diff options
Diffstat (limited to '14957.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 14957.txt | 14484 |
1 files changed, 14484 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/14957.txt b/14957.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d8a5c89 --- /dev/null +++ b/14957.txt @@ -0,0 +1,14484 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Brimming Cup, by Dorothy Canfield Fisher + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Brimming Cup + +Author: Dorothy Canfield Fisher + +Release Date: February 7, 2005 [EBook #14957] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BRIMMING CUP *** + + + + +Produced by Rick Niles, Charlie Kirschner and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team. + + + + + + +THE BRIMMING CUP + +_Dorothy Canfield_ + +HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY NEW YORK + +1919 + +_By the same author_ + +THE SQUIRREL-CAGE +A MONTESSORI MOTHER +MOTHERS AND CHILDREN +HILLSBORO PEOPLE +THE BENT TWIG +THE REAL MOTIVE +FELLOW CAPTAINS +(_With Sarah N. Cleghorn_) +UNDERSTOOD BETSY +HOME FIRES IN FRANCE +THE DAY OF GLORY +THE BRIMMING CUP +ROUGH-HEWN +RAW MATERIAL +THE HOME-MAKER +MADE-TO-ORDER STORIES +HER SON'S WIFE +WHY STOP LEARNING? +THE DEEPENING STREAM +BASQUE PEOPLE +FABLES FOR PARENTS +SEASONED TIMBER + + + + +CONTENTS + +CHAPTER Page + I. PRELUDE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 + II. INTERLUDE . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 + +_PART ONE_ + + III. OLD MR. WELLES AND YOUNG MR. MARSH. 29 + IV. TABLE TALK. . . . . . . . . . . . . 48 + V. A LITTLE GIRL AND HER MOTHER. . . . 64 + VI. THINGS TAKE THEIR COURSE. . . . . . 80 + VII. THE NIGHT-BLOOMING CEREUS . . . . . 91 + VIII. WHAT GOES ON INSIDE . . . . . . . . 115 + IX. THE GENT AROUND THE LADY. . . . . . 130 + X. AT THE MILL . . . . . . . . . . . . 151 + +_PART TWO_ + + XI. IN AUNT HETTY'S GARDEN. . . . . . . 179 + XII. HEARD FROM THE STUDY. . . . . . . . 199 + XIII. ALONG THE EAGLE ROCK BROOK. . . . . 215 + XIV. BESIDE THE ONION-BED. . . . . . . . 224 + XV. HOME-LIFE . . . . . . . . . . . . . 241 + XVI. MASSAGE-CREAM; THEME AND VARIATIONS 256 + XVII. THE SOUL OF NELLY POWERS. . . . . . 266 + +_PART THREE_ + + XVIII. BEFORE THE DAWN . . . . . . . . . . 279 + XIX. MR. WELLES LIGHTS THE FUSE. . . . . 285 + XX. A PRIMAEVAL HERITAGE. . . . . . . . 294 + XXI. THE COUNSEL OF THE STARS. . . . . . 302 + XXII. EUGENIA DOES WHAT SHE CAN . . . . . 309 + XXIII. MARISE LOOKS DOWN ON THE STARS. . . 323 + +_PART FOUR_ + + XXIV. NEALE'S RETURN. . . . . . . . . . . 331 + XXV. MARISE'S COMING-OF-AGE. . . . . . . 338 + XXVI. MARISE LOOKS AND SEES WHAT IS THERE 360 + XXVII. THE FALL OF THE BIG PINE. . . . . . 367 + XXVIII. TWO GOOD-BYES . . . . . . . . . . . 380 + XXIX. VIGNETTES FROM HOME-LIFE. . . . . . 390 + + + + +THE BRIMMING CUP + + + + +CHAPTER I + +_PRELUDE_ + +SUNSET ON ROCCA DI PAPA + +_An Hour in the Life of Two Modern Young People_ + +April, 1909. + + +Lounging idly in the deserted little waiting-room was the usual shabby, +bored, lonely ticket-seller, prodigiously indifferent to the grave +beauty of the scene before him and to the throng of ancient memories +jostling him where he stood. Without troubling to look at his watch, he +informed the two young foreigners that they had a long hour to wait +before the cable-railway would send a car down to the Campagna. His lazy +nonchalance was faintly colored with the satisfaction, common to his +profession, in the discomfiture of travelers. + +Their look upon him was of amazed gratitude. Evidently they did not +understand Italian, he thought, and repeated his information more +slowly, with an unrecognizable word or two of badly pronounced English +thrown in. He felt slightly vexed that he could not make them feel the +proper annoyance, and added, "It may even be so late that the signori +would miss the connection for the last tramway car back to Rome. It is a +long walk back to the city across the Campagna." + +They continued to gaze at him with delight. "I've got to tip him for +that!" said the young man, reaching vigorously into a pocket. + +The girl's answering laugh, like the inward look of her eyes, showed +only a preoccupied attention. She had the concentrated absent aspect of +a person who has just heard vital tidings and can attend to nothing +else. She said, "Oh, Neale, how ridiculous of you. He couldn't possibly +have the least idea what he's done to deserve getting paid for." + +At the sound of her voice, the tone in which these words were +pronounced, the ticket-seller looked at her hard, with a bold, +intrusive, diagnosing stare: "Lovers!" he told himself conclusively. He +accepted with a vast incuriosity as to reason the coin which the young +foreigner put into his hand, and, ringing it suspiciously on his table, +divided his appraising attention between its clear answer to his +challenge, and the sound of the young man's voice as he answered his +sweetheart, "Of course he hasn't any idea what he's done to deserve it. +Who ever has? You don't suppose for a moment I've any idea what I've +done to deserve mine?" + +The ticket-seller smiled secretly into his dark mustache. "I wonder if +_my_ voice quivered and deepened like that, when I was courting +Annunziata?" he asked himself. He glanced up from pocketing the coin, +and caught the look which passed between the two. He felt as though +someone had laid hands on him and shaken him. "_Dio mio_" he thought. +"They are in the hottest of it." + +The young foreigners went across the tracks and established themselves +on the rocks, partly out of sight, just at the brink of the great drop +to the Campagna. The setting sun was full in their faces. But they did +not see it, seeing only each other. + +Below them spread the divinely colored plain, crossed by the ancient +yellow river, rolling its age-old memories out to the sea, a blue +reminder of the restfulness of eternity, at the rim of the weary old +land. Like a little cluster of tiny, tarnished pearls, Rome gleamed +palely, remote and legendary. + + * * * * * + +The two young people looked at each other earnestly, with a passionate, +single-hearted attention to their own meaning, thrusting away +impatiently the clinging brambles of speech which laid hold on their +every effort to move closer to each other. They did not look down, or +away from each other's eyes as they strove to free themselves, to step +forward, to clasp the other's outstretched hands. They reached down +blindly, tearing at those thorny, clutching entanglements, pulling and +tugging at those tenuous, tough words which would not let them say what +they meant: sure, hopefully sure that in a moment . . . now . . . with the +next breath, they would break free as no others had ever done before +them, and crying out the truth and glory that was in them, fall into +each other's arms. + +The girl was physically breathless with this effort, her lips parted, +her eyebrows drawn together. "Neale, Neale dear, if I could only tell +you how I want it to be, how utterly utterly _true_ I want us to be. +Nothing's of any account except that." + +She moved with a shrugging, despairing gesture. "No, no, not the way +that sounds. I don't mean, you know I don't mean any old-fashioned +impossible vows never to change, or be any different! I know too much +for that. I've seen too awfully much unhappiness, with people trying to +do that. You know what I told you about my father and mother. Oh, Neale, +it's horribly dangerous, loving anybody. I never wanted to. I never +thought I should. But now I'm in it, I see that it's not at all +unhappiness I'm afraid of, your getting tired of me or I of you . . . +everybody's so weak and horrid in this world, who knows what may be +before us? That's not what would be unendurable, sickening. That would +make us unhappy. But what would poison us to death . . . what I'm afraid +of, between two people who try to be what we want to be to each +other . . . how can I say it?" She looked at him in an anguish of endeavor, +". . . not to be true to what is deepest and most living in us . . . that +would be the betrayal I'm afraid of. That's what I mean. No matter what it +costs us personally, or what it brings, we must be true to that. We +_must!_" + +He took her hand in his silently, and held it close. She drew a long +troubled breath and said, "You _do_ think we can always have between us +that loyalty to what is deep and living? It does not seem too much to +ask, when we are willing to give up everything else for it, even +happiness?" + +He gave her a long, profound look. "I'm trying to give that loyalty to +you this minute, Marise darling," he said slowly, "when I tell you now +that I think it a very great deal to ask of life, a very great deal for +any human beings to try for. I should say it was much harder to get than +happiness." + +She was in despair. "Do you think that?" She searched his face anxiously +as though she found there more than in his speech. "Yes, yes, I see what +you mean." She drew a long breath. "I can even see how fine it is of you +to say that to me now. It's like a promise of how you will try. But oh, +Neale, I won't _want_ life on any other terms!" + +She stopped, looking down at her hand in his. He tightened his clasp. +His gaze on her darkened and deepened. "It's like sending me to get the +apples of Hesperides," he said, looking older than she, curiously and +suddenly older. "I want to say yes! It would be easy to say yes. +Darling, darling Marise, you can't want it more than I! But the very +intelligence that makes you want it, that makes me want it, shows me how +mortally hard it would be! Think! To be loyal to what is deepest and +most living in yourself . . . that's an undertaking for a life-time's +effort, with all the ups and downs and growths of life. And then to try +to know what is deepest and most living in another . . . and to try . . . +Marise! I will try. I will try with all my might. Can anybody do more +than try with all his might?" + +Their gaze into each other's eyes went far beyond the faltering words +they spoke. She asked him in a low voice, "Couldn't you do more for me +than for yourself? One never knows, but . . . what else is love for, but +to give greater strength than we have?" + +There was a moment's silence, in which their very spirits met flame-like +in the void, challenging, hoping, fearing. The man's face set. His +burning look of power enveloped her like the reflection of the sun. "I +swear you shall have it!" he said desperately, his voice shaking. + +She looked up at him with a passionate gratitude. "I'll never forget +that as long as I live!" she cried out to him. + +The tears stood in his eyes as in hers. + +For the fraction of an instant, they had felt each other there, as never +before they had felt any other human being: they had both at once caught +a moment of flood-tide, and both together had been carried up side by +side; the long, inevitable isolation of human lives from birth onward +had been broken by the first real contact with another human soul. They +felt the awed impulse to cover their eyes as before too great a glory. + +The tide ebbed back, and untroubled they made no effort to stop its +ebbing. They had touched their goal, it was really there. Now they knew +it within their reach. Appeased, assuaged, fatigued, they felt the need +for quiet, they knew the sweetness of sobriety. They even looked away +from each other, aware of their own bodies which for that instant had +been left behind. They entered again into the flesh that clad their +spirits, taking possession of their hands and feet and members, and +taken possession of by them again. The fullness of their momentary +satisfaction had been so complete that they felt no regret, only a +simple, tender pleasure as of being again at home. They smiled happily +at each other and sat silent, hand in hand. + + * * * * * + +Now they saw the beauty