now run along and play. Maybe you’d like to help
feed the chickens?”</p>
<p>But a few nights thereafter, while she was making
him ready for bed, taking off his stockings and reveling
in the fragrance of his hair against her face, he
propounded another question.</p>
<p>“Mums,” he asked, “when am I going to my father?”</p>
<h3 id="7_1">
7
</h3>
<p>Under old Willy’s handkerchiefs in the top drawer
of a bureau they found a folded sheet of paper. “I
am in my right mind and senses. I give my body to
the grave and my soul to the Lord. Everything else
is to go to my friend, Anne Warren Denison.” There
was Willy’s cramped signature, and the signature of
witnesses.</p>
<p>“It was no more than right,” said Mrs. Wells, who
was one of the witnesses, “seeing you come here to take
care of her in her old age.”</p>
<p>Anne said nothing. The date stood out like a pointing
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[197]</span>
finger. Willy had written it more than five years
before she had come to Heathville, at a time when she
thought of the old woman once a year, when the purchase
of some gift for Christmas was one of those burdensome
trivialities that she got through with as hurriedly
as she could. The house was hers, the garden,
the few hundreds in the savings bank, because old
Willy had loved her, in her own mind built up about
her a little tradition that later expressed itself in the
kindly falsehood with which she quieted the curiosity
of the neighbors. “Come to take care of her in her old
age.” Perhaps Willy had dreamed of that during the
years she had lived alone. Perhaps she had longed to
have someone in her old age. It was a new thing to
Anne to have that feeling of dull self-reproach, that
consciousness of failure, unmixed with anger. Anger
had obliterated any consciousness of failure towards
Brice. Now old Willy’s bequest and the inescapable
thoughts it brought with it held a mirror of self-analysis
up to her. She could not look around it, nor walk
away from it, but must stare and stare at the reflection
of herself. And there was another thing that she had
to think about. Warren’s questions, his reference to
his father.</p>
<p>Willy was dead, Brice had gone out of her life, but
the boy remained. Not four years in the world,
already he was asking questions she could not answer.
He would grow, would question further. Was she
going to fail her son as she had failed those others?
Oh yes, Willy had, indeed, had someone to take care
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[198]</span>
of her in her old age; her longings and her poor little
pride had been justified at the end. But Anne could
take to herself no credit for that. Willy dead, she
could admit her own failure. If things had fallen out
differently, she would have said, when word came of
the old woman’s death, “The poor old soul!” When
word came of the bequest, she would have said, “How
funny! What on earth shall I do with it?” It was
only by chance, and because of her own need, not
Willy’s, that she had stood by at the end.</p>
<p>So, now that the time had come when she was free
to leave, she had to pause for a while, try to read her
compass, to take her bearings, for there were strange
seas ahead. She had been drifting. Where was she
now? What was her position, what worth had this
place she had thought she had won to, this security
she thought her own toil had achieved for her spirit,
this freedom from the bond of obligation? There was
Brice. She had never believed that Brice was dead.
Gradually she found herself thinking more and more
about Brice, without anger, without bitterness.</p>
<p>If all life lead on to something, what was waiting for
her? What was she going to meet? Above all, what
was Warren going to meet, and how was she going to
help him meet it? Could she escape that slow, onsweeping
purpose pervading everything, that warp
that ran through the whole fabric of life? To some
natures life is a decomposing thing, to some a stimulus,
to others a slow melting-pot, terrible in its persistency,
yet all the while in its crucible melting away the baser
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[199]</span>
elements that the purer may emerge. In some natures
a gold of the spirit is the residuum, made a thing of
itself only after the fires of life have had their way
with it, worked it and fused and refined it. Anne’s
physical freedom had come at last only to thrust her
into the core of the crucible, but even yet she was not
undergoing its intensest heat.</p>
<p>It was too early to begin work in the garden. The
fields were drying slowly that year, the season pausing,
farmers waiting with impatient acceptance of the inevitable.
Many hours during the winter she had passed
with Kent before his fireside or in Miss Willy’s parlor
or tramping over the rutted roads. He had played to
her and loaned her books. On a day when the sun
was as warm as in June she and Warren started for
Kent’s house, the boy running here and there to peep
into the buckets hanging to roadside maple trees.</p>
<p>“Sap’s running good,” Deacon Bassett told her as
they passed his place. “Cold nights and hot suns—that’s
what brings the sap up.”</p>
<p>She had never encountered Mrs. Kent. Her presence
pervaded the house, Kent spoke of her frequently,
but Anne had dreaded to see her, hoped that she never
would—that woman who played with a doll, who was
afraid of the woods and had to be watched lest she run
away. In her mind she had visualized something
repulsive. Insanity, she supposed, was a thing of wild
impulses, a thing of terror. Pitiful, yes, but dreadful,
better kept behind bars or in one of those places where
“they” had good care. But on that day she was
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[200]</span>
sitting in a deep chair before a fire of embers, and Kent
was playing. The children, Warren and Jenny, were
in a window-seat busy about their own affairs. The
door opened. Anne could see, without moving, the
slim form that stood there, hesitant. There was nothing
startling, nothing repulsive, about that woman.
Forty, perhaps, she was obviously fragile, and could
never have been beautiful; but there remained about
her a delicacy, a grace, a gentle desire to please that
must once have meant charm. She was smiling.</p>
<p>Kent looked over his shoulder, his fingers still touching
the keys. “Come in, Paula,” he said, quietly.</p>
<p>Mrs. Kent came in, step by step, still looking at
Anne, until she was standing in front of her, hands
loosely clasped. She waited until the music had
stopped.</p>
<p>“Pretty lady,” she said, under her breath.</p>
<p>Kent came towards them. “It’s Mrs. Denison,
Paula. Aren’t you glad to see her?”</p>
<p>She held out her hand, and Anne, standing, took it.
Paula still looked at her searchingly. “I don’t know
her. But she’s pretty. I’m glad she came to see us.
Are we going to have tea, Rufus? Are there any
cakes?”</p>
<p>Kent went out of the room, and his wife took Anne’s
hand, led her to a sofa, sat down by her. She was
still smiling, still friendly, like a child in her gentleness.
Anne could find nothing to say. Before Kent returned
Wanny slipped from the window-seat, came and stood
in front of the pair, his small legs apart, hands clasped
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[201]</span>
behind his back, a posture copied from his firm friend
Dorilliam.</p>
<p>Paula’s lips parted. She withdrew her hand from
Anne’s. “Oh! It’s a child!”</p>
<p>“My son Warren,” said Anne. Her maternal instinct
at work, she added, “Wanny, say ‘How do you
do, Mrs. Kent.’”</p>
<p>But Mrs. Kent had slipped to her knees before the
boy. She was touching him, first his bright hair, then
his cheek, then his hand. To his mother’s amazement
the youngster submitted. Then, quite suddenly, he
laughed.</p>
<p>“I like you,” said he. “You’re so funny.”</p>
<p>Paula sat back on the floor, laughed too. “And I
like you, boy.” She looked up at Anne, leaned closer,
whispered. “I have a baby, too. She doesn’t grow.
It worries me. And she never talks. She’s asleep now,
or I couldn’t have come down. I’ll show her to you,
some day. But her hair—I like the color of your boy’s
hair—like fire-light. What is your name, boy?”</p>
<p>Wanny told her. Again she fingered the ruddy softness
of his hair, and he laughed aloud. She said, “I
like it. I think I will change the color of my baby’s
hair to that. Rufus will do it for me.”</p>
<p>“Will do what, Paula?” Kent asked. He came
into the room, the Japanese boy following with a tea-tray
whose richness reminded Anne of old days. When
she had told him, he said, quite naturally, as though it
were the most usual thing in the world to change hair:</p>
<p>“Yes, of course, I will. I will send to the city today
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[202]</span>
for some hair the color of Wanny’s. In four days from
now your baby shall have red hair like his, Paula.”</p>
<p>And Paula, jumping up, clapped her hands. But
then she spied the cakes on the tea-tray, grabbed two
of them, ate.</p>
<p>“Rufus,” Anne asked, a week or so later when they
were walking along through the muddy road, “Rufus,
why do you keep her there? Why do you have her
live with you?” For one could ask any question,
directly, of Kent.</p>
<p>He frowned, looked puzzled. “I don’t know that I
can make it plain to you, Anne, or to myself. But
there’s this: one does not discard responsibility, or
care, or what not, by putting it out of sight. One sees
a thing through, anyway. Life jolly well sees to it
that we do that.”</p>
<p>Afterwards, thinking it over, Anne wondered. Was
that true? Did one never escape? Was escape cut
off? A thing out of sight—did that follow one, haunt,
overtake? Or was it always inevitably present?
There was her marriage. Brice. She had believed
they had escaped each other, and misunderstandings,
and the enormous, minute daily rubs. Yet here was
she, here was Warren, with his developing intelligence
and his questions and demands and rights, and there,
somewhere, was Brice. Did he, too, have his demands,
his rights? Were they still her concern, again to become
her problem? Was the whole thing still there,
for them both? Was there still that bond, still, still
to be reckoned with whether she would or not? “One
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[203]</span>
sees it through, anyway. Life sees to it that we do
that.” Life—what was it? The wheel of the squirrel-cage
old Willy had once spoken about, the wheel that
one spins and spins, believing one’s self the force that
drives the world; the cage that one cannot leave, but
must return to and return to, because all outside the
cage is wilderness?</p>
<p>For days she weighed that question; then came the
great crisis of her life, out of the blue, suddenly, without
warning, as crises come. It came, that flame of
Fate which was to burn away slowly, with agony, the
dross of her spirit.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_204"></a><a id="Page_205"></a>[205]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="PART_III">
PART III
</h2>
</div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_206"></a><a id="Page_207"></a>[207]</span></p>
</div>
<h3 class='mt4' id="1_2">
1
</h3>
<p>The fields had dried at last, the plowing of her
garden was done. She had learned by now how to
manage her work in the house so that she had more
hours for work in the sun; she held to her habit of rising
early, of getting out into the morning’s freshness.
That day she had been toiling with spade and rake at
leveling the plowed furrows. Wanny was sleeping
late. After a while the height of the sun warned her
that he would soon be clamoring for breakfast. From
the kitchen she heard his voice, not calling, but murmuring
as though he were dreaming. She called gayly
up the stairs:</p>
<p>“Get up, old Lazybones. See how quickly you can
dress yourself! You’re going to help mother in the
garden today, you know.”</p>
<p>He did not come. Again she went to the foot of the
stairs. “Wanny, old Bunty’s chicks are out. Hurry
up, hurry up!”</p>
<p>There was a wail, low, frightened. She ran up with
the quick inward panic that every mother knows how
to cover with a smile. The child was lying still, whimpering—Wanny,
who never cried. She stood beside
the bed.</p>
<p>“But get up, Wanny. Quick—quick! Get up!”</p>
<p>“I can’t, Mums. Somebody’s taken my legs away.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[208]</span></p>
<p>She tossed off the covers. For all her pleading, all
the child’s efforts, he could not move....</p>
<p>Weeks, months—how could she count the time that
followed? “A sporadic case,” Dr. Severance said,
shaking his head. “We never know where it will
strike, nor when, nor why. In time, perhaps. But we
can’t tell.”</p>
<p>She telephoned Alice, and in two days Alice’s car
was there, and a nurse. They carried the child to the
city, to a hospital that was said to do wonders for infantile
paralysis cases. Wanny, like that, a “case”....
There was Nicky, there were Alice and George, there
was even Ambrose, but they were like shadows, for all
their reality to her. She must have talked, eaten, slept,
but the hours away from the hospital were blanks,
those spent by the child’s bedside sheer agony. Doctors
came. She thanked God for Alice’s money, and
in a moment forgot the thought of God and Alice and
money. Nurses passed in and out of the room, were
kind, and cheerful, and very busy. She looked at
them, spoke to them, and forgot there were nurses.
Mornings came at last, when she might hasten to the
hospital. Evenings were only times when Alice or
Nicky arrived and told her that she would have to go
with them. When George suggested calling a specialist
from a western city, she eagerly welcomed the suggestion.
Pride? She had none. She would have crawled
in the street, abased herself forever, if by doing that
she could have given a quiver of life to those still
limbs.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[209]</span></p>
<p>Yet after a while they said he was better. They
called it that. There was no “better” to Anne. The
child had run and danced and fluttered in and out of
the sunshine like a butterfly, as free, as unconscious of
himself. What could “better” mean, when he was
still crippled? Better, because he could move one leg
again? The other was useless. She knew; in time
even its rounded beauty would shrivel. They called
that being better. They said they could do no more
for him than that. They said it cheerfully, as though
they were making a great gift.</p>
<p>“Alice,” she said, “I have got to go home.”</p>
<p>All the long way in Alice’s car she thought of that.
Home. She thought of it like that. Not a place, this
time, to hide herself in. Not a place to wait in,
ashamed and sore and bitter. Home. Ah, life was
treacherous! It sneaked upon you, jumped at you
from around the corners. The squirrel-cage, round
and round. Safest, within the bars. That was it. One
was safest within the bars.</p>
<p>She found her garden planted and cared for, the
rows already green with vegetables in leaf. Peonies
flaunted in the border. The house had been cleaned.
Windows were open to the summer air. A fire was laid
in the kitchen stove ready for lighting. On the table a
loaf of bread was wrapped in a mended napkin. Before
supper was ready the Beaman twins came with a tiny
kitten for Wanny. Later, Dr. Severance looked in.</p>
<p>“They’ve done well for him,” he said, when he had
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[210]</span>
examined the boy. “Better than I could. I’ll keep an
eye on you both.”</p>
<p>The next morning Mrs. Wells came. Dorilliam had
brought milk that morning, saying, “Ma says you
needn’t bother about paying anything for the milk for
a while. The cow’s fresh, and we just give it to the
pigs.”</p>
<p>His mother looked at Warren, sitting outside, so still
in the sun, the kitten in his lap. “I know how you
must be feelin’,” said she. “But there’s one thing. You
got him. It’d be worse, if he had been took.”</p>
<p>Anne said nothing. It was true that she had him.