before them, the vast plain, the mountains, the +sea: harmonious, serene, ripe with maturity, evocative of all the +centuries of conscious life which had unrolled themselves there. + +"It's too beautiful to be real, isn't it?" murmured the girl, "and now, +the peaceful way I feel this minute, I don't mind it's being so old that +it makes you feel a midge in the sunshine with only an hour or two of +life before you. What if you are, when it's life as we feel it now, such +a flood of it, every instant brimming with it? Neale," she turned to him +with a sudden idea, "do you remember how Victor Hugo's 'Waterloo' +begins?" + +"I should say not!" he returned promptly. "You forget I got all the +French I know in an American university." + +"Well, I went to college in America, myself!" + +"I bet it wasn't there you learned anything about Victor Hugo's poetry," +he surmised skeptically. "Well, how does it begin, anyhow, and what's it +got to do with us?" + +The girl was as unamused as he at his certainty that it had something to +do with them, or she would not have mentioned it. She explained, "It's +not a famous line at all, nothing I ever heard anybody else admire. We +had to learn the poem by heart, when I was a little girl and went to +school in Bayonne. It starts out, + + 'Waterloo, Waterloo, morne plaine + Comme une onde qui bout dans une urne trop pleine,' + +And that second line always stuck in my head for the picture it made. I +could see it, so vividly, an urn boiling over with the great gush of +water springing up in it. It gave me a feeling, inside, a real physical +feeling, I mean. I wanted, oh so awfully, sometime to be so filled with +some emotion, something great and fine, that I would be an urn too full, +gushing up in a great flooding rush. I could see the smooth, thick curl +of the water surging up and out!" + +She stopped to look at him and exclaim, "Why, you're listening! You're +interested. Neale, I believe you are the only person in the world who +can really pay attention to what somebody else says. Everybody else just +goes on thinking his own thoughts." + +He smiled at this fancy, and said, "Go on." + +"Well, I don't know whether that feeling was already in me, waiting for +something to express it, or whether that phrase in the poem started it. +But it was, for ever so long, the most important thing in the world to +me. I was about fourteen years old then, and of course, being a good +deal with Catholics, I thought probably it was religious ecstasy that +was going to be the great flood that would brim my cup full. I used to +go up the hill in Bayonne to the Cathedral every day and stay there for +hours, trying to work up an ecstasy. I managed nearly to faint away once +or twice, which was _some_thing of course. But I couldn't feel that +great tide I'd dreamed of. And then, little by little . . . oh, lots of +things came between the idea and my thinking about it. Mother was . . . +I've told you how Mother was at that time. And what an unhappy time it +was at home. I was pretty busy at the house because she was away so +much. And Father and I hung together because there wasn't anybody else +to hang to: and all sorts of ugly things happened, and I didn't have the +time or the heart to think about being 'an urn too full.'" + +She stopped, smiling happily, as though those had not been tragic words +which he had just spoken, thinking not of them but of something else, +which now came out, "And then, oh Neale, that day, on the piazza in +front of St. Peter's, when we stood together, and felt the spray of the +fountains blown on us, and you looked at me and spoke out. . . . Oh, Neale, +_Neale_, what a moment to have lived through! Well, when we went on into +the church, and I knelt there for a while, so struck down with joy that +I couldn't stand on my feet, all those wild bursts of excitement, and +incredulity and happiness, that kept surging up and drenching me . . . I +had a queer feeling, that awfully threadbare feeling of having been +there before, or felt that before; that it was familiar, although it was +so new. Then it came to me, 'Why, I have it, what I used to pray for. +Now at last I am the urn too full!' And it was true, I could feel, just +as I dreamed, the upsurging of the feeling, brimming over, boiling up, +brimming over. . . . And another phrase came into my mind, an English one. +I said to myself, 'The fullness of life.' Now I know what it is." + +She turned to him, and caught at his hand. "Oh, Neale, now I _do_ know +what it is, how utterly hideous it would be to have to live without it, +to feel only the mean little trickle that seems mostly all that people +have." + +"Well, I'll never have to get along without it, as long as I have you," +he said confidently. + +"And I refuse to live a _minute_, if it goes back on me!" she cried. + +"I imagine that old folks would think we are talking very young," +suggested the man casually. + +"Don't speak of them!" She cast them away into non-existence with a +gesture. + +They sank into a reverie, smiling to themselves. + +"How the fountains shone in the sun, that day," she murmured; "the spray +they cast on us was all tiny opals and diamonds." + +"You're sure you aren't going to be sorry to go back to America to live, +to leave all that?" asked the man. "I get anxious about that sometimes. +It seems an awful jump to go away from such beautiful historic things, +back to a narrow little mountain town." + +"I'd like to know what right you have to call it narrow, when you've +never even seen it," she returned. + +"Well, anybody could make a pretty fair guess that a small Vermont town +isn't going to be so very _wide_," he advanced reasonably. + +"It may not be wide, but it's deep," she replied. + +He laughed at her certainty. "You were about eleven years old when you +saw it last, weren't you?" + +"No, you've got it wrong. It was when we came to France to live that I +was eleven, and of course I stopped going to Ashley regularly for +vacations then. But I went back for several summers in the old house +with Cousin Hetty, when I was in America for college, after Mother +died." + +"Oh well, I don't care what it's like," he said, "except that it's the +place where I'm going to live with you. Any place on earth would seem +wide enough and deep enough, if I had you there." + +"Isn't it funny," she mused, "that I should know so much more about it +than you? To think how I played all around your uncle's mill and house, +lots of times when I was a little girl, and never dreamed . . ." + +"No funnier than all the rest of it," he demurred. "Once you grant our +existing and happening to meet out of all the millions of people in the +world, you can't think up anything funnier. Just the little +two-for-a-cent queerness of our happening to meet in Rome instead of in +Brooklyn, and your happening to know the town where my uncle lived and +owned the mill he left me . . . that can't hold a candle for queerness, +for wonderfulness, compared to my having ever laid eyes on you. Suppose +I'd never come to Rome at all? When I got the news of Uncle Burton's +death and the bequest, I was almost planning to sail from Genoa and not +come to southern Italy at all." + +She shook her head confidently. "You can't scare me with any such +hideous possibilities. It's not possible that we shouldn't ever have +met, both of us being in the world. Didn't you ever study chemistry? +Didn't they teach you there are certain elements that just _will_ come +together, no matter how you mix them up with other things?" + +He made no answer, gazing out across the plain far below them, mellowing +richly in the ever-softening light of the sunset. + +She looked doubtfully at his profile, rather lean, with the beginning +already drawn of the deep American line from the Corner of the nose to +the mouth, that is partly humorous and partly grim. "Don't you believe +that, Neale, that we would have come together somehow, anyhow?" she +asked, "even if you had gone straight back from Genoa to Ashley? Maybe +it might have been up there after you'd begun to run the mill. Maybe I'd +have gone back to America and gone up to visit Cousin Hetty again." + +He was still silent. + +She said urgently, as if in alarm, "Neale, you don't believe that we +could have passed all our lives and never have _seen_ each other?" + +He turned on her his deep-set eyes, full of tenderness and humor and +uncertainty, and shook his head. "Yes, dear, I do believe that," he said +regretfully. "I don't see how I can help believing it. Why, I hadn't the +faintest idea of going back to settle in Ashley before I met you. I had +taken Uncle Burton's mill and his bequest of four thousand dollars as a +sort of joke. What could I do with them, without anything else? And what +on earth did I want to do with them? Nothing! As far as I had any plans +at all, it was to go home, see Father and Mother for a while, get +through the legal complications of inheritance, sell the mill and house +. . . I wouldn't have thought of such a thing as bothering even to go to +Ashley to look at them . . . and then take the money and go off somewhere, +somewhere different, and far away: to China maybe. I was pretty restless +in my mind, pretty sure that nothing in our civilization was worth the +candle, you know, before you arrived on the scene to put everything in +focus. And if I had done all that, while you were still here in Rome, +running up and down your scales, honestly . . . I know I sound awfully +literal . . . but I don't see how we ever could have met, do you, dear?" + +He offered her this, with a look half of apology, half of simple +courage. + +She considered it and him seriously, studying his face and eyes, +listening retrospectively to the accent of his words, and immensely +astonished him by suddenly flashing a kiss on his cheek. "You're +miraculous!" she said. "You don't know how it feels; as though I'd been +floundering in a marsh, deeper and deeper, and then all at once, when I +thought I'd come to know there wasn't anything in the world _but_ marsh, +to come out on beautiful, fine, clean earth, where I feel the very +strength of ages under my feet. You don't _know_ how good it seems to +have a silly, romantic remark like what I said, answered the way you +did, telling the truth; how _good_ it feels to be pulled down to what's +what, and to know you can do it and really love me too." + +He had been so startled and moved by her kiss that he had heard her +words but vaguely. "I don't seem to catch hold of all that. What's it +all about?" + +"It's all about the fact that I really begin to believe that you will be +loyal and tell me the truth," she told him. + +He saw cause for gravity in this, remembering the great moment so +shortly back of them, and said with a surprised and hurt accent, "Didn't +you believe me, when I said I would?" + +She took up his hand in hers and said rapidly, "Dear Neale, I did +believe it, for just a moment, and I can't believe anything good of +anybody for longer than that, not _really_ in my heart of hearts. And +it's my turn to tell you some truth when I tell you about that unbelief, +what I've hardly even ever told myself, right out in words." + +He was listening now, fixing on her a look of profound, intelligent +attention, as she went on, stumbling, reaching out for words, discarding +those she found, only her steady gaze giving coherence to her statement. +"You know, living the way I have . . . I've told you . . . I've seen a +great deal more than most girls have. And then, half brought up in France +with people who are clever and have their eyes wide open, people who +really count, I've seen how they don't believe in humans, or goodness, or +anything that's not base. They know life is mostly bad and cruel and +dull and low, and above all that it's bound to fool you if you trust to +it, or get off your guard a single minute. They don't _teach_ you that, +you know; but you see it's what they believe and what they spend all +their energies trying to dodge a little, all they think they can. Then +everything you read, except the silly little Bibliotheque-Rose sort of +thing, makes you know that it's true . . . Anatole France, and Maupassant, +and Schnitzler. Of course back in America you find lots of nice people +who don't believe that. But they're so sweet you know they'd swallow +anything that made things look pleasant. So you don't dare take their +word for anything. They won't even look at what's bad in everybody's +life, they just pretend it's not there, not in _their_ husbands, or +wives or children, and so you know they're fooled." She lowered her +voice, which faltered a little, but she still continued to look straight +into his eyes, "And as for love, why, I've just hated the sound of the +name and . . . I'm horribly afraid of it, even now." + +He asked her gravely, "Don't you love me? Don't you think that I love +you?" + +She looked at him piteously, wincing, bracing herself with an effort to +be brave. "I must try to be as honest as I want you to be. Yes, I love +you, Neale, with all my heart a thousand times more than I ever dreamed +I could love anybody. But how do I know that I'm not somehow fooling +myself: but that maybe all that huge unconscious inheritance from all my +miserable ancestors hasn't _got_ me, somehow, and you too? How do I know +that I'm not being fooled by Nature and fooling you with fine words?" + +She hesitated, probing deep into her heart, and brought out now, like a +great and unexpected treasure, "But, Neale, listen! I _don't_ think that +about you! I don't believe you're being fooled. Why, I believe in you +more than in myself!" She was amazed at this and radiant. + +Then she asked him, "Neale, how do _you_ manage about all this? What do +you feel about all the capacity for being low and bad, that everybody +has? Aren't you afraid that they'll get the best of us, inevitably, +unless we let ourselves get so dull, and second-rate and passive, that +we can't even be bad? Are you afraid of being fooled? Do you believe in +yourself at all?" + +He was silent for some time, his eyes steadily fixed on some invisible +realm. When he spoke it was with a firm, natural, unshaken accent. "Why, +yes, I think it very likely that I am being fooled all the time. But I +don't think it matters the least bit in the world beside the fact that I +love you. That's big enough to overtop everything else." + +He raised his voice and spoke out boldly to the undefined specter in her +mind. "And if it's the mating instinct you mean, that may be fooling +both of us, because of our youth and bodily health . . . good heavens! +Isn't our love deep enough to absorb that a million times over, like the +water of a little brook flowing into the sea? Do you think _that_, which +is only a little trickle and a harmless and natural and healthy little +trickle, could unsalt the great ocean of its savor? Why, Marise, all +that you're so afraid of, all that they've made you so afraid of, . . . +it's like the little surface waves . . . well, call it the big storm waves +if you want to . . . but nothing at all, the biggest of them, compared to +the stillness in the depths of the sea. Why, I love you! Do I believe in +myself? Of course I believe in myself, because I have you." + +She drew a long sigh and, closing her eyes, murmured, "I feel as though +I were lifted up on a great rock." After a moment, opening her eyes, she +said, "You are better than I, you know. I'm not at all sure that I could +say that. I never knew before that I was weak. But then I never met +strength before." + +"You're not weak," he told her; adding quaintly, "maybe a little +overballasted; with brains and sensitiveness and under-ballasted with +experience, that's all. But you haven't had much chance to take on any +other cargo, as yet." + +She was nettled at this, and leaving her slow, wide-winged poise in the +upper airs, she veered and with swallow-like swiftness darted down on +him. "That sounds patronizing and elder-brotherish," she told him. "I've +taken on all sorts of cargo that you don't know anything about. In ever +so many ways you seem positively . . . naive! You needn't go thinking that +I'm always highstrung and fanciful. I never showed that side to anybody +before, never! Always kept it shut up and locked down and danced and +whooped it up before the door. You know how everybody always thinks of +me as laughing all the time. I do wish everything hadn't been said +already so many times. If it weren't that it's been said so often, I'd +like to say that I have always been laughing to keep from crying." + +"Why don't you say it, if that is what you mean?" he proposed. + +She looked at him marveling. "I'm so fatuous about you!" she exclaimed; +"the least little thing you say, I see the most wonderful possibilities +in it. I know _you'd_ say what you meant, no matter how many thousands +had said it before. And since I know it's not stupidness in you, why, it +seems to me just splendidly and simply courageous, a kind of courage I'd +never thought of before. I see now, how, after all, those stupid people +had me beaten, because I'd always thought that a person either had to be +stupid so that he didn't _know_ he was saying something everybody else +had said, or else not say it, even if he wanted to, ever so much, and it +was just what he meant." + +"Don't you think maybe you're too much bothered about other people, +anyhow?" he suggested, mildly; "whether they're stupid or have said +things or not? What difference does it make, if it's a question of what +you yourself feel? I'd be just as satisfied if you gave _all_ your time +to discovering the wonderful possibilities in what I say. It would give +me a chance to conceal the fact that I get all out of breath trying to +follow what you mean." + +This surprised her into a sudden laugh, outright and ringing. He looked +down at her sparkling face, brilliant in its mirth as a child's, and +said seriously, "You must instantly think of something perfectly prosaic +and commonplace to say, or I shall be forced to take you in my arms and +kiss you a great many times, which might have Lord knows what effect on +that gloomy-minded ticket-seller back of us who already has his +suspicions." + +She rose instantly to the possibilities and said smoothly, swiftly, +whimsically, with the accent of drollery, "I'm very particular about +what sort of frying-pan I use. I insist on having a separate one for the +_fritures_ of fish, and another for the omelets, used only for that: I'm +a very fine and conscientious housekeeper, I'd have you know, and all +the while we lived in Bayonne I ran the house because Mother never got +used to French housekeeping ways. I was the one who went to market . . . +oh, the gorgeous things you get in the Bayonne market, near enough +Spain, you know, for real Malaga grapes with the aroma still on them, +and for Spanish quince-paste. I bossed the old Basque woman we had for +cook and learned how to cook from her, using a great many onions for +everything. And I learned how to keep house by the light of nature, +since it had to be done. And I'm awfully excited about having a house of +my own, just as though I weren't the extremely clever, cynical, +disillusioned, fascinating musical genius everybody knows me to be: only +let me warn you that the old house we are going to live in will need +lots done to it. Your uncle never opened the dreadful room he called the +parlor, and never used the south wing at all, where all the sunshine +comes in. And the pantry arrangements are simply humorous, they're so +inadequate. I don't know how much of that four thousand dollars you are +going to want to spare for remodeling the mill, but I will tell you +now, that I will go on strike if you don't give me a better cook-stove +than your Uncle's Toucle had to work with." + +He had been listening with an appreciative grin to her nimble-witted +chatter, but at this he brought her up short by an astonished, "Who had? +What had? What's that . . . Toucle?" + +She laughed aloud again, delighted at having startled him into +curiosity. "Toucle. Toucle. Don't you think it a pretty name? Will you +believe me when I say I know all about Ashley?" + +"Oh, go on, tell me!" he begged. "You don't mean to say that my Uncle +Benton had pep enough to have a scandal in his life?" + +"What do _you_ know about your uncle?" + +"Oh, I'd seen him a few times, though I'd never been up to Ashley. As +long as Grandfather was alive and the mill at Adams Center was running, +Uncle Burton used to go there to see his father, and I always used to be +hanging around Grandfather and the mill, and the woods. I was crazy +about it all, as a boy, used to work right along with the mill-hands, +and out chopping with the lumbermen. Maybe Uncle Burton noticed that." +He was struck with a sudden idea, "By George, maybe _that_ was why he +left me the mill!" He cast his eye retrospectively on this idea and was +silent for a moment, emerging from his meditation to say, wonderingly, +"Well, it certainly is _queer_, how things come out, how one thing hangs +on another. It's enough to addle your brains, to try to start to follow +back all the ways things happen . . . ways you'd never thought of as of +the least importance." + +"Your Uncle Burton was of some importance to _us_," she told him. "Miss +Oldham at the _pension_ said that she had just met a new American, down +from Genoa, and when I heard your name I said, 'Oh, I used to know an +old Mr. Crittenden who ran a wood-working factory up in Vermont, where I +used to visit an old cousin of mine,' and that was why Miss Oldham +introduced us, that silly way, as cousins." + +He said, pouncingly, "You're running on, inconsequently, just to divert +my mind from asking you again who or what Toucle is." + +"You can ask and ask all you like," she defied him, laughing. "I'm not +going to tell you. I've got to have _some_ secrets from you, to keep up +the traditions of self-respecting womanhood. And anyhow I couldn't tell +you, because she is different from everything else. You'll see for +yourself, when we get there. If she's still alive." She offered a +compromise, "I'll tell you what. If she's dead, I'll sit down and tell +you about her. If she's still alive, you'll find out. She's an Ashley +institution, Toucle is. As symbolic as the Cumean Sybil. I don't believe +she'll be dead. I don't believe she'll _ever_ be dead." + +"You've let the cat out of the bag enough so I've lost my interest in +her," he professed. "I can make a guess that she's some old woman, and I +bet you I won't see anything remarkable in her. Except that wild name. +Is it Miss Toucle, or Mrs. Toucle?" + +The girl burst into laughter at this, foolish, light-hearted mirth which +drenched the air all about her with the perfume of young gaiety. "Is it +Miss Druid, or Mrs. Druid?" was all she would say. + +She looked up at him, her eyes shining, and cried between her gusts of +laughter, as if astonished, "Why, I do believe we are going to be happy +together. I do believe it's going to be fun to live with you." + +His appalled surprise that she had again fallen into the pit of +incredulity was, this time, only half humorous. "For God's sake, what +_did_ you think!" + +She answered, reasonably, "Well, nobody ever is happy together, either +in books or out of them. Of all the million, million love-affairs that +have happened, does anybody ever claim any one to have been happy?" + +His breath was taken away. He asked helplessly, "Well, why _are_ you +marrying me?" + +She replied very seriously, "Because I can't help myself, dear Neale. +Isn't that the only reason you're marrying me?" + +He looked at her long, his nostrils quivering a little, gave a short +exclamation which seemed to carry away all his impatience, and finally +said, quietly enough, "Why, yes, of