More than ever she had him now, held in her heart
with a passion of protectiveness, a passion surpassing
anything she had known while he was active and well.</p>
<p>“I know how ’tis,” said Dorilliam’s mother, “because
I lost one. The fifth, it was, and we were real
poor that winter, and folks said ’twas just as well he
was taken. We knew they said it. We got seven in
all, now, good boys, every one of them. But there’s
always the one we lost. We don’t talk much about it.
Don’t have to. Pa, he ain’t the talkin’ kind. Maybe
I’m not, either. But I guess we both know.”</p>
<p>Anne was looking at her: had she ever seen her
before, that squat, homely woman, the drudge, the—unthinking?</p>
<p>“Every spring pa goes up to the buryin’ ground with
a rake and clears off. There’s a bush there, sweet
brier, I planted. No, we don’t say much. But there’s
always the one we lost. The others are good boys,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[211]</span>
every one of them. I know that other was spared a lot.
But—well, we lost him.”</p>
<p>Another came, a slim, spare spinster who lived and
worked hard in her brother’s house. Anne knew her
by the name all the neighborhood called her, Miss
Abby. She had spoken to her often before, been a
little amused at the way the type exemplified itself in
her, prim, dried, with eyes that saw everything and
lips that pursed themselves as though to keep back
those comments that were best unspoken, at any rate
when one lived in one’s brother’s house and was thankful
enough for a home.</p>
<p>“I just thought I’d run over,” said she. “Wondered
if maybe there wasn’t some sewing I could do for
you, evenin’s. I got plenty of time on my hands,
evenin’s.”</p>
<p>As she was going, she hesitated in the doorway,
looked up at Anne. “You got a real nice home here,”
she said. “A child of your own’s a good bit of
comp’ny.”</p>
<p>Mrs. Ware came, both arms full of shining glass
jars. “My canned peaches,” she told Anne with pride,
“and some jell. I want you should taste them.”</p>
<p>Anne thanked her and smiled. “A generous taste,
Mrs. Ware,” said she. “They look wonderful.”</p>
<p>“There’s more where those come from. You won’t
get much time for canning this year.”</p>
<p>Anne had thought her a silent woman, hard, intent
on her business of feeding a family. Mr. Ware had
a large farm, kept four “hands” in summer. But this
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[212]</span>
day whatever impediment usually sealed Mrs. Ware’s
lips was removed for the moment. She gave Anne a
shy look.</p>
<p>“Our eldest girl, now. She had what Wanny’s got.
I guess ’twas that. An’ it went to her head. They
said if she lived she’d never be—right. Oh, I’m so
thankful your boy’s—all right!”</p>
<p>Impulsively, Anne kissed her.</p>
<p>And still others came. Some made no comment
on Warren, some offered a bit of old-fashioned advice,
brought a remedy, or a tonic for Anne, or some other
small gift. Most came quite simply to visit. Anne
understood, after a time. They were accepting her as
one of themselves, a woman living through the lot that
is woman’s. They were standing by, spiritually
shoulder to shoulder.</p>
<p>Frequently Kent came, always with something for
the child. One day he arrived with a large bulging
parcel under his arm, Jenny giggling behind him.</p>
<p>“I don’t know what to do with this girl,” said he.
“She says she won’t live with us any longer. Wants to
come here to live with you and Wanny!”</p>
<p>Jenny laughed and nodded.</p>
<p>“She’s an independent young person, is Jenny. You
see, she can board where she likes. She has friends,
who pay the large sum of four dollars a week so that
Jenny may eat. And she does eat. My word, how
Jenny does eat! Now’s she tired of our food, and
wants to try yours. What do you say, Mrs. Denison?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[213]</span></p>
<p>Anne flushed. She saw through the simple ruse.
“Ah, Rufus——”</p>
<p>“But say, lookit, honest, Mis’ Denison, there’s a
heap I can do. I’m fourteen now, goin’ on fifteen.
And he’s jokin’ about all I eat. There’s a heap I can
do and I’d just love to look after Wanny.”</p>
<p>Jenny stayed. Said Rufus, “No use getting morbid,
my friend. And you will be that, if you keep yourself
shut up here alone with the child.”</p>
<p>Anne held out her hand. “You’re a good friend,”
she said, and instantly there came into her mind another
time when she had used those same words to
another man. To Ranney Copeland. “A good friend.”</p>
<p>So there were days when Anne could get out, days
when she walked with Kent over the roads and hills, or
went to his garden for tea, or listened to his music.</p>
<p>“People will talk,” she told him one day when he was
proposing a long tramp. But Kent shook his head.</p>
<p>“I think not,” he said. “It’s an odd thing, that, in
these country people. They do gossip. No doubt of
that. But there’s a deep understanding about them,
too. And a loyalty. No, I don’t think they will talk.”</p>
<p>A bit farther on he looked down at her. “Anne,
would you mind, if they did? If they ‘talked’?”</p>
<p>She considered. “I think I should. Not in the same
way I once might have minded. Indeed, there was a
time when I dared that, and more, without caring. But
now I should care. Because I want them to like me.”</p>
<p>Kent smiled, as though his question were answered.</p>
<p>Anne’s heart was continuously wrung when she
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[214]</span>
watched Warren moving about, learning to use his
crutch, contriving queer little ways to achieve what he
used to at a bound; but with a child’s ready acceptance
of circumstances he seemed before long to be
unaware of the impediment. The girl Jenny helped
him. She herself had been crippled for years. To
her there was nothing strange about being impeded as
Wanny was. You just got along. Jenny, too, was
proving herself increasingly useful, and as always,
when her hands had but little to do, Anne’s mind was
active.</p>
<h3 id="2_2">
2
</h3>
<p>Once or twice during old Willy’s life Anne had gone
with her to the white-spired church down the road.
Once or twice had been enough. But now she began
to think of it again. It was never open except on
Sunday. It was bare, colorless, uncomfortable. The
form of service was unlike anything she had ever seen
before, unfamiliar hymns droned out to the accompaniment
of an ornate walnut melodeon set casually across
a corner, readings in which minister and people took
part, though Anne could never find them in the book
until they were half over; long prayers that seemed to
her to be filled with banalities and unwarrantable personalities;
a wooden box on the end of a short pole
thrust along the pews, and a sermon to follow. Nothing
there for her. Yet the neighbors went continually.
Or it may have been faithfully, as though it meant
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[215]</span>
something to them. Perhaps they did get something
from it.</p>
<p>One Sunday she left Warren with Jenny, dressed
herself in her six-year-old best, and walked up the
road as the bell was ringing. It was just as she had
remembered it. Not a head turned when Anne went
into the church, although she knew that everyone there
was aware of her. No one came forward to show her
where to sit. She understood. They thought of her
as quite naturally taking her place as one of them.
The day was cool. A fire had been lighted in the corrugated
cast-iron stove at the back. The place had
become over-heated, and through the open windows
flies swarmed in, swirling and buzzing in the heavy
air. Again those hymns in unison, except when some
adventurous soul attempted an alto or tenor that did
nothing to enhance the harmony. Again the long
prayers with men sitting stolid and women with hands
to their foreheads. Again the sermon. Anne knew
the minister. She had seen him many a morning
leading his cow to pasture or working his garden, and
sometimes in the afternoons passing her house on his
way to some parochial visit, dressed in ministerial garb
of long black-skirted coat that flapped oddly about his
bent legs. Someone had told her that he had been a
blacksmith in his youth. He preached earnestly, with
strange, frequently repeated gestures, awkward, his
voice thundering phrases he had caught from the newspapers.
“And he smote them hip and thigh with a
great slaughter, and he went down and dwelt in the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[216]</span>
top of the rock Etam,” his text was. He shrieked out
the words over and over; “they” should be smitten
hip and thigh, their slaughter punished with greater
slaughter. He was vague enough about the rock
Etam, vague as to who should be smitten or why, yet
he repeated the phrase over and over. His earnestness
was grotesque, pitiable. He jumped up and down like
a masquerading child in a futile rage. But Mrs. Wells
sat placid, there was a smile on Deacon Bassett’s face,
as he occasionally nodded his head; men and women
who got up before dawn to make their days longer sat
there and listened, or sat there decorously at least.</p>
<p>At last the service was over. Anne was for slipping
away unobserved, but found her way blocked by the
welcoming hand of Deacon Bassett. Mrs. Wells
stopped her in the aisle.</p>
<p>On the road she was joined by the small, spare spinster
who had been to see her more than once since her
return from the city with Wanny. Miss Abby’s manner
of speaking oddly matched her manner of walking.
Her steps were short, quick, determined.</p>
<p>“I see you come to it, too,” said she. “Like me.
Time was when I didn’t go to meetin’, either.”</p>
<p>Anne felt that she must say something. “The sermon
was—” she faltered, unable to find appropriate
words, groping for something she could say, something
one of the flock would be glad to hear about that sermon.</p>
<p>“Oh, I know all about the sermon,” Miss Abby
supplied, dryly. “You don’t need to say anything about
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[217]</span>
the sermon. If folks went to church to hear the sermon,
they’d stay to home. That’s what I used to do.
But now I go. Regular.”</p>
<p>Still Anne said nothing. She had long since discovered
that silence was not only permissible among these
direct country folk, but often the surest means of getting
them to talk.</p>
<p>“I guess maybe it’s the same way with you as ’twas
with me,” said Miss Abby. “I go because it’s like
keepin’ step.”</p>
<p>“Keeping step?”</p>
<p>“Yes. Ever try walkin’ along with a body and takin’
your own way while she keeps hers? Tires you out.
Keepin’ step’s dif’rent. You can go quite a ways without
gettin’ all ragged out, if you keep in step.”</p>
<p>“That is true,” Anne said.</p>
<p>Miss Abby nodded. “Yes. It’s what lots of folks
go to church for, I guess. I’ve heard ’em say they go
there to pray. But ’tain’t so. Not with a lot of ’em,
anyway. Not with me. I could say my prayers anywhere,
just as well as in church. Better, some places.
But I used to rebel. Against quite a good deal. Now
I don’t. Not so much, anyway. Now I keep step. It’s
easier to.”</p>
<p>These people in Heathville had their tragedies, large
and small. They worked, they bore children and suffered.
They were poor. For so long she had believed
them submissive, or dulled to acceptance of an empty
daily routine. Now she was beginning to see that they
must have had their inner struggles, their questionings.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[218]</span>
Miss Abby “used to rebel,” old Willy had wanted her
freedom. All humanity falters and stumbles, catches
itself, goes on; drops in the ranks, recovers, gets up
again and struggles on, keeps step, or tries to. Was
the power of going on, of enduring, of finding a basis
of living, of avoiding the bruised knees and stubbed
toes, only to be found through keeping step? That
little Miss Abby had no place in the world, merely
filled a niche in her brother’s household that could have
been filled as well by any other member of the family,
or need not have been filled at all. She was negligible.
Yet even she had had her puny rebellions. As Willy
had wanted to be free, so had Miss Abby wanted to
set her own pace. Perhaps she had even had hopes
and ambitions, all coming at last to trying to keep in
step, to keep along. Because it was easier. Easier, or
the only working basis to be found. No use rebelling,
trying, struggling. Anne’s thoughts brought her back
again to the question of ambition.</p>
<p>“To succeed in one’s soul, ambition must become
longing.” What had she ever longed for? Warren’s
activity back again, yes. But concerning herself, the
intimate self that was.... What was that intimate
self? She had never thought much about her soul.
Things, money, position, gayety, power—those she had
wanted, wanted terribly. There was a point to wanting,
a reason for it, in that sense. The aim of it was
definite. But what was longing? As senseless as Miss
Abby’s keeping step: it got you nowhere. Yet there
was something, there was something. People lived on,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[219]</span>
found a means of living on, found something that lifted
life above existence. What was it, where was it? She
had not failed, not weakened nor faltered in the struggle,
yet she was stranded, groping for she knew not
what, her soul crying out for help. And there was no
answer. Disaster had come to her, motherhood, poverty,
work, the last blow struck through the heart of her
heart: she was still herself, still Anne Denison. Personality
remained, persisting, surviving through it all.
Looking back on her life with Brice, she could not see
where she had failed. She had been well-intentioned.
There had even been love between herself and Brice.
At this distance, after these years, she wondered what
had become of that love. It was like her anger, burned
out.</p>
<p>Strange, what had brought on the disaster between
him and herself. That fusillade of anger on their last
night—she could see it as terrible, now, in its suddenness,
in the way it had burst out with all the devastating
force of the unforeseen. She had read of bomb
outrages, where some moronic miscreant lays a hideous
thing with a fuse in the way of innocent people. Then,
explosion and death, or life maimed forever. Something
like that was the moment of uncontrolled fury on
her part and Brice’s, that moment that maimed life and
killed love for them. There must have been a fuse,
must have been some small, furtive thing, futile perhaps
in itself, yet vicious enough at last to have caused
that explosion. What was it that had burned its
way into her nerves and brain, into Brice’s? Right
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[220]</span>
things did not explode. Right things were orderly,
like life and growth, spring and summer. How far
from right, how far from clean orderliness must she
and Brice have gotten for disaster so complete to have
overtaken them? She had blamed Brice, blamed life
and circumstance, denied blame on her own part. She
had fallen back on her pride, endured pain, submitted
to poverty and given herself to toil. But now she
wanted something more. Not help, not rescue. She
wanted to probe until a meaning might be found, or if
not a meaning, truth.</p>
<p>“You’re not looking as well as you might,” Dr.