course, if that's the way you want +to put it. You can say it in a thousand thousand different ways." + +He added with a sudden fury, "And never one of them will come anywhere +near expressing it. Look here, Marise, I don't believe you have the +faintest, faintest idea how big this thing is. All these fool clever +ways of talking about it . . . they're just a screen set up in front of +it, to my mind. It's enough sight bigger than just you or me, or +happiness or unhappiness. It's the meaning of everything!" + +She considered this thoughtfully. "I don't believe I really know what +you mean," she said, "or anyhow that I _feel_ what you mean. I have had +dreams sometimes, that I'm in something awfully big and irresistible +like a great river, flowing somewhere; but I've never felt it in waking +hours. I wish I could. It's lovely in dreams. You evidently do, even +awake." + +He said, confidently, "You will, later on." + +She ventured, "You mean, maybe, that I'm so shaken up by the little +surface waves, chopping back and forth, that I don't feel the big +current." + +"It's there. Whether you feel it or not," he made final answer to her +doubt. + +She murmured, "I wonder if there is anything in that silly, +old-fashioned notion that men are stronger than women, and that women +must lean on men's strength, to live?" + +"Everybody's got to lean on his own strength, sooner or later," he told +her with a touch of grimness. + +"You just won't be romantic!" she cried admiringly. + +"I really love you, Marise," he answered profoundly; and on this +rock-like assurance she sank down with a long breath of trust. + + * * * * * + +The sun was dipping into the sea now, emblazoning the sky with a last +flaming half-circle of pure color, but the light had left the dusky +edges of the world. Already the far mountains were dimmed, and the +plain, passing from one deep twilight color to another more somber, was +quietly sinking into darkness as into the strong loving arms of ultimate +dissolution. + +The girl spoke in a dreamy twilight tone, "Neale dear, this is not a +romantic idea . . . honestly, I do wish we could both die right here and +never go down to the plain any more. Don't you feel that? Not at all?" + +His voice rang out, resonant and harsh as a bugle-note, "No, I do not, +not at all, not for a single moment. I've too much ahead of me to feel +that. And so have you!" + +"There comes the cable-car, climbing up to get us," she said faintly. +"And we will go down from this high place of safety into that dark +plain, and we will have to cross it, painfully, step by step. _Dare_ you +promise me we will not lose our way?" she challenged him. + +"I don't promise you anything about it," he answered, taking her hand in +his. "Only I'm not a bit afraid of the plain, nor the way that's before +us. Come along with me, and let's see what's there." + +"Do you think you know where we are going, across that plain?" she asked +him painfully; "even where we are to _try_ to go?" + +"No, I don't know, now," he answered undismayed. "But I think we will +know it as we go along because we will be together." + + * * * * * + +The darkness, folding itself like a velvet mantle about the far +mountains, deepened, and her voice deepened with it. "Can you even +promise that we won't lose each other there?" she asked somberly. + +At this he suddenly took her into his arms, silently, bending his face +to hers, his insistent eyes bringing hers up to meet his gaze. She could +feel the strong throbbing of his heart all through her own body. + +She clung to him as though she were drowning. And indeed she felt that +she was. Life burst over them with a roar, a superb flooding tide on +whose strong swelling bosom they felt themselves rising, rising +illimitably. + +The sun had now wholly set, leaving to darkness the old, old plain, +soaked with humanity. + + + + +CHAPTER II + +_INTERLUDE_ + + March 15, 1920. + 8:30 A.M. + + +Marise fitted little Mark's cap down over his ears and buttoned his blue +reefer coat close to his throat. + +"Now you big children," she said, with an anxious accent, to Paul and +Elly standing with their school-books done up in straps, "be sure to +keep an eye on Mark at recess-time. Don't let him run and get all hot +and then sit down in the wind without his coat. Remember, it's his first +day at school, and he's only six." + +She kissed his round, smooth, rosy cheek once more, and let him go. Elly +stooped and took her little brother's mittened hand in hers. She said +nothing, but her look on the little boy's face was loving and maternal. + +Paul assured his mother seriously, "Oh, I'll look out for Mark, all +right." + +Mark wriggled and said, "_I_ can looken out for myself wivout Paul!" + +Their mother looked for a moment deep into the eyes of her older son, so +clear, so quiet, so unchanging and true. "You're a good boy, Paul, a +real comfort," she told him. + +To herself she thought, "Yes, all his life he'll look out for people and +get no thanks for it." + + * * * * * + +She followed the children to the door, wondering at her heavy heart. +What could it come from? There was nothing in life for her to fear of +course, except for the children, and it was absurd to fear for them. +They were all safe; safe and strong and rooted deep in health, and +little Mark was stepping off gallantly into his own life as the others +had done. But she felt afraid. What could she be afraid of? As she +opened the door, their advance was halted by the rush upon them of +Paul's dog, frantic with delight to see the children ready to be off, +springing up on Paul, bounding down the path, racing back to the door, +all quivering eager exultation. "Ah, he's going _with_ the children!" +thought Marise wistfully. + +She could not bear to let them leave her and stood with them in the open +door-way for a moment. Elly rubbed her soft cheek against her mother's +hand. Paul, seeing his mother shiver in the keen March air, said, +"Mother, if Father were here he'd make you go in. That's a thin dress. +And your teeth are just chattering." + +"Yes, you're right, Paul," she agreed; "it's foolish of me!" + +The children gave her a hearty round of good-bye hugs and kisses, +briskly and energetically performed, and went down the stone-flagged +path to the road. They were chattering to each other as they went. Their +voices sounded at first loud and gay in their mother's ears. Then they +sank to a murmur, as the children ran along the road. The dog bounded +about them in circles, barking joyfully, but this sound too grew fainter +and fainter. + +When the murmur died away to silence, there seemed no sound left in the +stark gray valley, empty and motionless between the steep dark walls of +pine-covered mountains. + + * * * * * + +Marise stood for a long time looking after the children. They were +climbing up the long hilly road now, growing smaller and smaller. How +far away they were, already! And that very strength and vigor of which +she was so proud, which she had so cherished and fostered, how rapidly +it carried them along the road that led away from her! + +They were almost at the top of the hill now. Perhaps they would turn +there and wave to her. + +No, of course now, she was foolish to think of such a thing. Children +never remembered the people they left behind. And she was now only +somebody whom they were leaving behind. She felt the cold penetrate +deeper and deeper into her heart, and knew she ought to go back into the +house. But she could not take her eyes from the children. She thought to +herself bitterly, "This is the beginning of the end. I've been feeling +how, in their hearts, they want to escape from me when I try to hold +them, or when I try to make them let me into their lives. I've given +everything to them, but they never think of that. _I_ think of it! Every +time I look at them I see all those endless hours of sacred sacrifice. +But when they look at me, do they see any of that? No! Never! They only +see the Obstacle in the way of their getting what they want. And so they +want to run away from it. Just as they're doing now." + +She looked after them, yearning. Although they were so far, she could +see them plainly in the thin mountain air. They were running mostly, +once in a while stopping to throw a stone or look up into a tree. Then +they scampered on like squirrels, the fox-terrier bounding ahead. + + * * * * * + +Now they were at the top where the road turned. Perhaps, after all, they +_would_ remember and glance back and wave their hands to her. + + * * * * * + +Now they had disappeared, without a backward look. + + * * * * * + +She continued gazing at the vacant road. It seemed to her that the +children had taken everything with them. + + * * * * * + +A gust of icy wind blew down sharply from the mountain, still +snow-covered, and struck at her like a sword. She turned and went back +shivering, into the empty house. + + + + +PART I + + + + +CHAPTER III + +OLD MR. WELLES AND YOUNG MR. MARSH + +_An Hour in the Life of Mr. Ormsby Welles, aet. 67_ + + March 15, 1920. + 3:00 P.M. + + +Having lifted the knocker and let it fall, the two men stood gazing with +varying degrees of attention at the closed white-painted old door. The +younger, the one with the round dark head and quick dark eyes, seemed +extremely interested in the door, and examined it competently, its +harmoniously disposed wide panels, the shapely fan-light over it, the +small panes of greenish old glass on each side. "Beautiful old bits you +get occasionally in these out-of-the-way holes," he remarked. But the +older man was aware of nothing so concrete and material. He saw the door +as he saw everything else that day, through a haze. Chiefly he was +concerned as to what lay behind the door. . . . "My neighbors," he thought, +"the first I ever had." + +The sun shone down through the bare, beautiful twigs of the leafless +elms, in a still air, transparent and colorless. + +The handle of the door turned, the door opened. The older man was too +astonished by what he saw to speak, but after an instant's pause the +younger one asked if Mr. and Mrs. Crittenden were at home and could see +callers. The lean, aged, leather-colored woman, with shiny opaque black +eyes, opened the door wider and silently ushered them into the house. + +As long as she was in sight they preserved a prudent silence as profound +as hers, but when she had left them seated, and disappeared, they turned +to each other with lifted eyebrows. "Well, what was _that_, do you +suppose?" exclaimed the Younger. He seemed extremely interested and +amused. "I'm not so sure, Mr. Welles, about your being safe in never +locking your doors at night, as they all tell you, up here. With that +for a neighbor!" + +The older man had a friendly smile for the facetious intention of this. +"I guess I won't have anything that'd be worth locking doors on," he +said. He looked about him still smiling, his pleasant old eyes full of a +fresh satisfaction in what he saw. The room was charming to his gaze, +cheerful and homey. "I don't believe I'm going to have anything to +complain of, with the folks that live in this house," he said, "any more +than with any of the rest of it." + +The other nodded. "Yes, it's a very good room," he agreed. After a +longer inspection, he added with a slight accent of surprise, "An oddly +good room; stunning! Look at the color in those curtains and the walls, +and the arrangement of those prints over that Chippendale sewing-table. +I wonder if it's accidental. You wouldn't think you'd find anybody up +here who could achieve it consciously." + +He got to his feet with a vigorous precision of movement which the other +admired. "Well, he's grown to be considerable of a man," he thought to +himself. "A pity his father couldn't have lived to see it, all that +aliveness that had bothered them so much, down at last where he's got +his grip on it. And enough of it, plenty of it, oceans of it, left so +that he is still about forty times more alive than anybody else." He +looked tolerantly with his tired elderly amusement at the other, +stepping about, surveying the room and every object in it. + +The younger brought himself up short in front of a framed photograph. +"Why, here's a chateau-fort I don't know!" he said with an abrupt +accent. He added, with some vehemence, "I never even heard of it, I'm +sure. And it's authentic, evidently." + +The older man sat perfectly still. He did not know what a shatto four +was, nor had he the slightest desire to ask and bring the information +down on him, given as the other would give it, pressingly, vividly, so +that you had to listen whether you wanted to or not. Heaven knew he did +not want to know about whatever it was, this time. Not about that, nor +anything else. He only wanted to rest and have a little life before it +was too late. It was already too late for any but the quietest sort. But +that was no matter. He wouldn't have liked the other kind very well +probably. He certainly had detested the sort of "life" he'd experienced +in business. The quietest sort was what he had always wanted and never +got. And now it really seemed as though he was going to have it. For all +his fatigued pose in the old arm-chair, his heart beat faster at the +idea. He hadn't got used to being free yet. He'd heard people say that +when you were first married it was like that, you couldn't realize it. +He'd heard one of the men at the office say that for a long time, every +time he heard his bride's skirts rustle, he had to turn his head to make +sure she was really there. Well, he would like now to get up and look +out of that window and see if his garden was really there. _His garden!