Severance said. “Too shut up, here. Come drive
around with me.”</p>
<p>She went with him, many times. They were long
drives, into the by-ways of the hills.</p>
<p>“How do you manage to get around to these far-away
people?” Anne asked him.</p>
<p>“I don’t. Not as a doctor should. Of course I
do the best I can, but they have to wait—disastrously,
many times.”</p>
<p>“It seems to me they have to wait for everything.
And so little comes after all the waiting.”</p>
<p>“Oh, they’re sure of birth and death. That’s about
as much as any of us are sure of,” said he.</p>
<p>“What holds them to it?” Anne asked. “Just that
they can’t get away?”</p>
<p>“No,” said the doctor. “Sometimes habit, lack of
initiative. Some are satisfied. Some are too timid
to run out of their burrows.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[221]</span></p>
<p>“Is there no joy? Is there nothing that carries them
along with it?”</p>
<p>“Ask them,” the doctor said. “They’ll always talk
about themselves.”</p>
<p>They stopped at a house where a man sat on the
steps, heavy, black-bearded, with small black eyes
gleaming steadily beneath his shaggy eyebrows with
the sinister watchfulness of a serpent’s. The doctor
went into the house and Anne spoke to the man, using
the invariable introduction of the country, a remark
on the weather. He did not get up, but replied affably
enough. Then she said:</p>
<p>“I’m sorry your wife is sick.”</p>
<p>“She wouldn’t have to be, if she’d take the kind o’
medicine I do. Reg’lar heart-pills, they be. But the
woman, she wants the doctor all the time. Still and
all,” with a brief sly look upward and a fleeting grin,
“he’s cheaper. He don’t charge northin.’”</p>
<p>Anne said nothing else, looked about her. There
were blossoming petunias trained against the house on
strings, a lanky begonia in a can set on a window-sill.</p>
<p>“What are ‘reg’lar heart-pills’?” she asked, as they
drove away.</p>
<p>The doctor smiled. “Strychnine, mostly. He used
to take grain alcohol. Now it’s hard cider. When
that’s gone, he tramps six miles down to the village
and buys ‘reg’lar heart-pills.’ Spends all his wages
that way.”</p>
<p>“And the woman?”</p>
<p>“Cancer.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[222]</span></p>
<p>She made a helpless gesture with her hands. “What
have they?”</p>
<p>“God knows,” said the doctor.</p>
<p>But another day Anne went into the house. “I
brought you up some tomatoes,” she said. “There
are more in my garden than I could use.”</p>
<p>The woman smiled. “I ain’t seen any this year.
The man don’t like ’em. He don’t like any vegetables
much, excepting potatoes and maybe a mess o’ dandelions,
so we don’t grow ’em.”</p>
<p>“No, of course not. No use cooking for one,” Anne
said.</p>
<p>“No. That’s what worries me, layin’ here like this.
What’ll he do for pie, after I’m gone? He’s set on
havin’ his pie. He ain’t much of a hand at doing for
himself.”</p>
<p>Another day they stopped at a house where a baby
was wailing, its mother, a girl who looked like a child,
holding it in her lap like a doll, swinging the while in
a ragged hammock. An older woman came to the
door when the car stopped, but went hurriedly in when
she saw Anne.</p>
<p>“Well, Elsie,” the doctor called out, cheerily, “how’s
the future President?”</p>
<p>The girl came forward, smiling. When she saw
a stranger in the doctor’s car she stopped short and
the smile faded.</p>
<p>“You come here and show off that baby,” the doctor
said. The girl came shyly, and Anne held out her
arms.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[223]</span></p>
<p>“Oh, let me hold him a minute,” she said.</p>
<p>The girl gave up the child, and flushed.</p>
<p>“I tell Elsie,” Dr. Severance said, “that there’s
nothing in all this world as wonderful as being a
mother.”</p>
<p>“Except the baby itself. That’s more wonderful.
Isn’t it?” she asked. The girl nodded, and took the
child back, and held it to her breast.</p>
<p>“Yes, that was the girl’s mother who dodged when
she saw us,” said the doctor as he started the car
again. “She’s ashamed. Nothing like that ever happened
in her family before, you see. Elsie’s not married.”
A few hundred yards from the house they passed
a stalwart lad who waved to the doctor. Anne, turning
to watch him, saw the girl running along the road
to meet him.</p>
<p>“Floyd Travers? Yes, he’s a fine lad,” Dr. Severance
said. “His father has a big dairy farm. He’s
going to marry Elsie.”</p>
<p>“That clean-looking boy? Was he——?”</p>
<p>“No. But he says he’s not going to have her live
where folks are ashamed of her. He’s building a
house. They’ll be married when it’s done.”</p>
<h3 id="3_2">
3
</h3>
<p>Kent was looking worn in those days. Paula, Anne
knew, kept much to her room. She wondered what
must go on in that house. To herself Kent was always
the welcoming friend. Once or twice when she was
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[224]</span>
there Paula came in, sat beside her, held her hand,
then whispered something about her baby, and drifted
out again like a pale wraith of womanhood. One day
Anne was sitting before the fire while the early dusk
crept in. Kent was playing, but presently the music
ceased. Kent crossed the room to drop wearily into
a chair by the hearth.</p>
<p>“Tired, Rufus?” Anne asked.</p>
<p>He ran a hand wearily up over his forehead. “Oh,
out of tune, Anne, out of tune.”</p>
<p>“Ah, life is all discord. That is the trouble.”</p>
<p>He sat forward, some faint color returning to his
face. “Thank you for saying that, because it gives
me back some of my fighting edge. It’s not discord,
Anne. Don’t you believe it.”</p>
<p>“Tuneless, then.”</p>
<p>“Oh, if it’s tunes you want—! But harmony,
rhythm. That is what counts. You get into the
rhythm, and you’re fixed. Get into it, drift into it,
fight into it, but get there. That’s God.”</p>
<p>He was leaning forward with his clasped hands
dropped between his knees, looking into the fire. Suddenly
Anne felt his eyes on hers.</p>
<p>“Look here, Anne, I’m going to tell you something.
There is a woman I have loved for years as a thirsty
beast loves a spring. As a blind man loves the light.
I was parched and blind before I knew her.”</p>
<p>“Rufus——”</p>
<p>“Don’t say that as if you were sorry. You don’t
know. Listen. I want to tell you. There’s Paula.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[225]</span>
Like that for two months before our child was born.
They said her mind would come back. It never did.
The child was dead, but it wasn’t that. Heredity, and
the illness before.</p>
<p>“I had met Rose before Paula’s illness. Somehow,
afterwards—well, you don’t know how those things
come. It was there, between us, shared by us. We
both knew. It came to us like a bolt, our knowing.
Even with Paula like that, I was willing to do anything—oh,
dear God! willing—such a word, for what that
thirst was. That thirst. Rose would have dared,
faced the world and dared. She wasn’t afraid. It
wasn’t fear that held her back. No, not back, above.
She saw something beyond. It seemed to me that to
be with her, to possess her and be possessed, would be
to have found the summit, to stand on it, the world
underneath. But she wanted more than that. Something
finer. She could forego things of the body, to
make sure of possessing things of the soul. She made
me see. It wasn’t easy. But she made me see. One
is carried along by something, once one has it. Something
above discord. Something that solves discord.
Harmony. Rhythm. I can’t say it any better.”</p>
<p>“But if one doesn’t consciously have it or feel it?
If one doesn’t find it?”</p>
<p>“No matter. Oh, I’m not saying that it can’t be
found, or had. One stumbles, and finds the firm earth.
Or to say it more clearly, one stumbles into a current
that bears him up, carries him along. I don’t know
what it is. I don’t care what you call it. I do know
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[226]</span>
it’s there. Here. A thing to grasp and to let one’s
self drift upon, both. A thing you’ve got to get hold
of if you’re going to get hold of life, not merely live.
Faith’s the core of it. Not merely believing in anything,
exactly. It may be that, too. I don’t know.
Faith. There’s no other word I can think of. It’s as
good as another, if you don’t try to pin it down to belief
in a ritual. That’s all right, too, I dare say. If one
needs it. What I mean is a getting in touch, through
what’s in us all. The spirit, maybe you’d call it. Anyway,
faith. When you say that, you’re bound to think,
‘Faith—in—God.’ That’s in our blood, in our bones.
It’s not fetishism. May have been once, when our
skulls were shaped differently. But I doubt it. Because
we are animals. Breath of life’s in us. Even
a dog longs for the active peace of surrender to something
that’s stronger and greater than he is. Put a
dog on a chain, in a kennel, force him to surrender to
something he knows is less powerful, less fine than
himself, and what do you see? Humiliation. Degradation,
conscious degradation. Same with man. We’ve
got to stand up, decently, cleanly, and answer to something
that’s bigger than we are. Better than we are.
Why not God? All right. Then what’s next?”</p>
<p>“I’ve been wondering——!”</p>
<p>“Yes. One does wonder. Rose made me see that
our own little personal wonder and doubt is too insignificant
to matter, once one has touched faith. I
could see nothing active in the idea. I wasn’t willing
to hymn-sing. Well—it was she who sent those children
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[227]</span>
down here to me. I didn’t want them here.
They were a nuisance. She laughed. She does, when
she’s very serious. ‘You need them, you know,’ she
told me. ‘You are looking for something, and you
have not found it. You look with your mind.’ I didn’t
know what she meant. ‘Force what you’re reaching for
into that child, and see what will happen,’ she said.
‘But if I don’t know—?’ I asked her. She laughed
again. ‘What is it you want to know? How to go
on? What to go on with? What can be found that
will carry you on? A hand in the dark? There is
something. Tell the child so!’”</p>
<p>“If one knew what it is,” Anne murmured.</p>
<p>“Precisely. I didn’t. One day I was watching the
little beggar fumbling about with his crutch. ‘Look
here,’ I said, ‘why don’t you leave that thing alone?
Why don’t you forget about it? You can.’ I was as
startled as he was, but after I’d said it I couldn’t see
why not. So I kept telling him that he was not really
paralyzed, that he could walk. And one day he did.”</p>
<p>Anne’s hand went to her cheek. Her lips parted.
Kent nodded. “I know. But that’s truth. I saw it.
The kid walked. Just as others have done. Just as
Jenny did. Startling? I was blinded, at first. Fairly
stunned. Then I got hold of it. I got the thing with
conviction. Something had happened to that
youngster, and he had walked. Some energy had been
released. Or else he had touched it, taken it into himself.
Well, then, if he could, why not others? To
walk, having been paralyzed—what, after all, was that?
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[228]</span>
People went on, lived,—lived, I say!—with worse
things to endure than lame legs. What does it? What
keeps the world going, anyway? Is it all automatic,
something that, started, has to go on and on? Hear a
bird sing, look at the stars, and you know it’s not that.
All right, then—God. Purpose. Has to be. There’s
nothing else. And how had that kid come in touch
with it? He had believed what I told him over and
over. Something inside of him had accepted the truth
of it, even though I did not. His poor little faith
touched the spark. That purpose. That rightness.”</p>
<p>They were silent a while. Presently Anne said:
“You turned on the spark in the doctor’s car, that
day.”</p>
<p>He tossed his head back. “The doctor! He speaks
of my faith cures. I have nothing to do with it. He
uses the same faith over and over every day. Grins
at an old chap and gives him a pill. Puts his hand
on somebody’s pulse and tells him it’s all right. And
they’re better. I tell you, there’s some basic energy.
God—faith—love—eternal purpose. Something that
we can make use of, take into ourselves. Something
that carries us on.”</p>
<p>“You spoke of rightness.... But, Rufus, there are
things like my boy, like Paula.”</p>
<p>He brushed the hair from his forehead. “Oh, I
know. And many another thing that’s called tragedy.
But after all, isn’t tragedy a thing of the soul, Anne?
If one finds God, as I mean God—gets in touch, somehow,
with purpose that’s energy, so that one can live
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[229]</span>
along with his tragedy, it’s never quite that. There’s
something besides. Physical things are so little, so
easily hurt, bruised, crushed. What do they matter!”</p>
<p>Anne got to her feet, flung out her arms. “They do
matter! One has them.”</p>
<p>Abruptly his exalted mood left him. “They do.
God—I know that. I falter. Everyone does. But
I’ve found out that the only way to rectify our troubles
and weaknesses and failures is to reach out for something
that will harmonize them all.”</p>
<p>“To reach out—! But who has ever found?”</p>
<p>“I’m not saying one may arrive at the absolute. But
I know I’ve glimpsed it.”</p>
<p>“But what can harmonize failure, Rufus, and suffering
and all our human disasters?”</p>
<p>“What else could do it but having a sense of being
part of the whole, a consciousness that the whole is
part of us? Could earth endure winter, if there were
no spring to come? Wouldn’t all mankind want to
commit suicide, if there were not the sure knowledge
that others are to come after us? Could I be an individual,
if I were not part of the whole? Can you
think of a purposeless whole? No. One cannot conceive
of chaos. Any more than of ether, or the radiations
of unseen stars. Then if there is, is a purposeful
whole, there’s some purpose sweeping through it
and carrying it along. Rhythm, or God. That’s the
harmony, and the harmonizing motivation, too.”</p>
<p>“If that is so, if it’s there waiting for us anyway,
the rhythm, the harmony, what need of faith?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[230]</span></p>
<p>“Melody sleeps in the mute strings, doesn’t it?
There must be the hand on the bow, to make the strings
speak. An engine with steam up may be pulsing and
waiting, but for all purposes it’s only a hideous contrivance
of steel and iron until a hand on the lever releases
it to life.”</p>
<p>Anne sat down again. She was looking into distant
things, dim things, in which others were forming.
“A hand on the lever.... Do you really believe that
if one does find that faith, or purpose, whatever you
mean by God, one really can use it, put it to personal
use, put it to work?”</p>
<p>“Faith, as I mean it, is force, that part of harmony
and strength and rightness that can be drawn by man
into himself. Faith, as force, can be acquired, can be
developed, can be used. Possessing it in that sense,
man steps into his place again as a working part of
the whole order of rightness. Of purpose.”</p>
<p>“Rightness. Oh, what, anyway, is good, or goodness?
You admitted that one never can touch the absolute.”</p>
<p>“Dear girl, you’re muddling things. Humanity is
never absolute. We are always moving, always forming.
Of course I don’t know what goodness is. If
it’s anything at all, it ought to be one thing for you and
maybe another for me. But good—I do know what
good is! What could it be, but a conscious activity
wherein all our conflicts and all our bewilderments,
all our entangling habits and preconceptions and failures,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[231]</span>
and what you called our disasters, emerge into
some working order?”</p>
<p>“That could never be.”</p>
<p>“Doesn’t it have to be, if we’re going on, catching
the rhythm and carried with it and by it?”</p>
<p>“By faith, just by faith? Oh, Rufus!”</p>
<p>“Yes. God—faith—love. Why be afraid of the
words?” He stood up, stretched his arms, laughed.
“Oh, I know we’re all confoundedly afraid of words.
They’ve had all sorts of meanings piled on to them
during the ages, got themselves entangled with the very
inconsistencies that made them necessary. They began
as definitions, and they’ve become equivocations. So
we’re afraid of them. But there were primitive needs
that gave rise to them, Anne, and there are primitive
things, eternal things, still in them, working out through
them. Think it out.”</p>
<h3 id="4_2">
4
</h3>
<p>On a morning later in spring Miss Abby overtook
her again on the road and gave her a bunch of arbutus.</p>
<p>“I’m always the first one around here to find any,”
she said. “Ain’t they pretty? Seems queer, how they
get to smell like that, growin’ out of the mold the way
they do.”</p>
<p>But before the arbutus faded the neighborhood
was shaken by a tragedy. Dorilliam came hammering
on the door one morning before Warren and Jenny
were awake.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[232]</span></p>
<p>“Deacon Bassett’s hung hisself in the barn,” he
cried, and ran to spread his news farther.</p>
<p>Anne found a cloak, remembered to close the draft
of the stove, ran up the muddy road. About the barn
a group of men clustered, standing awkwardly, apparently
waiting for something further to happen. Inside
the house Mrs. Bassett was sitting very straight
in a rocking-chair, tight-lipped and silent. Other
women were in the room, busying themselves about
the things Mrs. Bassett must ordinarily have done.
They gave Anne significant looks, and one by one went
away. Mrs. Bassett might have been an image of
stone, except for the rise and fall of her breast; but
suddenly she spoke.</p>
<p>“I kept waiting and waiting,” she said. “For things
to get better. And now it’s come to this. He ain’t
ever spoke to me, not for more’n twenty years, any
more’n he could help. I ain’t ever had a dollar o’ my
own to spend. The children, they left home as soon
as they could. I never blamed ’em. Now one of ’em’s
dead. The other one’s out in California. He hasn’t
wrote for over a year. I kept waiting and waiting.
And now it’s come to this. And the house is mortgaged.”</p>
<p>For twenty years ... and it had come to that.
Anne went away sick at heart. She met Kent, coming
along the road.</p>
<p>“Rufus,” she asked, waving a hand towards the place
where the men still lingered, “what do you make of
things like that?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[233]</span></p>
<p>He was pale. He shook his head slowly. “I know,
Anne, I know. There’s not much to say. Except—‘Lord,
I believe. Help thou mine unbelief.’”</p>
<p>She went on to her own house. The children were
awake, their voices coming down to the kitchen. Outside
a bluebird called. On the back of the stove the
kettle was humming.</p>
<p>That evening she could neither sew nor read. When
her work was done she sat with her hands in her lap.
The children were busy at the table with scissors and
paste and bits of colored paper, but the meaning of
their chatter scarcely penetrated to her consciousness.</p>
<p>“Say, now you listen to me, Wanny Denison,” Jenny
warned for the third time. “If you drop the scissors
again you’ll get down and pick ’em up yourself.”</p>
<p>“I can’t,” Wanny replied, serenely. “My crutch
won’t bend.”</p>
<p>“You don’t have to use your old crutch, anyway,”
said Jenny. “I don’t use mine any more.”</p>
<p>“That’s silly,” said Warren. “Cause I do have to.”</p>
<p>“No, you don’t, either. It’s fun, trying to go without
it. And you can, if you try.”</p>
<p>“You’re a girl,” Warren said, nonchalantly.</p>
<p>Jenny sat back and stared at him. “Well, of course
I’m a girl. What’s that got to do with it?”</p>
<p>“Girls can’t tell the truth if they try to. That’s
what D’rilliam says.”</p>
<p>Jenny blazed. “D’rilliam’s a liar!” said she.</p>
<p>“Ho! Mums, Mums, look at me, look at me! Did
you hear Jenny swear, Mums? She swore.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[234]</span></p>
<p>“I didn’t, either, Mis’ Denison! Honest, I didn’t!”</p>
<p>“No,” Anne agreed, “I don’t think you swore, Jenny.
What were you trying to tell Warren?”</p>
<p>“He don’t have to use his crutch, Mis’ Denison.
Honest, he don’t. He just won’t believe it.”</p>
<p>“Why won’t you, Wanny?” Warren stared at her.
“You believe so many things. Why not that?”</p>
<p>“I do have to use it. That’s why. I’d fall down
without it.”</p>
<p>In the morning Anne was startled out of her thoughts
of breakfast by howls from upstairs. She ran up, to
discover the boy sitting on the side of the bed and pommeling
Jenny.</p>
<p>“You go ’way. You go ’way,” he was yelling. “You
let me alone. You go ’way.”</p>
<p>“Gee, Mis’ Denison. I dunno what’s got into him,”
the bewildered Jenny exclaimed. “I got him half
dressed, and the minute my back was turned he set up
a-howling and yelling. He fell on the floor.”</p>
<p>“Warren! Stop that, stop fighting, stop crying!
What is the matter with you?”</p>
<p>“I hate you,” cried Wanny. “Jenny’s a liar and you
are a liar. I hate you!”</p>
<p>“Who’s swearing now?” put in Jenny.</p>
<p>“She said I didn’t have to use any crutch. You
said to believe it. And I fell down. I hate you.”</p>
<p>“Very well, go on hating me,” said Anne. “Go on
crying. And fall down again.”</p>
<p>“D—don’t you care?”</p>
<p>“Of course I care. So does Jenny. But we both
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[235]</span>
think you’re a very silly boy. Once Jenny couldn’t
walk without a crutch——”</p>
<p>“Two of ’em!” from Jenny.</p>
<p>“Two of them. Mr. Kent told her to make-believe
she could walk without any. After a time she could.
So of course Jenny thinks you are silly not to make-believe,
too. And of course I think you’re silly. If I
had to use a crutch, I’d think about it hard, hard, hard,
until I didn’t have to use it any more. Until I could
walk and run and climb trees and maybe drive a hay-wagon
the way Dorilliam does. But of course it’s your
own affair.”</p>
<p>“I don’t believe you could climb trees, anyway,”
said Warren. “And I fell down. I should think you’d
be sorry I fell down.”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry you’re silly,” said Anne, and with a look
bade Jenny follow her downstairs. “Let him think it
over a while,” she said, and Jenny grinned and went
out to the hens.</p>
<p>Spring was by then well on the way. Again the year
had rounded through sleep to waking. One morning
she stood at her window and watched the sun gild the
western hills. She looked at her boy, still sleeping,
one arm thrown up over his pillow. In the next room
was Jenny; she would help Warren dress, give him
his breakfast. That new world out of doors was calling
irresistibly.</p>
<p>Along the road for a way, then into the pastures she
went. There were no cattle there now; they had not
yet been turned out for summer. But there was other
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[236]</span>
life enough; wet grass, sweet and cool; birds singing,
robins and bluebirds; far off, crows flying and calling.
Many times during the years she had gone back to that
hilltop where the old maple grew. No shadow there,
now. Red buds on the boughs, bluets under her hand.
As the sun rose it drew mist from the earth, smoke before
an altar or a veil before the face of a bride. Everything
softened, dark woods and white birch stems, hills
and fields. Those fields—year after year she had
watched them, dark and tired in autumn, gleaming
with snow during winter, in summer lying in patterns
of man’s contriving. As now, through the mist, coming
to life, stirring, teeming, holding within themselves
germs of things to come. Ordered, harmonious sequence.
What was that Kent said? Harmony a thing
that solves discord. That was it—life, so full of discord,
but nature’s on-working purpose the solvent.
Life ... Mrs. Bassett. That girl with the baby.
Dorilliam’s mother, and her baby that had died, the
grave that Mr. Wells tended. Herself and Brice.
Life, something that carried them all along, through
their stress, their mistakes, their sorrows and bleaknesses,
as surely returning, revolving, working and
working and pulsing as the life under those fields, the
life rising now in the maple. Impelling purpose, the
fall of the seasons, their rise again. In the end some
amalgam, something that made of the broken parts a
whole. Man’s part to nature, and nature’s to man;
interlocked service, and, later, fruition.</p>
<p>Slowly she went down the hill, crossed the wet fields
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[237]</span>
to the house. She stopped at the hen-house to investigate
a nest where some chicks were due to hatch that
day. In the garden she stooped to release some daffodils
from a mass of wet leaves that were weighting
them away from the sun. Jenny came to the kitchen
door and called, frantically waving a dish-towel.</p>
<p>“Hurry up, Mis’ Denison! I got something to show
yer.”</p>
<p>Anne went in, smiling. Warren was standing without
his crutch, both feet on the floor. He was holding
on to the edge of the table.</p>
<p>“It ain’t nothing to do,” said he. “I can do it any
old time, if I want to.”</p>
<p>Anne felt dizzy, but she crossed the room calmly,
went to the sink and pumped a cool draft of water.
“Of course you can do it,” she said. “Before long
you will probably be walking better than you talk.”</p>
<p>“D’rilliam says ‘ain’t,’” said young Warren, grinning.
“I say it, too.”</p>
<p>“I’ll make you a custard for dinner,” said Anne.
“Jenny, won’t you be late for school?”</p>
<h3 id="5_2">
5
</h3>
<p>June passed to midsummer. Corn was in tassel,
here and there tobacco fields flaunted their tropical,
broad-leaved luxuriance. Month by month Warren
had become increasingly forgetful of his lameness.
That summer Dorilliam invented a game which gave
them both infinite delight. Every morning now the big
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[238]</span>
team of grays would stop in front of the house and
Dorilliam would come to the kitchen door.</p>
<p>“Mornin’. We’re awful short of help this year, Mis’
Denison,” he would say. “We need somebody to set
on the hay to keep it from fallin’ off the wagon. Ain’t
anybody ’round here could help us out, is there?”</p>
<p>Then Warren would yelp, throw himself on Dorilliam;
and Anne, warned by the watchful Jenny, would
go to the door to wave to the helper perched high on
the scented load whenever it passed the house. Her
heart sang when the child would come home, his ruddy
curls tousled and wet, and forcefully announce his
hunger.</p>
<p>“D’rilliam says when he’s all grown up he’s going to
marry Jenny,” young Warren announced one noonday,
when the last of the pudding was disappearing.
“He says she ain’t nearly as silly as most girls. So
he’s going to marry her.”</p>
<p>Jenny was calm, disdainful. “He thinks he’s
smart,” said she. “I thought about us getting married
long before he did.”</p>
<p>“What’s marry, Mums?” the boy asked.</p>
<p>Jenny replied. “It’s keeping house for a man and
having a lot of children,” said she. “First you’re lovers,
and then you’re married. See?”</p>
<p>“What’s lovers?”</p>
<p>“Goodness! I thought everybody knew that. Lovers
are what kisses you when there ain’t anybody looking.
I’m going to have lots and lots of ’em. I wisht
I wasn’t only fifteen.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[239]</span></p>
<p>“What’s the sense of kissing?” Warren scoffed.</p>
<p>Jenny widened her eyes at him. “Plenty of sense,
you silly! They go down on their knees to you, too,
and ask you will you be mine and all. That’s when
they’re lovers. After they’re husbands you cook for
’em.”</p>
<p>Anne bit her lip. Warren considered. “Am I a husband?”</p>
<p>Jenny rolled her eyes at Anne. “Will you listen to
that?” said she.</p>
<p>“Well, Mums cooks for me. You do, too, only I
don’t like your cooking, much.”</p>
<p>“You’d have to like it or leave it, if you were my husband.
But you ain’t going to be. Oncet I thought
maybe I’d marry a minister,” she went on, dreamily.
“There was one used to come to the hospital. His
hair curled something beautiful. But I guess I’ll
marry D’rilliam. In the country you get the egg
money, and in the city all you get is the cooking.”</p>
<p>Warren looked at his mother solemnly. “Have you
got a husband, Mums?” he asked.</p>
<p>Jenny abruptly shoved back her chair and arose.
“Good-<em>night</em>,” said she.</p>
<p>Anne laughed, but the question gave her thought.
How soon would the time come when the child would
question her seriously, when she would have to answer
him honestly? What would the questions be,
what would her son’s judgment be? What—and there
lay the core of it all—what would her own judgment
be? What was it now? What had she done to Warren,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[240]</span>
and what had she done to Brice? Perhaps in her
inmost thoughts she had formulated that question before,
but now it leaped out at her, not to be avoided.