_ +He thought with a secret feeling, half pity and half shame, of those +yellowed old seed catalogues which had come, varnished and brilliant and +new, year after year, so long ago, which he'd looked at so hard and so +long, in the evenings, and put away to get yellow and sallow like his +face . . . and his hopes. It must be almost time to "make garden," he +thought. He had heard them saying at the store that the sap was +beginning to run in the maple-trees. He would have just time to get +himself settled in his house . . . he felt an absurd young flush come up +under his grizzled beard at this phrase . . . "his house," his own house, +with bookshelves, and a garden. How he loved it all already! He sat very +still, feeling those savagely lopped-off tendrils put out their curling +fingers once more, this time unafraid. He sat there in the comfortable +old arm-chair at rest as never before. He thought, "This is the way I'm +going to feel right along, every day, all the time," and closed his +eyes. + +He opened them again in a moment, moved subconsciously by the life-time +habit of making sure what Vincent was up to. He smiled at the keen look +of alert, prick-eared attention which the other was still giving to that +room! Lord, how Vincent did love to get things all figured out! He +probably had, by this time, an exact diagram of the owners of the house +all drawn up in his mind and would probably spend the hour of their +call, seeing if it fitted. Not that _they_ would have any notion he was +doing anything but talk a blue streak, or was thinking of anything but +introducing an old friend. + +One thing he wanted in his garden was plenty of gladioli. Those poor, +spindling, watery ones he had tried to grow in the window-box, he'd +forget that failure in a whole big row all along the terrace, tall and +strong, standing up straight in the country sunshine. What was the +address of that man who made a specialty of gladioli? He ought to have +noted it down. "Vincent," he asked, "do you remember the address of that +Mr. Schwatzkummerer who grew nothing but gladioli?" Vincent was looking +with an expression of extreme astonishment at the sheet of music on the +piano. He started at the question, stared, recollected himself, laughed, +and said, "Heavens, no, Mr. Welles!" and went back into his own world. +There were lots of things, Mr. Welles reflected, that Vincent did _not_ +care about just as hard as he cared about others. + +In a moment the younger man came and sat down on the short, high-armed +sofa. Mr. Welles thought he looked puzzled, a very unusual expression on +that face. Maybe, after all, he hadn't got the owners of the house so +well-plotted out as he thought he ought to. He himself, going on with +his own concerns, remarked, "Well, the name must be in the Long Island +telephone directory. When you go back you could look it up and send me +word." + +"Whose name?" asked Vincent blankly. + +"Schwatzkummerer," said the other. + +"_What_!" cried Vincent incredulously, and then, "Oh yes," and then, +"Sure, yes, I'll look it up. I'm going back Thursday on the night train. +I won't leave the Grand Central without going to a telephone booth, +looking it up, and sending it to you on a postcard, mailed there. It +ought to be here on the morning mail Saturday." + +The older man knew perfectly well that he was being a little laughed at, +for his absorption in gladioli, and not minding it at all, laughed +himself, peaceably. "It would take a great deal more than a little of +Vincent's fun," he thought, "to make me feel anything but peaceable +here." He was quite used to having people set him down as a harmless, +worn-out old duffer, and he did not object to this conception of his +character. It made a convenient screen behind which he could carry on +his own observation and meditation uninterrupted. + +"Here comes somebody," said Vincent and turned his quick eyes toward the +door, with an eager expression of attention. He really _must_ have been +stumped by something in the room, thought Mr. Welles, and meant to +figure it out from the owners of the house themselves. + +The tall, quiet-looking lady with the long dark eyes, who now came in +alone, excusing herself for keeping them waiting, must of course be Mrs. +Crittenden, Mr. Welles knew. He wished he could get to his feet as +Vincent did, looking as though he had got there by a bound or a spring +and were ready for another. He lifted himself out of his arm-chair with +a heaviness he knew seemed all the heavier by contrast, took the slim +hand Mrs. Crittenden offered him, looked at her as hard as he dared, and +sank again into the arm-chair, as she motioned him to do. He had had a +long experience in judging people quickly by the expression of their +faces, and in that short length of time he had decided thankfully that +he was really, just as he had hoped, going to like his new neighbor as +much as all the rest of it. He gave her a propitiatory smile, hoping she +might like him a little, too, and hoping also that she would not mind +Vincent. Sometimes people did, especially nice ladies such as evidently +Mrs. Crittenden was. He observed that as usual Vincent had cut in ahead +of everybody else, had mentioned their names, both of them, and was +talking with that . . . well, the way he _did_, which people either liked +very much or couldn't abide. He looked at Vincent as he talked. He was +not a great talker himself, which gave him a great deal of practice in +watching people who did. He often felt that he _saw_ more than he heard, +so much more did people's faces express than their words. + +He noticed that the younger man was smiling a good deal, showing those +fine teeth of his, and he had one of those instantaneously-gone, +flash-light reminiscences of elderly people, . . . the day when Mr. Marsh +had been called away from the office and had asked him to go with little +Vincent to keep an appointment with the dentist. Heavens! How the kid +had roared and kicked! And now he sat there, smiling, "making a call," +probably with that very filling in his tooth, grown-up, not even so very +young any more, with a little gray in his thick hair, what people often +called a good-looking man. How life did run between your fingers! Well, +he would close his hand tight upon what was left to him. He noticed +further that as Vincent talked, his eyes fixed on his interlocutor, his +vigorous hands caressed with a slow circular motion the rounded arms of +his chair. "What a three-ringed circus that fellow is," he thought. "I +bet that the lady thinks he hasn't another idea in his head but +introducing an old friend, and all the time he's taking her in, every +inch of her, and three to one, what he'll talk about most afterwards is +the smooth hard feeling of those polished arm-chairs." Vincent was +saying, ". . . and so, we heard in a round-about way too long to bother +you with, about the small old house next door being for sale, and how +very quiet and peaceful a spot this is, and the Company bought it for +Mr. Welles for a permanent home, now he has retired." + +"Pretty fine of them!" murmured the older man dutifully, to the lady. + +Vincent went on, "Oh, it's only the smallest way for them to show their +sense of his life-time devotion to their interests. There's no +estimating what we all owe him, for his steadiness and loyalty and good +judgment, especially during that hard period, near the beginning. _You_ +know, when all electrical businesses were so entirely on trial still. +Nobody knew whether they were going to succeed or not. My father was one +of the Directors from the first and I've been brought up in the +tradition of how much the small beginning Company is indebted to Mr. +Welles, during the years when they went down so near the edge of ruin +that they could see the receiver looking in through the open door." + +Welles moved protestingly. He never had liked the business and he didn't +like reminders that he owed his present comfort to it. Besides this was +reading his own epitaph. He thought he must be looking very foolish to +Mrs. Crittenden. Vincent continued, "But of course that's of no great +importance up here. What's more to the purpose is that Mr. Welles is a +great lover of country life and growing things, and he's been forced to +keep his nose on a city grindstone all his life until just now. I think +I can guarantee that you'll find him a very appreciative neighbor, +especially if you have plenty of gladioli in your garden." + +This last was one of what Welles called "Vincent's sidewipes," which he +could inlay so deftly that they seemed an integral part of the +conversation. He wondered what Mrs. Crittenden would say, if Vincent +ever got through his gabble and gave her a chance. She was turning to +him now, smiling, and beginning to speak. What a nice voice she had! How +nice that she should have such a voice! + +"I'm more than glad to have you both come in to see me, and I'm +delighted that Mr. Welles is going to settle here. But Mr. . . ." she +hesitated an instant, recalled the name, and went on, "Mr. Marsh doesn't +need to explain you any more. It's evident that you don't know Ashley, +or you'd realize that I've already heard a great deal more about you +than Mr. Marsh would be likely to tell me, very likely a good deal more +than is true. I know for instance, . . ." she laughed and corrected +herself, ". . . at least I've been told, what the purchase price of the +house was. I know how Harry Wood's sister-in-law's friend told you about +Ashley and the house in the first place. I know how many years you were +in the service of the Company, and how your pension was voted +unanimously by the Directors, and about the silver loving-cup your +fellow employees in the office gave you when you retired; and indeed +every single thing about you, except the exact relation of the elderly +invalid to whose care you gave up so generously so much of your life; +I'm not sure whether I she was an aunt or a second-cousin." She paused +an instant to give them a chance to comment on this, but finding them +still quite speechless, she went on. "And now I know another thing, that +you like