Brice had done terrible things to her. She still thought
that. But she had done something to Brice, too, and
judgment arose before her, not with any traditional
flaming sword, but with all sorts of little things surrounding
it—her withdrawals, his dumbly submerged
disappointments, daily hurts, small daily betrayals of
their love. She had wanted to drive him, had used
one whip and another. She had ignored their stings.</p>
<p>She was walking along a shady road one afternoon,
dressed in a faded gingham that had been one of her
new gowns the year Brice went away. Again walking
had become her refuge and respite, as in the months
before Warren’s birth. Heathville lay too far from
the highway for hurrying motorists and the road was
too rough and narrow for them; only now and again
did a large car spin through it, adventuring or lost.
Such a car was coming now, speeding over the top of
the hill beyond, coming down the descent in swirls of
dust. Anne stepped off the road into the goldenrod.
The car passed. Then, to her surprise, it stopped a
few yards beyond. The driver stood up and looked
back at her. It was Ranney Copeland. From the
back seat two women turned, one whom Anne did not
know, the other Tessie Ogden, with mocking eyes half-veiled
under supercilious lids.</p>
<p>Ranney came running with both hands outstretched.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[241]</span>
“Nance! My dear girl,” he cried. “This is great
luck. What are you doing in this wilderness?”</p>
<p>She shook his hands, laughing. “But I live here, of
course! Surely you knew that from Alice.”</p>
<p>“Oh—Alice. My sweet little sister-in-law does not
approve of me any more than she ever did. I’ve asked
about you, my dear, many’s the time, and got snubbed.”</p>
<p>They walked towards the car. Tessie leaned over
its side. “Nance, how wonderful to meet you! I told
Ranney this road must lead somewhere.”</p>
<p>Ranney’s wife leaned back in a corner, a thin woman,
controlled, dissatisfied, already obviously grasping at
every aid to her fading beauty. She smiled very
faintly when Anne was introduced. The smile remained
on her lips. How did Anne sense the antagonism
between her and Tessie?</p>
<p>“I am on my way to the Whitmores’ camp,” Tessie
explained, “and of course dear Ranney insisted on taking
me. We thought this would be a short cut.” She
was looking at Anne’s dress, at the dust on her shoes.</p>
<p>Presently the car sped away. Anne knew as well
as though she had heard it what Tessie’s comment
would be. “Poor dear Nance! What a fright she is!
How she has aged!”</p>
<p>That supercilious woman in the corner, rouged and
whitened, with over-attended eyebrows; Ranney and
Tessie—those were the sort of people for whom she had
failed Brice, forced him and herself out of step. “God
knows, I don’t want to stand in your way.” That was
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[242]</span>
what Brice had thought he was doing: setting her free
for that. Into what freedom had he gone?</p>
<p>He was again alive to her as he had been during their
ten years together; more alive, indeed, than he ever
had been. During those years she had ignored any
possibility that there might be hidden places, secret
places, in Brice; now almost with panic she began to
think about them, for she had never believed he was
dead. What had Brice become during the years, what
had he found or lost? And before that, before he left,
how much had he ignored and put up with? How
much had he, whom she had never suspected of being
able to analyze at all, pondered upon her, tried to dissect
and disconnect what he wanted her to be and what
she was? To what extent had he weighed and forgiven,
forborne? Had the ultimate revelation been as
abrupt for him as his decision was to herself? Here,
at last, with a completeness that had all the effect of
suddenness, like the opening of a door one has been
furtively watching, here was a new Brice; the same,
but new. The one she had been married to for ten
years, the one she had not seen for more than six,
abruptly and forcefully making her think about him,
estimate him, judge him and judge herself.</p>
<p>Laughingly she related to Kent her roadside encounter
with Ranney Copeland and Tessie. He was
lounging against the back of the arbor in his garden,
pipe in mouth, hugging his elbows. Something of her
old gayety returned for the moment. She gave him a
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[243]</span>
pantomime of Mrs. Copeland, mimicked the intonations
of the others. His mouth quirked.</p>
<p>Then the playful mood left her. “And those, my
good friend, people like those are what I smashed up
my marriage for.”</p>
<p>He looked at her, for a moment saying nothing.
Never before had she spoken of any past back of
Heathville.</p>
<p>“I wonder,” he said.</p>
<p>“What do you mean?”</p>
<p>“We-ll, I doubt if we’re really as much influenced
by people as we’d like to think. We all want to pass
the buck. And we do smash things, don’t we?”</p>
<p>“I did. My husband left me.”</p>
<p>Kent leaned forward, knocked the ashes from his
pipe. “I supposed he was dead,” he said.</p>
<p>“He is not dead. I don’t know where he is. But
I know he is not dead.”</p>
<p>At first Kent apparently found nothing to say. He
did not look at Anne, but off into the woods. “What
little pebbles we are,” he said after a while, “and what
big circles we do make.”</p>
<p>Anne drew a quick breath. She got to her feet,
walked a little away, came back, stood with her hands
behind her. “I didn’t think I was only a little pebble.
I thought I was always right. I wanted to go my own
way, and I wanted my husband to go along with me.
I stumbled. Not very far. I know now that I blundered
and hurt. I did not transgress any great moral
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[244]</span>
law. But the circles were big, yes! We got drowned
in them.”</p>
<p>“I wonder,” said Kent.</p>
<p>“Oh, I know what you think! Perhaps it’s true.
Perhaps I’m not drowned. In a sense. But I have
been submerged.”</p>
<p>He gave her a quiet look. “Pretty well out now,
though, aren’t you?”</p>
<p>“Why do you say that?”</p>
<p>“But aren’t you?”</p>
<p>“Oh, I’ve by no means rescued myself. I’ve learned
something, I suppose. But why does one have to
learn? I told you I broke no great laws. Yet I shattered
my life and Brice’s—my husband’s. And now
there’s Warren involved in it.”</p>
<p>“Um,” he muttered.</p>
<p>“We are such blind blunderers. I’ve watched these
people around here. They are blind, too, most of
them.”</p>
<p>“So are moles. But they get along.”</p>
<p>“By burrowing.”</p>
<p>They sat silent for a time. Kent said, musingly:
“One doesn’t get anywhere, talking of size or degree
in moral law. Nor in denying it. The very act of
denying admits its existence.”</p>
<p>“But I just never thought about it,” Anne said.
“So my husband is somewhere, and my son is growing
up. There’s no answer.”</p>
<p>On the way home that afternoon she took a by-road
that led past a new house. She had been there before.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[245]</span>
Floyd Travers had taken the girl Elsie there before it
was finished, and even now, as she drew near, she heard
the sharp cracking of hammer on nails. The little
drama of the child-mother and the young man had interested
her. She had made friends of them both.
The young man was shingling the roof of the shed; he
waved when he saw her, and got down from the ladder.</p>
<p>“Well, now, Elsie will be mighty sorry she’s missed
you,” he said. “She drove down to get a mail-order
package. I wanted to finish that roof. Can’t work
on it till after I get home, you know, and the days are
getting shorter.”</p>
<p>“I ought not to stop you,” Anne said.</p>
<p>He looked off to the west. “It won’t rain tonight.
I’m glad you stopped by, Mis’ Denison. I want to
show you something.” He led her indoors. The little
place was shining and neat, pervaded by the smell of
fresh paint.</p>
<p>“Look at that,” the lad said, opening a door. “This
room’s for the little feller when he gets big enough.
Elsie painted it all herself. The furniture’s going to be
painted, too, when we get it.”</p>
<p>Anne admired and praised. Floyd led the way back
to the kitchen, and opened another door. “Elsie
wanted a regular pantry,” said he. “Her ma never
had one.”</p>
<p>The utensils were few and cheap. There were two
pies set in a screened window, and some jars of canned
vegetables on an upper shelf. Anne looked at the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[246]</span>
young man. He returned her look and nodded,
smiling.</p>
<p>“She’s a fine housekeeper, Elsie is,” he said as they
went out together.</p>
<p>Outside the house Anne hesitated. “Floyd, you’ve
done a big thing,” she said, and knew her lips trembled
a little.</p>
<p>“Why, I don’t look at it that way,” the young man
returned, thoughtfully. “It’s sort of like this. Folks
say Elsie made a mistake. Some of ’em say worse
than that. A feller asked me once if it didn’t make
any difference to me. I said sure it did, because I
knew we had something firm to stand on. Lots of folks
get married and make their mistakes afterwards. I
know about Elsie’s, and she knows about it. So we
got that to stand on.”</p>
<h3 id="6_2">
6
</h3>
<p>The roads were still frozen. To save wood Anne
sewed in the kitchen. That afternoon she had been
looking over the past with an ingathering sweep that
merged it into a whole, set it on the scales of consciousness
as an entity to be weighed not by the importance
of its impulses and its mistakes, not by intention of
good or evil, not by what gladness there was nor by
the magnitude of its failures. Love, marriage, her life
with Brice; disaster, motherhood, toil; contact with
courage and misery, and with dumb striving—those
set on one side of the scale, and something on the other
side that kept the balance even. Were there nothing
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[247]</span>
in life to counterbalance life the scale had gone down
long since, and humanity with it. Here and there, now
and again, she had glimpsed what there was; but still
there remained a sense of incompletion. To be and
not to do was not enough, nor to envision and not to
strive. Yet what action lay within her control, within
reach of her initiative? On and on; but where? Why?</p>
<p>Someone was at her door. Not one of the neighbors—some
stranger, since the knock came from the front
of the house. She put down her sewing, went through
the cold, narrow hall.</p>
<p>“Alice—you! Over these roads!”</p>
<p>“But I hadn’t seen you for nearly three years, Anne.
I couldn’t wait any longer.”</p>
<p>“You’ll have to come back to the kitchen. Alice,
you dear, such a long way to come——”</p>
<p>“George had business in Springfield. I’ve got to get
back there tonight. No, the car’s heated. The man
can wait outside.”</p>
<p>“Tea—in a minute——”</p>
<p>“Yes. Anne, I did want to see you! Ranney said
you were looking so—” She stopped, and Anne
laughed.</p>
<p>“Oh, yes, of course! Ranney! I have seen Ranney,
and Mrs. Ranney, and sweet Tessie!” Alice’s face had
flushed slightly, and her eyes looked troubled and shy,
but Anne’s twinkled.</p>
<p>“Alice, you silly. Don’t you suppose I know perfectly
well the sort of thing Ranney said, and Tessie?
I can hear her saying it: ‘Poor dear Nance! How she’s
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">[248]</span>
aged! And what a fright she is!’ Wasn’t that it?”</p>
<p>“Something like that,” Alice confessed. Then she
added, “Nance, don’t you care any more?”</p>
<p>“About being a fright? I’m too busy to bother. I
suppose I should, if I stopped to think about it. I
know I should.”</p>
<p>“I rather meant—about what they say.”</p>
<p>“Oh, that! That’s only funny.”</p>
<p>“You know, Anne, you really have changed,” Alice
said after a while. “And I don’t mean in looks only.”
Anne laughed. “You always did laugh at me, so you
haven’t changed in that. But you seem to see things
differently. You’re not the same woman, not a bit like
the girl you were.”</p>
<p>“I am the same, though. I should feel pretty hopeless,
if I thought people could stop being themselves,
and begin over again. I’d rather know that something
had been added. Even something taken away. I’d
rather stand on my past, even such as it is.”</p>
<p>“You mean not to have learned, to have——”</p>
<p>“Not to find, yes. Or keep on hoping to find, anyway.”</p>
<p>Alice leaned forward, her hands dropped beyond her
knees. “Dear old girl, if you’re still the same Nance
I’m afraid I shall not dare to tell you.”</p>
<p>Her heart seemed to stand still. Something clicked
in her throat. She could not ask.</p>
<p>Alice nodded. “Yes. We have heard from him.
George has seen him.”</p>
<p>Anne stood up. She must have air—something.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[249]</span>
The clock on the mantel ticked. The kettle hummed
on the stove.</p>
<p>“Anne dear——”</p>
<p>“Wait!”</p>
<p>The clock. The stove. There was a yellowed place
on the wall-paper. Brice. The yellowed place was
shaped like an animal. Brice.... Her cheeks were
cold. Oh, it was her hands on them. Earth rising up.
No, only the floor. Far off, coming along the road,
children’s voices. Oh, yes, from school. Supper after
a while. Once there were stars ... a pool. “I will
not contest.” Shaped like an animal. Funny. What
happened when....</p>
<p>“Anne, dearest girl.”</p>
<p>She moved away from Alice’s touch. Presently she
sat down again. “Tell me.”</p>
<p>“A letter came. Through a lawyer. To Ranney’s
office.”</p>
<p>“Tell me.”</p>
<p>“You see, Brice had been thinking all this time that
you and Ranney were——”</p>
<p>“Wait. Alice, I can’t——”</p>
<p>“It’s all right, dear, all right. We understood.
Ranney gave George the letter. Brice has a good
business, lumber. He needed some money. There
was a paid-up insurance policy in your name. He
thought you would be willing——”</p>
<p>“Oh——”</p>
<p>“We talked it over. We wanted to do what was
right. Ambrose came out. George went to the lawyer,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[250]</span>
found out where Brice was. They both went to
see him.”</p>
<p>“They told him?”</p>
<p>“That there had never been anything between you
and Ranney.”</p>
<p>“Did he believe?”</p>
<p>“They both told him.”</p>
<p>“What else?”</p>
<p>“Nothing else, Anne.”</p>
<p>“Not about—Warren?”</p>
<p>Alice was silent.</p>
<p>“Didn’t he—ask anything?”</p>
<p>“I’m afraid not, dear. But still, you know,” she
went on eagerly, after a moment, “just what they did
tell him must have given him a good deal of a moment.