gladioli, and that is a real bond." + +She was interrupted here by a great explosive laugh from Vincent. It was +his comment on her speech to them, and for a time he made no other, +eyeing her appreciatively as she and Mr. Welles talked garden together, +and from time to time chuckling to himself. She gave him once a sidelong +amused glance, evidently liking his capacity to laugh at seeing the +ground cut away from under his feet, evidently quite aware that he was +still thinking about that, and not at all about Mr. Welles and +tulip-beds. Welles was relieved at this. Apparently she was going to +"take" Vincent the right way. Some ladies were frightfully rubbed the +wrong way by that strange great laugh of Vincent's. And what she knew +about gardening! And not only about gardening in general, but about his +own garden. He was astounded at her knowledge apparently of every inch +of the quadrangle of soil back of his house, and at the revelations she +made to him of what could lie sleeping under a mysterious blank surface +of earth. Why, a piece of old ground was like a person. You had to know +it, to have any idea of all that was hidden in its bosom, good and bad. +"There never was such a place for pigweed as the lower end of your +vegetable lot," she told him; "you'll have to get up nights to fight it +if there is plenty of rain this summer." And again, "Be careful about +not digging too close to the east wall of your terrace. There is a +border of peonies there, splendid pink ones, and you're likely to break +off the shoots. They don't show so early as the red ones near the walk, +that get more sun." + +"Did you ever use to _live_ in that house?" he asked her, respectful of +her mastery of its secrets. + +She laughed. "No, oh no. We've lived right here all the eleven years of +our life in Vermont. But there's another side to the local wireless +information-bureau that let me know all about you before you ever got +here. We all know all about everybody and everything, you know. If you +live in the country you're really married to humanity, for better or for +worse, not just on speaking terms with it, as you are in the city. Why, +I know about your garden because I have stood a thousand, thousand times +leaning on my hoe in my own garden, discussing those peonies with old +Mrs. Belham who lived there before you." This seemed to bring up some +picture into her mind at which she looked for a moment, turning from it +to the man beside her, with a warmth in her voice which went to his +heart. "It's been forlorn having that dear little old house empty and +cold. I can't _tell_ you how glad I am you have come to warm it, and +live in it." + +The wonder of it overcame Mr. Welles like a wave. "I can't believe I'm +really going to!" he cried desperately. "It doesn't seem _possible_!" He +felt shamed, knowing that he had burst out too violently. What could she +know of what lay back of him, that he was escaped from! What could she +think of him, but that he was a foolish, bitter old man? + +She did not seem to think that, looking at him attentively as though she +wanted to make out just what he meant. Perhaps she did make out, for she +now said gently, "I believe you are going to like it, Mr. Welles. I +believe you are going to find here what, . . . what you deserve to find." +She said quietly, "I hope we shall be good neighbors to you." + +She spoke so kindly, her look on him was so humane that he felt the +water coming to his eyes. He was in a foolishly emotional state, these +first days. The least little thing threw him off the track. It really +_did_ seem hardly possible that it was all true. That the long grind at +the office was over, the business he had always hated and detested, and +the long, hateful slavery at the flat finished at last, and that he had +come to live out what was left to him in this lovely, peaceful valley, +in that quiet welcoming little house, with this sweet woman next door! +He swallowed. The corners of his mouth twitched. What an old lunatic he +was. But he did not dare trust himself to speak again. + +Now Vincent's voice rose. What a length of time Vincent had been +silent,--he who never took a back seat for anybody! What had he been +doing all this time, sitting there and staring at them with those +awfully brilliant eyes of his? Very likely he had seen the silly weak +tears so near the surface, had caught the sentimental twitch of the +mouth. Yes, quite certainly, for, now he was showing his tact by +changing the subject, changing it with a vengeance. "Mrs. Crittenden," +he was saying, "my curiosity has been touched by that very fine +photograph over there. I don't recognize the castle it shows." + +"That's in Bayonne," she said, and paused, her eyes speculatively on +him. + +"No, Heavens no! You don't need to tell me that it's not Bayonne, New +Jersey!" he answered her unspoken question violently. This made her +laugh, opening her long eyes a little. He went on, "I've been as far as +Pau, but never went into the Basque country." + +"Oh, Pau." She said no more than this, but Welles had the impression +that these words somehow had made a comment on Vincent's information. +Vincent seemed to think so too, and curiously enough not to think it a +very favorable comment. He looked, what he almost never looked, a little +nettled, and spoke a little stiffly. "It's a very fine specimen," he +said briefly, looking again at the photograph. + +"Oh, it looks very much finer and bigger in the photograph than it +really is," she told them. "It's only a bandbox of a thing compared with +Coucy or Pierrefonds or any of the northern ones. It was built, you +know, like the Cathedral at Bayonne, when the Plantagenets still held +that country, but after they were practically pretty near English, and +both the chateau and the Gothic cathedral seem queer aliens among the +southern natives. I have the photograph up there on the wall only +because of early associations. I lived opposite it long ago when I was a +little girl." + +This, to Mr. Welles, was indistinguishable from the usual talk of people +who have been "abroad." To tell the truth they always sounded to him +more or less "showing-off," though he humbly tried to think it was only +because he could never take any part in such talk. He certainly did not +see anything in the speech to make Vincent look at her, almost with his +jaw dropped. He himself paid little attention to what she was now +saying, because he could not keep his mind from the lingering sweet +intonations of her voice. What difference did it make where she had +lived as a little girl? She was going to live next door to him now; what +an awfully nice woman she was, and quite a good-looking woman too, with +a very nice figure, although not in her very first youth, of course. How +old could she be? Between thirty and forty of course, but You couldn't +tell where. His personal taste was not for such a long face as hers. But +you didn't notice that when she smiled. He liked the way she did her +black hair, too, so smooth and shining and close to her head. It looked +as though she'd really combed and brushed it, and most women's hair +didn't. + +She turned to him now, again, and said, "Is this your very first call in +Ashley? Because if it is, I mustn't miss the opportunity to cut in ahead +of all the other gossips, and give you a great deal of information. You +might just as well have it all in one piece now, and get it straight, as +take it in little snippets from old Mrs. Powers, when she comes to bring +your milk, this evening. You see I know that you are to get your milk of +the Powers, and that they have plucked up courage to ask you eight cents +a quart although the price around here has been, till now, six cents. +You'll be obliged to listen to a great many more details from Mrs. +Powers than from me, even those she knows nothing about. But of course +you must be introduced to the Powers, _in toto_ too. Old Mrs. Powers, a +very lively old widow, lives on her farm nearly at the foot of Deer +Hollow. Her married son and his family live with her. In this house, +there is first of all my husband. I'm so sorry he is away in Canada just +now, on lumbering business. He is Neale Crittenden, a Williams man, who +in his youth had thoughts of exploring the world but who has turned out +head of the 'Crittenden Manufacturing Company,' which is the +high-sounding name of a smallish wood-working business on the other side +of the field next our house. You can see the buildings and probably hear +the saws from your garden. Properly speaking, you know, you don't live +in Ashley but in 'Crittenden's' and your house constitutes one quarter +of all the residences in that settlement. There are yours, and ours, the +mill-buildings, the house where an old cousin of mine lives, and the +Powers' house, although that is so far away, nearly half a mile, that it +is really only a farm-house in the country. _We_, you see, are the +suburb of Ashley." + +Marsh laughed out again at this, and she laughed with him, their eyes, +shining with amusement, meeting in a friendly glance. + +"The mill is the most important member of Crittenden's, of course. Part +of the mill-building is pre-Revolutionary, and very picturesque. In the +life-time of my husband's uncle, it still ran by water-power with a +beautiful, enormous old mossy water-wheel. But since we took it over, +we've had to put in modern machinery very prosaically and run it on its +waste of slabs, mostly. All sorts of small, unimportant objects are +manufactured there, things you never heard of probably. Backs of +hair-brushes, wooden casters to put under beds and chairs, rollers for +cotton mills. As soon as my husband returns, I'll ask him to take you +through it. That and the old church are the only historic monuments in +town." + +She stopped and asked him meditatively, "What else do you suppose I need +to forestall old Mrs. Powers on? My old Cousin Hetty perhaps. She has a +last name, Allen--yes, some connection with Ethan Allen. I am, myself. +But everybody has always called her Miss Hetty till few people remember +that she has another name. She was born there in the old house below +'the Burning,' and she has lived there for eighty years, and that is all +her saga. You can't see her house from here, but it is part of +Crittenden's all the same, although it is a mile away by the main road +as you go towards the Dug-Way. But you can reach it in six or seven +minutes from here by a back lane, through the Eagle Rock woods." + +"What nice names!" Mr. Welles luxuriated in them. "The Eagle Rock woods. +The Dug-Way. The Burning. Deer Hollow." + +"I bet you don't know what they mean," Vincent challenged him. Vincent +was always throwing challenges, at everything. But by this time he had +learned how to dodge them. "No, I don't know, and I don't care if I +don't," he answered happily. + +It pleased him that Mrs. Crittenden found this amusing, so that she +looked at him laughing. How her eyes glistened when she laughed. It made +you laugh back. He risked another small attempt at facetiousness. "Go on +with the census of Crittenden's," he told her. "I want to know all about +my future fellow-citizens. You haven't even finished up this house, +anybody but your husband." + +"There is myself. You see me. There is nothing more to that. And there +are the three children, Paul, Elly, and Mark, . . ." She paused here +rather abruptly, and the whimsical accent of good-humored mockery +disappeared. For an instant her face changed into something quite +different from what they had seen. Mr. Welles could not at all make out +the expression which very passingly had flickered across her eyes with a +smoke-like vagueness and rapidity. He had the queerest fancy that she +looked somehow scared,--but of course that was preposterous. + +"Your call," she told them both, "happens to fall on a day which marks a +turning-point in our family life. This