And Brice never did talk much, did he?”</p>
<p>Anne shook her head. No. Brice never did talk
much. “But not to tell! How could they?”</p>
<p>“I wanted them to. But I suppose things have to
come out as they will. Brice knows now that you are
living, and still his wife. And now you know that
Brice is living.”</p>
<p>Presently Anne asked, “Where?”</p>
<p>Alice’s manner changed: that was over. “Oh,
George says it’s lovely country, a place way up in the
hills, called Pelham. It’s somewhere at the end of
never. Awful roads, but the land’s cheap. Brice has
a mill, and several little tractor outfits that travel about
and cut lumber. He wanted to buy more land.”</p>
<p>So there, at last, out of the darkness, was Brice. No
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[251]</span>
longer merely the man she had loved and married and
shared life with for ten years. No longer only that
man she had thought she could whip or cajole or dominate,
nor the man who had deserted her. Life had
been sweeping her on, doing things to her. There had
been years to be lived through for Brice, too. What
had they done to him? What were his thoughts of her
now? Anger? Indifference? Distaste? She had
admitted to herself long since that she had never seen
into his secret heart, never shared nor divined his mental
processes. Then what was he now? A stranger.</p>
<p>A good business, Alice had said, in Pelham. She
remembered Pelham, the little close room where they
slept for those first two weeks, the precipitous hills, the
pool, the stars. Why had he gone to Pelham? What
had he thought to find there, to recapture? “A good
business.” Then he, too, had been carried along by
life, by the details and ingredients of living. But he
had had his denials. Different from hers. She had
Warren. What compensations had Brice found, what
strength?</p>
<p>One afternoon she was out of doors, contemplating
her garden. The earth had not dried enough for
plowing, but already the sun had brought to green life
small creeping weeds, nature’s hurrying way of covering
scars and bare places. Someone had given
Warren some duck’s eggs. Now a frantic hen was
trying to teach the strange yellow creatures to scratch.
She watched them, smiling a little: even a hen’s hopes
and plans.... Then she raised her head and listened.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[252]</span>
That was Warren’s voice, shrieking, howling. She took
a quick step or two towards the voice, then stood still,
biting her lip. He hated a fuss made over him. She
would wait. Then she saw them coming over the field,
Warren ahead, Jenny racing madly after him, calling.
Anne’s lips felt cold, but she waited and watched.
Warren was wild with fury. The sound told that. But
he was running. Not limping, but running, tearing
headlong towards home like any small boy in a rage.</p>
<p>“It’s bees, Mis’ Denison,” Jenny’s call reached her.
“He got in a bees’ nest. Bees got him.”</p>
<p>She heard, and did not hear. He was pelting
towards her, crimson of face, furious, howling. At last
he threw himself against her, but when she stooped to
embrace him he fought her away.</p>
<p>“Get ’em off o’ me. Go ’way. Le’ me go. Get ’em
off o’ me.”</p>
<p>Jenny came panting. “Gosh! There ain’t anything
the matter with his legs any more.”</p>
<p>Anne knelt on the ground, tried to hold the child.
“Warren, keep still! Stop fighting me. How can I
get the bees off if you won’t let me touch you?”</p>
<p>“There ain’t any bees on him, Mis’ Denison. He ran
away from ’em.”</p>
<p>“There are, too,” Warren cried, glaring at Jenny
through tears. “They hurt. You get ’em off o’ me.”</p>
<p>Anne had captured his hands. “The bees are gone,
Warren. There aren’t any on you. But do you know
what you’ve done? Stop crying—look at me! You’ve
run away from the bees!”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[253]</span></p>
<p>“I’ll say he did!” Jenny affirmed, grinning.</p>
<p>“I don’t care!” The boy still blazed. “You get the
hurts off o’ me, then!”</p>
<p>Anne led him into the house. “Soda’s what you put
on ’em,” said Jenny the experienced. So with soda
they anointed him. Presently he was counting the
daubs.</p>
<p>“I don’t think much of bees,” said he thoughtfully.
“Drat their old hides. I want my supper.”</p>
<p>That night in her bedroom Anne stood by the window.
No moon; but stars were out in cool myriads.
Their light fell on the earth like a caressing hand
reached out in sleep. A line came into her mind, “The
army of unconquerable law”.... That was it. Unconquerable
law. Ageless, untroubled serenity. Submission,
no breaking of ranks. No beating against
things as they were. Safe inside of restraint. Freedom.</p>
<p>A distant world, a gleaming planet, dropped beyond
a hill.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_254"></a><a id="Page_255"></a>[255]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="PART_IV">
PART IV
</h2>
</div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_256"></a><a id="Page_257"></a>[257]</span></p>
</div>
<h3 class='mt4' id="1_3">
1
</h3>
<p>After much searching of road-maps and timetables,
tables, she discovered that Pelham was distant only a
long day’s drive. Dorilliam, now a tall youth of nineteen,
had bought the doctor’s old car and would take
them. Her one problem that seemed unsurmountable
was the disposal of Jenny. The child had become
dear to her. She could not set her adrift on the sea
of chance, subject her to the uncertain tides of
charity, yet she could not take her where she was
going.</p>
<p>She explained a little to Dorilliam’s mother. Mrs.
Wells would know what to say to the others. The
neighbors came for farewell visits, even those she knew
best wearing an unaccustomed formality that she
understood. It was their tribute to the unusual, the
unexpected. None questioned her. Mrs. Ware, whose
house was already fuller of children than any other,
said to her, “You let Jenny come stay with us. There’s
plenty of room. The twins’d love having her.”</p>
<p>Yet in the end the problem was solved by means of
Miss Abby. “Well,” she sighed, as she stood up to
leave, “you had a nice home here.”</p>
<p>Anne was inspired. “Miss Abby, would you be able
to come here and live here with Jenny? I should be
so delighted to give you the place free. I couldn’t
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">[258]</span>
offer much else; but there’s four dollars a week for
Jenny’s board, and——”</p>
<p>“Land,” said Miss Abby, “I never saw that much
money a week in my life. It wouldn’t cost that to
live, not with the garden. I guess maybe my brother’d
let me have wood.” She gave Anne a quick look. “I
never had a house of my own.”</p>
<p>So it was arranged. Jenny’s comment was, “Gee,
us’ll be two old maids together.”</p>
<p>“What’s old maids?” Warren asked.</p>
<p>“It’s ladies that don’t get married.”</p>
<p>Warren stared at her. “Aren’t you going to marry
Dorilliam?”</p>
<p>But Jenny’s self-consciousness had grown in a year.
“Oh—Dorilliam! He’s not so much!”</p>
<p>“Well, Dorilliam ought to get married. Mr. Ware
says a farmer does better when he’s married. He
could marry Miss Abby. I’ll tell him. I like her,
myself.”</p>
<p>Jenny rolled her eyes at Anne.</p>
<p>There were things to be done. She began to take
count of her appearance. She did not want to appear
before Brice in the guise of poverty. She wanted to
make no appeal of any sort to him. Long ago George
Copeland had re-invested for her what was left of the
four thousand dollars after Ranney’s venture with it;
she had used some of it at the time of Warren’s illness.
Each month a check brought her the minute income.
Now the roof needed mending; that would have to be
done before she left. She wrote to Alice, asking that
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">[259]</span>
George should in some way place part of her little
capital at her disposal; Warren must be properly
clothed, and would Alice choose a ready-made suit
and a blouse? She made herself two new house-dresses,
mended, contrived, got Jenny ready for summer.
Dorilliam plowed the garden, Anne planted it.
Through everything she moved deliberately, for she
knew now what to do.</p>
<p>The last days rain came down steadily. “It won’t
matter. The doctor goes everywhere in the rain,” she
told Dorilliam.</p>
<p>“You’re a brave woman, Anne,” Kent said, standing
in her little parlor the evening before she left.</p>
<p>She looked at him meditatively. “I don’t think it’s
that, Rufus,” she said, slowly. “It’s the next thing to
do.”</p>
<p>“How you do take it,” said he.</p>
<p>She shook her head. “It’s taking me. Life does.”
After a while she said, “I wonder why the enlightening
word in all our crises comes from outside.”</p>
<p>“Have to be guide-posts, I suppose. So many
paths.”</p>
<p>“Yes. And mercifully they are really paths. Worn.
Trodden.”</p>
<p>He turned and looked down on her. “Was that your
enlightening word?”</p>
<p>“Oh, something on Sunday. One of the prophets, I
think. ‘This day I am going the way of all the earth:
and ye know in all your hearts and in all your souls,
that not one thing hath failed of all which the Lord
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">[260]</span>
your God spake concerning you: all are come to pass.’
It leaped at me out of the reading. Experience—we
always think our own is unique. But the path has
been trodden.”</p>
<p>He slowly nodded, staring at nothing; then abruptly
he threw his head back. “Only—dear God!—sometimes——”</p>
<p>She stood up, laid a hand on his shoulder. “Courage,
Rufus,” she said.</p>
<p>He took her hand, gripped it. “Thanks, Anne,” he
said after a moment. “That’s your enlightening word
to me.”</p>
<p>They embarked in Dorilliam’s car the next morning.
The rain continued, trickled in rivulets around the
curtains. From the front seat Warren chattered ceaselessly
with Dorilliam. It was mid-afternoon when a
long descent brought them out on a road where a
battered sign-post pointed the way to Pelham. At last
the hills closed in; the stream ran torrential below the
road. At last a bridge, a cross-road, a jam of logs
and a mill.</p>
<p>“Yeah, he lives up there in the last house. Ain’t
here today, though. Don’t know whether he’ll get
back tonight or not,” someone said to Anne’s question.</p>
<p>Out of the car into the rain. No answer to their
knock on the door. Their things carried into a
shanty of a room or two.</p>
<p>“Don’t seem right to leave you like this,” Dorilliam
said, “But I got to get home by morning.”</p>
<p>Inside the place Warren looked about him. “You
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">[261]</span>
said we were going somewhere, Mums. This don’t look
much like somewhere.”</p>
<p>Anne did not answer. She too was looking around.
This room they were in—its walls were of board with
maps and blue-prints here and there, and flamboyant
calendars, some of them three years old. A big iron
stove, round, its rusty sides corrugated, the fire dead.
A few wooden arm-chairs and a table. A cheap morris
chair, its cushions sagged to the left. Her hand went
to her throat.</p>
<p>“What are you doing that for? I don’t like this
place. I want to go home.” Warren was frowning.
His lip trembled a little after he spoke.</p>
<p>She crossed the floor to a door that stood ajar. An
oil-stove there, a table covered with oilcloth, an open
cupboard with shelves, some dishes and canned things.
The place was neat. A third room opened off from
the large one. There too was neatness, the bed made,
gray blankets pulled up. She remembered something.
Cozy—Brice’s word—cozy....</p>
<p>“I want to go home,” said Warren. “I’m hungry.”</p>
<p>She opened the remnant of the lunch she had
brought. “How long are we going to stay here, anyway?”
Warren asked when he had eaten.</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” she said shortly. Even the muscles
of her arms were braced against the boy’s chatter,
against that ceaseless downpour of rain. The room
was becoming shadowy.</p>
<p>Someone was whistling tunelessly. The sound penetrated
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">[262]</span>
the patter, came on. There was a step on the
porch. The door opened. Warren went forward.</p>
<p>“Hello!” said he.</p>
<p>The man in oilskins stopped abruptly, then smiled
with that slight softening about the eyes of the man
who loves children. “Why, hello, Bill! What are you
doing in here?”</p>
<p>Warren laughed, went nearer, looked up. “What
makes you think my name’s Bill? I don’t know you.
Do you live here?”</p>
<p>Across the child’s head Brice saw Anne.</p>
<p>He looked again at the boy. He flushed slowly, as
though it were painfully. Even in that fading light she
saw a vein stand out on his temple.</p>
<p>“Is it?” he asked. “Is your name Bill?”</p>
<p>Warren thrust his hands into his trouser’s-pockets.
“Well, not ezackly, you know. It’s Warren Denison, ’s
a matter of fact. But I like Bill better.” Man and
boy, they stared at each other. “My mother’s name is
Mrs. Denison,” Warren further elucidated. “What’s
yours?”</p>
<p>Again the man looked over the child’s head at Anne.
She shook her head. Her voice sounded strange.
“Nothing. It seemed—fairer.” Her hands were cold.
She felt stiff, rigid and stiff.</p>
<p>Presently Brice asked: “How did you happen to
come here, Bill?”</p>
<p>“Why, in Dorilliam’s car. He paid a hundred and
fifteen dollars for that car, cash. It’s a pretty good
car.” The man said nothing. Warren shuffled his
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">[263]</span>
feet. “But I don’t like this place much. Mums said
we were going somewhere. Is this somewhere? Why
don’t you say something? Is this somewhere?”</p>
<p>Still the man did not answer.</p>
<p>“What did you say your name was?” asked Warren.</p>
<p>“My name is Denison, too——”</p>
<p>Warren laughed. “Sort of funny! You might get
mixed up with me. What’ll I call you? Where’s the
rest of your folks?”</p>
<p>Abruptly the man’s control broke. He raised his
hands. “Oh my God!” he cried.</p>
<p>He turned, went blindly into the frame of the door,
rebounded, blundered out into the rain.</p>
<p>In the morning the rain had stopped. “Well, I
guess I’ll go take a walk,” Warren said, in Dorilliam’s
best manner. “You can come along, too, if you want
to.”</p>
<p>“I think I’ll stay here,” Anne said lightly.</p>
<p>During the morning a boy came up the hill with a
basket. “The boss sent it,” he said. “If there’s anything
else you want I’m to bring it up from the store.