is the very first day in ten +years, since Paul's birth, that I have not had at least one of the +children beside me. Today is the opening of spring term in our country +school, and my little Mark went off this morning, for the first time, +with his brother and sister. I have been alone until you came." She +stopped for a moment. Mr. Welles wished that Vincent could get over his +habit of staring at people so. She went on, "I have felt very queer +indeed, all day. It's as though . . . you know, when you have been walking +up and up a long flight of stairs, and you go automatically putting one +foot up and then the other, and then suddenly . . . your upraised foot +falls back with a jar. You've come to the top, and, for an instant, you +have a gone feeling without your stairs to climb." + +It occurred to Mr. Welles that really perhaps the reason why some nice +ladies did not like Vincent was just because of his habit of looking at +them so hard. He could have no idea how piercingly bright his eyes +looked when he fixed them on a speaker like that. And now Mrs. +Crittenden was looking back at him, and would notice it. _He_ could +understand how a refined lady would feel as though somebody were almost +trying to find a key-hole to look in at her,--to have anybody pounce on +her so, with his eyes, as Vincent did. She couldn't know, of course, +that Vincent went pouncing on ladies and baggagemen and office boys, and +old friends, just the same way. He bestirred himself to think of +something to say. "I wish I could get up my nerve to ask you, Mrs. +Crittenden, about one other person in this house," he ventured, "the old +woman . . . the old lady . . . who let us in the door." + +At the sound of his voice Mrs. Crittenden looked away from Vincent +quickly and looked at him for a perceptible moment before she heard what +he had said. Then she explained, smiling, "Oh, she would object very +much to being labeled with the finicky title of 'lady.' That was Toucle, +our queer old Indian woman,--all that is left of old America here. She +belongs to our house, or perhaps I should say it belongs to her. She was +born here, a million years ago, more or less, when there were still a +few basket-making Indians left in the valley. Her father and mother both +died, and she was brought up by the old Great-uncle Crittenden's family. +Then my husband's Uncle Burton inherited the house and brought his bride +here, and Toucle just stayed on. She always makes herself useful enough +to pay for her food and lodging. And when his wife died an elderly +woman, Toucle still just stayed on, till he died, and then she went +right on staying here in the empty house, till my husband and I got +here. We were married in Rome, and made the long trip here without +stopping at all. It was dawn, a June morning, when we arrived. We walked +all the way from the station at Ashley out to the old house, here at +Crittenden's. And . . . I'll never forget the astounded expression on my +husband's face when Toucle rose up out of the long grass in the front +yard and bade me welcome. She'd known me as a little girl when I used to +visit here. She will outlive all of us, Toucle will, and be watching +from her room in the woodshed chamber on the dawn of Judgment Day when +the stars begin to fall." + +Mr. Welles felt a trifle bewildered by this, and showed it. She +explained further, "But seriously, I must tell you that she is a +perfectly harmless and quite uninteresting old herb-gatherer, although +the children in the village are a little afraid of her, because she is +an Indian, the only one they have ever seen. She really _is_ an Indian +too. She knows every inch of our valley and the mountains better than +any lumberman or hunter or fisherman in Ashley. She often goes off and +doesn't come back for days. I haven't the least idea where she stays. +But she's very good to our children when she's here, and I like her +capacity for monumental silence. It gives her very occasional remarks an +oracular air, even though you know it's only because she doesn't often +open her lips. She helps a little with the house-work, too, although she +always looks so absent-minded, as though she were thinking of something +very far away. She's quite capable of preparing a good meal, for all she +never seems to notice what she's up to. And she's the last member of our +family except the very coming-and-going little maids I get once in a +while. Ashley is unlike the rest of the world in that it is hard to get +domestic servants here. + +"Now let me see, whom next to introduce to you. You know all your +immediate neighbors now. I shall have to begin on Ashley itself. Perhaps +our minister and his wife. They live in the high-porticoed, +tall-pillared white old house next door to the church in the village, on +the opposite side from the church-yard. They are Ashleyans of the oldest +rock. Both of them were born here, and have always lived here. Mr. +Bayweather is seventy-five years old and has never had any other parish. +I do believe the very best thing I can do for you is to send you +straight to them, this minute. There's nothing Mr. Bayweather doesn't +know about the place or the people. He has a collection of Ashleyana of +all sorts, records, deeds, titles, old letters, family trees. And for +the last forty years he has been very busy writing a history of Ashley." + +"A history of _Ashley_?" exclaimed Vincent. + +"A history of Ashley," she answered, level-browed. + +Mr. Welles had the impression that a "side-wipe" had been exchanged in +which he had not shared. + +Vincent now asked irrelevantly, "Do you go to church yourself?" + +"Oh yes," she answered, "I go, I like to go. And I take the children." +She turned her head so that she looked down at her long hands in her +lap, as she added, "I think going to church is a _refining_ influence in +children's lives, don't you?" + +To Mr. Welles' horror this provoked from Vincent one of his great +laughs. And this time he was sure that Mrs. Crittenden would take +offense, for she looked up, distinctly startled, really quite as though +he _had_ looked in through the key-hole. But Vincent went on laughing. +He even said, impudently, "Ah, now I've caught you, Mrs. Crittenden; +you're too used to keeping your jokes to yourself. And they're much too +good for that." + +She looked at him hard, with a certain wonder in her eyes. + +"Oh, there's no necromancy about it," he told her. "I've been reading +the titles of your books and glancing over your music before you came +in. And I can put two and two together. Who are you making fun of to +yourself? Who first got off that lovely speech about the refining +influence of church?" + +She laughed a little, half-uneasily, a brighter color mounting to her +smooth oval cheeks. "That's one of Mrs. Bayweather's favorite maxims," +she admitted. She added, "But I really _do_ like to go to church." + +Mr. Welles felt an apprehension about the turn things were taking. +Vincent, he felt sure, was on the verge of being up to something. And he +did not want to risk offending Mrs. Crittenden. He stood up. "Thank you +very much for telling us about the minister and his wife, Mrs. +Crittenden. I think we'll go right along down to the village now, and +pay a call on them. There'll be time enough before dinner." Vincent of +course got up too, at this, saying, "He's the most perfect old +housekeeper, you know. He's kept the neatest flat for himself and that +aged aunt of his for seventy years." + +"_Seventy!_" cried Mr. Welles, scandalized at the exaggeration. + +"Oh, more or less," said Vincent, laughing. Mr. Welles noticed with no +enthusiasm that his eyes were extremely bright, that he smiled almost +incessantly, that he stepped with an excess of his usual bounce. +Evidently something had set him off into one of his fits of wild high +spirits. You could almost feel the electricity sparkle from him, as it +does from a cat on a cold day. Personally, Mr. Welles preferred not to +touch cats when they were like that. + +"When are you going back to the city, Mr. Marsh?" asked Mrs. Crittenden, +as they said good-bye at the door. + +Vincent was standing below her on the marble step. He looked up at her +now, and something about his expression made Mr. Welles think again of +glossy fur emitting sparks. He said, "I'll lay you a wager, Mrs. +Crittenden, that there is one thing your Ashley underground news-service +has not told you about us, and that is, that I've come up not only to +help Mr. Welles install himself in his new home, but to take a somewhat +prolonged rest-cure myself. I've always meant to see more of this +picturesque part of Vermont. I've a notion that the air of this lovely +spot will do me a world of good." + +As Mr. Welles opened his mouth, perhaps rather wide, in the beginning of +a remark, he cut in briskly with, "You're worrying about +Schwatzkummerer, I know. Never you fear. I'll get hold of his address, +all right." He explained briefly to Mrs. Crittenden, startled by the +portentous name. "Just a specialist in gladiolus seeds." + +"_Bulbs!_" cried Mr. Welles, in involuntary correction, and knew as he +spoke that he had been switched off to a side-track. + +"Oh well, bulbs be it," Vincent conceded the point indulgently. He took +off his hat in a final salutation to Mrs. Crittenden, and grasping his +elderly friend by the arm, moved with him down the flag-paved path. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +TABLE TALK + +_An Hour in the Home Life of Mrs. Neale Crittenden, aet. 34_ + + +March 20. + +As she and Paul carried the table out to the windless, sunny side-porch, +Marise was struck by a hospitable inspiration. "You and Elly go on +setting the table," she told the children, and ran across the side-yard +to the hedge. She leaned over this, calling, "Mr. Welles! Mr. Welles!" +and when he came to the door, "The children and I are just celebrating +this first really warm day by having lunch out of doors. Won't you and +Mr. Marsh come and join us?" + +By the time the explanations and protestations and renewals of the +invitation were over and she brought them back to the porch, Paul and +Elly had almost finished setting the table. Elly nodded a +country-child's silent greeting to the newcomers. Paul said, "Oh goody! +Mr. Welles, you sit by me." + +Marise was pleased at the friendship growing up between the gentle old +man and her little boy. + +"Elly, don't you want me to sit by you?" asked Marsh with a playful +accent. + +Elly looked down at the plate she was setting on the table. "If you want +to," she said neutrally. + +Her mother smiled inwardly. How amusingly Elly had acquired as only a +child could acquire an accent, the exact astringent, controlled brevity +of the mountain idiom. + +"I think Elly means that she would like it very much, Mr. Marsh," she +said laughingly. "You'll soon learn to translate Vermontese into +ordinary talk, if you stay on here." + +She herself went through the house into the kitchen and began placing +on the wheel-tray all the components of the lunch, telling them over to +herself to be sure she missed none. "Meat, macaroni, spinach, hot +plates, bread, butter, water . . . a pretty plain meal to invite city +people to share. Here, I'll open a bottle of olives. Paul, help me get +this through the door." + +As he pulled at the other end of the wheeled tray, Paul said that Mark +had gone upstairs to wash his hands, ages ago, and was probably still +fooling around in the soap-suds, and like as not leaving the soap in the +water. + +"Paul the responsible!" thought his mother. As they passed the foot of +the stairs she called up, "Mark! Come along, dear. Lunch is served. All +ready," she announced as they pushed the tray out on the porch. + +The two men turned around from where they had been gazing up at the +mountain. "What is that great cliff of bare rock called?" asked Mr. +Marsh. + +"Those are the Eagle Rocks," explained