I’ll bring the milk in the evening.”</p>
<p>At noon Warren came home, his eyes gleaming.
“Say, I met that feller again. I like him. He asked
me to dinner, but I told him my mother’d be expecting
me back. Gosh, I’m hungry.”</p>
<p>He had been over the mill with Brice; he gave her
details. “The next time he invites you to stay with
him, you may,” she told him.</p>
<p>For three days after that she had dinner alone.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">[264]</span>
She did not leave the house. She had a sense of things
impending. The utmost she could do was to wait and
to appear as usual to Warren. On the fifth evening
after the boy was asleep she was sitting beside the
kerosene lamp, her hands in her lap. She did not hear
his step on the porch. The knock at the door made
her raise her head, but she could not get up. He came
in, met her eyes. Then his glance took in the room.</p>
<p>“He is in there,” she said, “asleep.”</p>
<p>He crossed the floor. She knew that he stood in the
doorway looking into that other room. After a while
he came back, sat down in the chair that sagged to his
shape. Presently he asked:</p>
<p>“Why did you come?”</p>
<p>“I brought Wanny.”</p>
<p>He laughed shortly. “After these years!”</p>
<p>She nodded. “He was born at the end of that year!”</p>
<p>After a pause he asked, “Did you know—before?”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“Was it why you didn’t—” he swallowed,—“Copeland——”</p>
<p>“No. I said that because I wanted to hurt you.”</p>
<p>They sat in silence for a time that seemed interminable.
She thought the silence would never break.</p>
<p>“I don’t see that it’s going to do either of us any
good to hark back,” he said at last. “What do you
propose to do?”</p>
<p>“I am not proposing anything. I brought your son.”</p>
<p>“After these years. God——!”</p>
<p>She crowded back words that were on her lips.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">[265]</span></p>
<p>“Why don’t you say it?” he flung at her.</p>
<p>Her head moved. “It’s there between us, anyway.
But even if I had known at first where you were, I
would not have brought him. Not then.”</p>
<p>“Why do you tell me that?”</p>
<p>“I am ready to tell you anything. Or do anything.”</p>
<p>He sat frowning, puzzled, suspicious, resentful.
“You don’t mean that. You’re working something
again.”</p>
<p>She clasped her hands tighter.</p>
<p>“Words, words! Something you mean to get!
What is it?”</p>
<p>She did not answer.</p>
<p>“What are you after? What do you intend to do?”</p>
<p>“Whatever is right. I don’t know.”</p>
<p>“Ha! Would you give me the boy?”</p>
<p>Her head went back. “If that is right.”</p>
<p>He laughed again in that way that was not mirthful.
“Who’s to decide that? What are you up to?”</p>
<p>She sat very still. He looked at her curiously. No
flare-up of anger. A woman controlled.</p>
<p>“What do you mean by right?”</p>
<p>“It’s not what we need, either of us. It’s what he
needs. He’s growing up. That’s as far as I see.”</p>
<p>They did not look at each other. Presently she
knew that he had taken the attitude she remembered,
leaning forward, his hands dropped between his knees,
looking intently at nothing.</p>
<p>“You can’t live in this place,” he said at last.</p>
<p>She did not look up.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">[266]</span></p>
<p>“There are no comforts. Nothing you have been
used to.”</p>
<p>“I went to old Willy. Warren was born there. I’ve
learned to do things.”</p>
<p>After a while he crossed the floor again and went
into the room where Warren slept. When he came
back he hesitated a moment, then went out, without
speaking.</p>
<h3 id="2_3">
2
</h3>
<p>During the days the intermittent whine of the saw-mill
reached her. During the evenings she sat alone.
She put no restraint upon Warren; his air of importance
grew enormously.</p>
<p>“I’ve got to hurry,” he said one morning. “We’re
putting on a new belt today.”</p>
<p>He described the workings of the machinery, told
how the logs came down the river, called various men
by name. For a time he did not come home for the
mid-day meal; he regaled her at supper with boastful
tales of wondrous food he had had, things hitherto forbidden
him, pies, corned-beef, dumplings. When she
refrained from the comment he evidently expected he
eyed her speculatively.</p>
<p>“You don’t cook things like that,” he said. “I like
that man.”</p>
<p>But one noon he appeared, frowning. He threw his
cap across the floor. “He made me come home,” he
told her. “He says I can stay tomorrow.”</p>
<p>After a few days she understood. Brice was sharing
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">[267]</span>
him. As her first dread wore off she accepted it.
There was nothing to do but live in the moment; the
moments hung heavily. She could not plan, and she
would not think. There was little to do in the shack.
She explored the woods, walked up the road past the
house where she and Brice had once stayed. Polish
people lived there now. When she had been there a
week or two she went to the store. From a distance
she saw them together, father and son. They were
standing on the boxed runway beside the dam, identical
in posture, their heads identical in tilt and color.</p>
<p>One or two women in the store eyed her curiously
and slipped out.</p>
<p>“Good morning, Mrs. Denison,” the store-keeper
said.</p>
<p>So she was known. Yet she expected that, knew
what surmises and comments must be going about.
She took home some yarn, some packets of seeds. The
cabin had been built over the cellar-hole of a house long
since burned; at the back was a weedy place where a
garden had once been. She grubbed up the dried stuff,
went to the nearest house to borrow a spade.</p>
<p>“You come here to stay?” the woman asked.</p>
<p>“Long enough to make a garden, anyway,” Anne
replied, smiling. “Long enough to get acquainted with
folks, too, I hope.”</p>
<p>“Well, it’ll be nice for Mr. Denison. The little
feller does favor his pa.”</p>
<p>“I wish you’d leave your baby with me, sometime,”
Anne returned, and the relationship was established.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">[268]</span></p>
<p>“Run over again,” said the woman, and Anne returned,
“You, too.”</p>
<p>She spaded and planted. It was good to be at work,
again, normal work, accustomed work. One morning
a few weeks later she was there on her knees grubbing
out the first weeds when she heard Warren calling.
He came around the house, Brice with him. The man
stood still as Anne rose.</p>
<p>“We’re going off to one of the camps,” said Wanny.
“Can we?”</p>
<p>Anne brushed the hair out of her eyes, looked at
Brice. But he was frowning at the garden. “Who
did that?” he demanded.</p>
<p>“It’s not done yet. Rather weedy.”</p>
<p>“You?”</p>
<p>“Oh, I always have a garden.”</p>
<p>“Well, I help,” Warren put in. “Though of course
this year I’ve been rather busy. Say, Mums, can we?
Can we go?”</p>
<p>She looked inquiringly at Brice.</p>
<p>“It will be late when we get back,” he said. “I
didn’t like to take him without asking you.”</p>
<p>She brushed the earth from her hands. “Just wait
a minute. I’ll put up a lunch,” she said, and walked
off into the house. From the kitchen she heard Warren’s
crescendo of questions, finally his “What’s the
matter with you, Dad? Why don’t you answer? Say,
Dad, why don’t you answer?” A glance showed her
Brice staring at the bit of raw land....</p>
<p>When they had gone she went thoughtfully back to
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">[269]</span>
her weeding. Weeds, little things that crept in overnight,
things that grew so swiftly. Some might go on
to blossom, all would drop seed if let grow. And they
were not wanted; they got in the way of human intention,
interfered with human endeavor. Yet nature
loved them. Even in a garden they had their uses. If
one pulled them out, their roots loosened the soil about
worthier plants. What weeds were there now between
her and Brice? She did not know. Old things between
them. She knew that, knew that he still resented
them. She had known that he must, even before
their one interview. Was he letting those die
now, wilt in the sun of Warren? She did not know.
And she must not think. Things went on, carried one
with them. That was all she could do now. Wait, let
herself be carried along. There had been many times
when she would have doubted the current. She was
doing all she could to yield herself to it. Now she
did not so much as know what she wanted. To want
was not vital. The only thing was to go on.</p>
<p>It was midnight when they came home. She heard
them, opened the door, holding the lamp high. Warren
was blinking as though he had just awakened. Anne
laughed.</p>
<p>“You’d better get him to bed,” she said. She set
the lamp on the table, went off to the kitchen. She
did not return until she heard the door close behind
Brice, half an hour later. He had not spoken.</p>
<p>Gradually she made friends with more of the women.
For the most part they were not like the old neighbors,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">[270]</span>
being of alien birth or else of that class that drifts
from place to place as their men grow dissatisfied with
one job and seek out another. There was no church,
the school-house was closed. The woman from whom
she borrowed the spade had her fifth baby that summer,
the last one just creeping, the oldest a boy of seven.
Anne saw the doctor’s car there in the morning, went
over and helped. The woman was tired; the case prolonged
itself. It was Wanny’s day to be home for dinner,
but she could not leave. She trusted to the child’s
returning to Brice, and that night Brice came up the
hill with him at supper time. The day had been hot
and wearying. She was sitting on the unpainted steps
of the porch.</p>
<p>“Bill said you weren’t here,” Brice said. “Anything
wrong?”</p>
<p>“No. The Cadigan baby came. I was down there
helping.”</p>
<p>He gave her a sharp look, nodded, turned away.</p>
<p>A week or two later he stood in the door with Warren
tugging at his hand. “C’m’on in! Say, Mums, I
asked him to supper. He said he liked radishes.”</p>
<p>She looked in from the kitchen. “Of course,” she
said. “I’ll put on another plate.”</p>
<p>“There, sit down,” she said a while later. “Don’t
wait for me. I’ll bring in the things.”</p>
<p>Brice was not looking at her. He was awkward,
silent. When Warren offered him the radishes he
flushed. “We grow them pretty good, don’t we?”
asked Warren, complacently.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">[271]</span></p>
<p>“Biscuits?” Anne hurriedly suggested. “Here’s your
coffee, Brice.”</p>
<p>Warren stared at her. “What did you call him that
for?” he asked.</p>
<p>She laughed. “That’s his name,” she informed him.
“Why not?”</p>
<p>Warren looked at the man for confirmation. “Is
it?”</p>
<p>Brice grinned. “It is.”</p>
<p>Warren’s eyes were round. “How did you know,
Mums? Did you know him before we came here?”</p>
<p>“Of course. Years before.”</p>
<p>“Did you know he was my father?”</p>
<p>Brice’s hands dropped in his lap. He stared at his
son, gave a brief glance at Anne, stared again.</p>
<p>“Yes, I knew that, too.”</p>
<p>“Then all I got to say is I think you were awful
slow about handing him over,” said Warren. “But
anyway, I’m glad I got him now. My father could
wollop Johnny Ware’s father. He could beat up most
anybody, I guess.”</p>
<p>“Thanks,” said Brice.</p>
<p>Warren eyed him over a glass of milk. “But there’s
one thing about fathers I don’t like very much,” said
he. “I might as well tell you.”</p>
<p>“Shoot,” said Brice, his lips twitching.</p>
<p>“Well. Johnny Ware’s father gave him a licking
once when he hadn’t done a single thing but just lied
a little bit, and I don’t think I’d like to get——”</p>
<p>Brice pushed his chair back, leaned across the table
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">[272]</span>
towards his son, shaking a finger. “Now look here,”
said he, “you may like it or not. If I ever catch you
lying, friend Bill, what Johnny Ware’s father did to
him won’t be a patch on what you will get. Understand?”</p>
<p>Warren frowned and flushed. His eyes were on
Brice’s. “Yes,” he said after a moment, in a weaker
tone.</p>
<p>“Say ‘Yes, sir!’”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir,” Warren meekly repeated.</p>
<p>Anne, her hands full of dishes, went hastily out of
the room. As she passed back and forth she caught
bits of their talk. Brice was standing, filling his pipe,
smoking.</p>
<p>“You ought not to be doing this,” he said to her
abruptly. She stood still.</p>
<p>“This?” she asked, honestly wondering.</p>
<p>“This work. I saw washing on a line. That garden.”</p>
<p>“Oh, work’s good for everybody. Besides, I honestly
like it.”</p>
<p>Presently she seated herself by the lamp and took
up her knitting. “Bedtime, young man,” she said.</p>
<p>“I’m not going to bed just yet,” the young man informed
her. “You see, I’ve got company.”</p>
<p>“Do as your mother tells you,” from Brice.</p>
<p>The child looked from one to the other. “Will you
come tell me a story after I get in bed?”</p>
<p>“No. You don’t get rewarded for what you ought
to do. Off with you.”</p>
<p>When the door closed behind the boy he knocked
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">[273]</span>
the ashes from his pipe and put it into his pocket.
He was standing beyond the table. “I don’t get you,
Anne,” he said. She looked up from her knitting.
“This work. You can’t stay on here. There are no
other women.”</p>
<p>“I’m not lonely, if that’s what you mean. And there
are other women. I’ve been making their acquaintance.”
His head moved impatiently. “I mean of your own
sort. Naturally.”</p>
<p>“They are women who have lived. I have, too.”</p>
<p>“You, digging in a garden, washing dishes.”</p>
<p>She laughed. “You ought to have seen my first garden,
Brice. I weeded up all the beets.” She changed
needles. She knew that he was looking down at her.
He took a turn across the room and back, lighted a
pipe.</p>
<p>“What are you trying to do?” he asked at last.
“You’re trying to put over something.”</p>
<p>Her knitting dropped in her lap. “I am not trying
to put anything over. I’m not trying to do anything.
But I don’t blame you for thinking it.”</p>
<p>“Oh, blame!” He threw himself into the big chair,
leaning forward, elbows on knees, staring off. Presently
he said, “I was a beast, Anne, to light out as I
did. That was a scoundrelly trick.”</p>
<p>“Old Willy said once that people are always getting
mixed up about sins and mistakes. We are, aren’t we?”</p>
<p>He laughed shortly. “One’s an easier word to say
than the other.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">[274]</span></p>
<p>“Yes. But I think we were guilty of both, really.”
She spoke slowly, thinking it out. “Sin isn’t only transgressing
the law.”</p>
<p>“But I did transgress the law. Even seeing it as a
mere contract, I didn’t stand up to my job.”</p>
<p>She shook her head. “It went deeper than that,
Brice. Ours was a spiritual sin. Neither of us saw that
we were transgressing an ideal. I didn’t even know
there was one. And if I had known, I wouldn’t have
cared.”</p>
<p>He smoked for a moment in silence. “Just what do
you mean?” he asked.</p>
<p>“I’m not clever. Perhaps I can’t make it clear. But
marriage is something more than a contract. It ought
to be, anyway. Life is.”</p>
<p>“Life is that, too.”</p>
<p>“Yes. But it’s only when we work inside of the
terms of the contract, of life, marriage, anything, that
we make anything of it. It’s only when we don’t strain
at things that we’re free.”</p>
<p>“We strained at things. And they broke.”</p>
<p>“Broke. We didn’t see.”</p>
<p>“See what?”</p>
<p>“Oh. All life is a part of life, Brice. It’s when we
don’t go along with it, don’t see there’s something that
carries us along....”</p>
<p>“What do you mean?” he asked again.</p>
<p>She hesitated. He could scarcely hear the words.
“There have been times when I have seen God.”</p>
<p>After a moment he said, “You weren’t religious.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_275">[275]</span></p>
<p>“I’m not speaking in terms of religion. Not thinking
that way.”</p>
<p>“How, then?”</p>
<p>“Terms of nature, perhaps. The earth goes on—autumn
and spring, sunlight, storms, but on and on,
carried along. There are scars. Things crowd into
growth to cover them up. I’ve lived among farmers,
bad seasons, good seasons. People, too—we enjoy,
grow, suffer. Something carries us on. There is something
sustaining. Something at work through everything,
urging us, binding us, banding us. So we go on.”</p>
<p>“Is that what you mean by having seen God?”</p>
<p>“The force is there. And at work. Why be afraid
of terms, of names?”</p>
<p>“But force. I think of force as something to use.”</p>
<p>“I, too,” she murmured.</p>
<p>He filled his pipe again. “Use—God?”</p>
<p>“God, force. We do use it. Whatever’s at work
sees that we do, whether we know it or not.”</p>
<p>“Unconsciously. Haphazard.”</p>
<p>“Not haphazard. We don’t see the whole scheme.
That does not make us less a part of it. Nor less important.
And it can be used consciously.”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“Yes. I have used it consciously.”</p>
<p>“How?”</p>
<p>“By faith.” He stirred impatiently, and she looked
at him. “That word offends you. I mean it only as a
reaching out with one’s soul, a willingness to let the
force that is God carry us along.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">[276]</span></p>
<p>He sat for minutes without speaking. When at last
he spoke it was in a different tone. “I don’t know you,
Anne.”</p>
<p>“Well, there is Warren! He is our going on.”
Presently she added, without looking up, “You had
better look in on him before you go.”</p>
<p>After that night there was more ease between them.
Frequently he came up with the boy to supper; then
his coming became a matter of course. One evening
he dropped an envelope at Anne’s place. She looked
at him inquiringly. He flushed, avoided her eyes.</p>
<p>“Money,” he said shortly. “Thought you’d be needing
it.”</p>
<p>She laughed. “Did you ever know a woman who
didn’t? Many thanks!”</p>
<p>“Thanks—” he repeated.</p>
<p>She caught his embarrassment, hurried on. “But
you’ve been good about sending up food, and there’s
not much to spend money for here. I’ve rather fallen
out of the way of spending.” She stopped abruptly.</p>
<p>“Look here, Anne—I’ve wondered.... How did
you manage?”</p>
<p>“Ambrose bought the house finally. And George got
back the money from Ranney.”</p>
<p>Even now his face clouded at the name. “Where
did you live?”</p>
<p>“I told you—in Heathville.”</p>
<p>“Heathville——?”</p>
<p>“With Willy.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">[277]</span></p>
<p>“She went away to her father,” Warren remarked.
“He must be a pretty old man by now.”</p>
<p>Anne’s eyes gleamed at Brice. “I went there right
after I found out about—Wanny. Willy left me the
place, and——”</p>
<p>“What did you find out about me?” Warren demanded.</p>
<p>“You eat your supper,” said Brice. “Don’t interrupt.”</p>
<p>“—and I—I think I learned how to live—there.”</p>
<p>“I know how to live,” said Warren. “You just
breathe and breathe——”</p>
<p>“I told you not to interrupt!” said Brice.</p>
<p>“I wasn’t interrupting, Dad! I was just talking.”</p>
<p>“That was interrupting, and you know it.”</p>
<p>“Well—I forgot.”</p>
<p>“A gentleman does not forget things he ought to
remember, young man.”</p>
<p>“Are you a gentleman?” asked Warren, eyes as
blandly innocent as a newsboy’s. “Because of course
if you are I’m perfectly willing to be one, too.”</p>
<p>Brice glanced swiftly at Anne, flushing painfully.</p>
<p>“Warren,” said she, “I rather suspect that you are
trying to discover whether you can answer your father
back. Suppose you go to your room and think
about it.”</p>
<p>“I haven’t finished my supper.”</p>
<p>“Do as your mother tells you,” said Brice; and Warren
departed.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">[278]</span></p>
<p>They looked at each other; Anne laughed deprecatingly.
“He needs you,” she said.</p>
<p>“But he had me there. A gentleman does not forget
things he ought to remember.”</p>
<p>“Don’t, Brice,” she said, her hands trembling.</p>
<p>It was true that the child led them, but before the
summer was gone she knew that her own going on
was through Brice as well. Not with the old love,
that fragile, incomplete thing that had failed them
both. Before, she had been unaware of Brice’s thought
unless it concerned herself actively, or else she had
mentally shrugged it aside, or set herself against it.
Of things deeper than thought, formative, unseen
broodings of the spirit, she had been wholly ignorant.
She had taken no account of Brice except in his outward
aspects, slow-moving, slow-thinking; as to most
things inarticulate except when she stung him or lured
him to speech. She had had no sensitiveness towards
him; now she was becoming sensitive to his every
look, every mood. When he watched Warren, she
understood why. When his lips twitched or a look
of surprise or deliberation was on his face, she knew
what he was thinking. When after some word of
hers he sat silent, her thoughts followed his. He was
a guest in the house of her mind, he who had dwelt
there in such varying guises. New contacts, new apprehensions
were revealing him.</p>
<p>As for Brice’s attitude towards herself, she knew
that his first distrust was wearing off. She knew that
he watched her and wondered. She knew that she had
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_279">[279]</span>
made him think. In earlier days she had wanted him
to think her way; now she was content, more than
content, to trust to his thinking for himself. She respected
him. He was no longer the stoop-shouldered,
plodding commuter, either in mind or body. He had
aged more than the years could account for. He was
broader, heavier than the man who used to push the
lawn-mower and yearn to go fishing. In place of the
plodding contentment of those days there was the alertness
of active purpose about him.</p>
<p>On a bleak day in May, one of those days when
winter seems to return for a final flaunt of his power,
Warren came in to supper with unwonted quietness,
wearing an air of complacency, his hair damp. They
questioned him.</p>
<p>“Sure,” he admitted. “I went in swimming. All
the fellers went in.”</p>
<p>“What did I tell you?” asked Brice.</p>
<p>“You said not to go in ’cause the water’s cold. It
wasn’t a bit cold today. So I went in.”</p>
<p>“What else did I tell you?”</p>
<p>“What else?”</p>
<p>“What else did I tell you?”</p>
<p>“Me?”</p>
<p>Brice’s hand came down on the table.</p>
<p>“Oh, yes,” said Warren. “You said not to go in
until I could swim. Well, I can swim now.”</p>
<p>“I told you not to go into the water until I had
taught you to swim.”</p>
<p>Warren reached for a biscuit. “Maybe you did,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">[280]</span>
come to think of it,” he admitted. “I guess I forgot.”</p>
<p>“You did not forget. You disobeyed. Tomorrow
you will stay in your room all day. Your mother
will take you your meals, or I will. For the whole
day you will stay there alone. You’ll have time to
make up your mind that remembering pays. Understand?”</p>
<p>That night he was restless and feverish, but in the
morning he appeared, dressed and smiling, ignoring the
slight hoarseness in his voice.</p>
<p>“What’s this?” asked Brice.</p>
<p>“Well, I got to go to school, I suppose. I suppose
you wouldn’t want me to miss school.”</p>
<p>Brice laid a hand on his shoulder and marched him,
protesting and kicking, into the bedroom, took him
his oatmeal and milk.</p>
<p>“Don’t I get any toast?” asked Warren.</p>
<p>“You do not,” said Brice, with emphasis. “Nor
sugar.” He turned the key in the lock.</p>
<p>At noon he asked, “Any sounds from up there?
Any protests?”</p>
<p>“Not a murmur,” Anne told him. They smiled.
She gave him a plate, a glass of milk.</p>
<p>At his exclamation Anne ran in from the kitchen.
The bedroom was empty, the window open.</p>
<p>The sun high, the sun low, night coming, then
darkness.</p>
<p>The sun high: after an hour or two the whine of the
mill suddenly stopping. Without hat or coat Anne
ran up the road. Men pouring out, separating in
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_281">[281]</span>
groups, going off into the woods, up the road. A
woman came to Anne’s side.</p>
<p>“Don’t you worry like that, Mis’ Denison,” she
said. “They’ll find him. He can’t have gone far.”</p>
<p>Later the schoolteacher, tears in her frightened
eyes. “Oh, Mrs. Denison, I am so sorry! I thought
you were keeping him home for something. I ought to
have sent to find out.”</p>
<p>Anne, her lips dry, shook her head.</p>
<p>“Isn’t there something I can do?” the girl asked.</p>
<p>Something that she could do!</p>
<p>The sun low: dusk, and from across the river came
the woman whom Anne had stood by in her travail.
“Sure, an’ don’t ye go frettin’ yourself like that, ma’am.
It won’t do any good to fret.”</p>
<p>That numbness, that quietness—fretting!</p>
<p>Night coming: and Brice coming in for a flash-light
and lanterns, avoiding her eyes. Those lines by his
mouth, the dark under his eyes. The blacksmith’s
wife there in the room with her, deep-bosomed, untidy,
kind.</p>
<p>“They’ll be wanting some coffee,” she told Anne.
“You help me, my dear. There’s nothing like work.”</p>
<p>Down the hill with the pail of steaming brew between
them, cups handed out to the men who passed
by, twos and threes, singly, stopping only to quaff
down the drink, avoiding Anne’s eyes.</p>
<p>Darkness: people there in the house, in the room,
whisperings, a door opened upon the night. The cool
night, the sweet night, night sounds and stars, and
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_282">[282]</span>
somewhere out there Warren, alone, perhaps stumbling,
perhaps fallen, perhaps going on and on, losing
himself over and over, like those lanterns that came
and went through the woods.</p>
<p>Towards midnight the house became quieter. People
had slipped away. Only Mrs. Cadigan remained.</p>
<p>“You ought to go back to the children,” Anne said.</p>
<p>“Sure, they can do without me the night.”</p>
<p>Before dawn the sound of men running. Anne
rushed to the road. “Have they——”</p>
<p>“Not yet. But don’t you go down, ma’am. They’re
getting things ready to drag the mill-pond.”</p>
<p>Blindly into the house again. Morning. Women
entering quietly, as though they were gathering for
a.... Anne went into her bedroom, fell on her
knees. Not prayer, nothing that words could be found
for. Weakness. Her spirit clutching at something
that was not there, held by human suffering to human
Weakness, faltering but reaching out.</p>
<p>So far off, at first. Sounds, all part of the horror.
Part of the encompassing agony. Then a voice at the
door.</p>
<p>“Mis’ Denison! Quick——!”</p>
<p>Herself in the door, women crowding about her, supporting
her, laughing and crying. Their words with
no meaning. Those sounds coming nearer. Men shouting
and calling, waving their hats, swinging their lanterns.
Brice in the doorway. Over his shoulder,
Warren.</p>
<p>“Here’s hot milk, Mis’ Denison.” That, from one
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_283">[283]</span>
of the women. Another was on her knees, chafing his
feet. Another came presently with a pail of hot water
to bathe them in. The dear weight on her lap, his
head on her shoulder, and Brice standing by, watching
them both.</p>
<p>“We’ll come back by and by and red up a bit,” one
of the women said. Anne smiled at them. They looked
so very far off. They were shadows. In her arms was
the substance of life. The door closed behind them.</p>
<p>Warren’s arm went about her neck. He whimpered
a little. “You were so mean, Mums, you and Dad. I
ran away. I wanted to show you.”</p>
<p>Brice carried him to bed. He was asleep before they
undressed him.</p>
<p>Later, facing each other, the night and the years
there between them.</p>
<p>“Brice, did you hear what he said?”</p>
<p>He nodded. “I was thinking—all the time there in
the woods—if he should be—if we didn’t find him....
You would go, too.... Oh, my God, Anne! I need
you so!”</p>
<p class='center the-end'>
END
</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<div class='transnote'>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="Transcribers_Note">
Transcriber’s Note
</h2>
<ul>
<li>Obvious typographic errors and omissions silently corrected.</li>
<li>Variations in hyphenation and spelling kept as in the original.
Except for the following:
<ul>
<li>p. 201 “to-day” to “today”</li>
</ul></li>
</ul>
</div>
</div>
<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77331 ***</div>
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