Marise, sitting down and +motioning them to their places. "Elly dear, don't spread it on your +bread so _thick_. If Mr. Bayweather were here he could probably tell you +why they are called that. I have known but I've forgotten. There's some +sort of tradition, I believe . . . no, I see you are getting ready to hear +it called the Maiden's Leap where the Indian girl leaped off to escape +an unwelcome lover. But it's not that this time: something or other +about Tories and an American spy . . . ask Mr. Bayweather." + +"Heaven forfend!" exclaimed Mr. Marsh. + +Marise was amused. "Oh, you've been lectured to on local history, I +see," she surmised. + +"_I_ found it very interesting," said Mr. Welles, loyally. "Though +perhaps he does try to give you a little too much at one sitting." + +"Mr. Welles," said Paul, with his mouth full, "fishing season begins in +ten days." + +Marise decided that she would really have to have a rest from telling +Paul not to talk with food in his mouth, and said nothing. + +Mr. Welles confessed that he had never gone fishing in his life, and +asked if Paul would take him. + +"Sure!" said Paul. "Mother and I go, lots." + +Mr. Marsh looked at Marise inquiringly. "Yes," she said, "I'm a +confirmed fisherman. Some of the earliest and happiest recollections I +have, are of fishing these brooks when I was a little girl." + +"Here?" asked Mr. Welles. "I thought you lived in France." + +"There's time in a child's life to live in various places," she +explained. "I spent part of my childhood and youth here with my dear old +cousin. The place is full of associations for me. Will you have your +spinach now, or later? It'll keep hot all right if you'd rather wait." + +"What is this delicious dish?" asked Mr. Marsh. "It tastes like a man's +version of creamed chicken, which is always a little too lady-like for +me." + +"It's a _blanquette de veau_, and you may be sure I learned to make it +in one of the French incarnations, not a Vermont one." + +Paul stirred and asked, "Mother, where _is_ Mark? He'll be late for +school, if he doesn't hurry." + +"That's so," she said, and reflected how often one used that phrase in +response to one of Paul's solid and unanswerable statements. + +Mark appeared just then and she began to laugh helplessly. His hands +were wetly, pinkly, unnaturally clean, but his round, rosy, sunny little +face was appallingly streaked and black. + +Paul did not laugh. He said in horrified reproach, "Oh, Mark! You never +_touched_ your face! It's piggy dirty." + +Mark was staggered for a moment, but nothing staggered him long. "I +don't get microbes off my face into my food," he said calmly. "And you +bet there aren't any microbes left on my hands." He went on, looking at +the table disapprovingly, "Mother, there isn't a many on the table +_this_ day, and I wanted a many." + +"The stew's awful good," said Paul, putting away a large quantity. + +"'Very,' not 'awful,' and don't hold your fork like that," corrected +Marise, half-heartedly, thinking that she herself did not like the +insipid phrase "very good" nor did she consider the way a fork was held +so very essential to salvation. "How much of life is convention, any way +you arrange it," she thought, "even in such an entirely unconventional +one as ours." + +"It _is_ good," said Mark, taking his first mouthful. Evidently he had +not taken the remarks about his face at all seriously. + +"See here, Mark," his mother put it to him as man to man, "do you think +you ought to sit down to the table looking like that?" + +Mark wriggled, took another mouthful, and got up mournfully. + +Paul was touched. "Here, I'll go up with you and get it over quick," he +said. Marise gave him a quick approving glance. That was the best side +of Paul. You could say what you pleased about the faults of American and +French family life, but at any rate the children didn't hate each other, +as English children seemed to, in novels at least. It was only last week +that Paul had fought the big French Canadian boy in his room at school, +because he had made fun of Elly's rubber boots. + +As the little boys clattered out she said to the two guests, "I don't +know whether you're used to children. If you're not, you must be feeling +as though you were taking lunch in a boiler factory." + +Mr. Welles answered, "I never knew what I was missing before. +Especially Paul. That first evening when you sent him over with the +cake, as he stood in the door, I thought, 'I wish _I_ could have had a +little son like that!'" + +"We'll share him with you, Mr. Welles." Marise was touched by the +wistfulness of his tone. She noticed that Mr. Marsh had made no comment +on the children. He was perhaps one of the people who never looked at +them, unless they ran into him. Eugenia Mills was like that, quite +sincerely. + +"May I have a little more of the _blanquette_, if I won't be considered +a glutton?" asked Mr. Marsh now. "I've sent to the city for an +invaluable factotum of mine to come and look out for us here, and when +he comes, I hope you'll give him the recipe." + +The little boys clattered back and began to eat again, in haste with +frequent demands for their mother to tell them what time it was. In +spite of this precaution, the clock advanced so relentlessly that they +were obliged to set off, the three of them, before dessert was eaten, +with an apple in one hand and a cookie in the other. + +The two men leaned back in their chairs with long breaths, which Marise +interpreted as relief. "Strenuous, three of them at once, aren't they?" +she said. "A New York friend of mine always says she can take the +vibration-cure, only by listening to family talk at our table." + +"What's the vibration-cure?" asked Mr. Welles seriously. + +"Oh, _I_ don't know!" confessed Marise. "I'm too busy to keep up with +the latest fads in cures as Eugenia does. You may meet her there this +summer, by the way. She usually spends a part of the summer with us. She +is a very old school-friend of mine." + +"French or Vermont incarnation?" inquired Marsh casually. "May I smoke? +Won't you have a cigarette, yourself?" + +"Oh, _French!_" Marise was immensely amused, and then, remembering that +the joke was not apparent, "If you'd ever seen her, even for a moment, +you'd know why I laugh. She is the embodiment of sophisticated +cosmopolitanism, an expert on all sorts of esoteric, aesthetic and +philosophic matters, book-binding, historic lace, the Vedanta creed, +Chinese porcelains, Provencal poetry, Persian shawls . . ." + +"What nationality is she, herself?" inquired Mr. Welles with some +curiosity. + +Marise laughed. "She was born in Arkansas, and brought up in Minnesota, +what did you suppose? No European could ever take culture so seriously. +You know how any convert always has a thousand times more fervor than +the fatigued members of the faith who were born to it." + +"Like Henry James, perhaps?" suggested Marsh. + +"Yes, I always envied Henry James the conviction he seems to have had, +all his life, that Europeans are a good deal more unlike other people +than I ever found them. It may be obtuseness on my part, but I never +could see that people who lived in the Basses-Pyrenees are any more +cultivated or had any broader horizons than people who live in the Green +Mountains. My own experience is that when you actually live with people, +day after day, year after year, you find about the same range of +possibilities in any group of them. But I never advance this theory to +Eugenia, who would be horrified to know that I find a strong family +likeness between her New York circle and my neighbors here." + +She had been aware that Marsh was looking at her as she spoke. What a +singular, piercing eye he had! It made her a little restive, as at a +too-intimate contact, to be looked at so intently, although she was +quite aware that there was a good deal of admiration in the look. She +wondered what he was thinking about her; for it was evident that he was +thinking about her, as he sent out that penetrating gaze. + +But perhaps not, after all; for he now said as if in answer to her last +remark, "I have my own way of believing that, too, that all people are +made of the same stuff. Mostly I find them perfectly negligible, too +utterly without savor even to glance at. Once in a thousand years, it +seems to me, you come across a human being who's alive as you are, who +speaks your language, is your own kind, belongs to you. When you do, +good Lord! What a moment!" + +He pronounced this in a perfectly impersonal tone, but something about +the quality of his voice made Marise flash a quick glance at him. His +eyes met hers with a sudden, bold deepening of their gaze. Marise's +first impulse was to be startled and displeased, but in an instant a +quick fear of being ridiculous had voiced itself and was saying to her, +"Don't be countrified. It's only that I've had no contact with +people-of-the-world for a year now. That's the sort of thing they get +their amusement from. It would make him laugh to have it resented." +Aloud she said, rather at random, "I usually go down once a season to +the city for a visit to this old friend of mine, and other friends +there. But this last winter I didn't get up the energy to do that." + +"I should think," said Mr. Welles, "that last winter you'd have used up +all your energy on other things, from what Mrs. Powers tells me about +the big chorus you always lead here in winters." + +"That does take up a lot of time," she admitted. "But it's a generator +of energy, leading a chorus is, not a spender of it." + +"Oh, come!" protested Marsh. "You can't put that over on me. To do it as +I gather you do . . . heavens! You must pour out your energy and +personality as though you'd cut your arteries and let the red flood +come." + +"You pour it out all right," she agreed, "but you get it back a thousand +times over." She spoke seriously, the topic was vital to her, her eyes +turned inward on a recollection. "It's amazing. It's enough to make a +mystic out of a granite boulder. I don't know how many times I've +dragged myself to a practice-evening dog-tired physically with work and +care of the children, stale morally, sure that I had nothing in me that +was profitable for any purpose, feeling that I'd do anything to be +allowed to stay at home, to doze on the couch and read a poor novel." +She paused, forgetting to whom she was speaking, forgetting she was not +alone, touched and stirred with a breath from those evenings. + +"Well . . . ?" prompted Mr. Marsh. She wondered if she were mistaken in +thinking he sounded a little irritable. + +"Well," she answered, "it has not failed a single time. I have never +come back otherwise than stronger, and rested, the fatigue and staleness +all gone, buried deep in something living." She had a moment of +self-consciousness here, was afraid that she had been carried away to +seem high-flown or pretentious, and added hastily and humorously, "You +mustn't think that it's because I'm making anything wonderful out of my +chorus of country boys and girls and their fathers and mothers. It's no +notable success that puts wings to my feet as I come home from that +work. It's only the music, the hearty satisfying singing-out, by +ordinary people, of what too often lies withering in their hearts." + +She was aware that she was speaking not to sympathizers. Mr. Welles +looked vague, evidently had no idea what she meant. Mr. Marsh's face +looked closed tight, as though he would not open to let in a word of +what she was saying. He almost looked hostile. Why should he? When she +stopped, a little abashed at having been carried along by her feelings, +Mr. Marsh put in lightly, with no attempt at transition, "All that's +very well. But you can't make me believe that by choice you live up her +all the year around. You must nearly perish away with homesickness for +the big world, you who so evidently belong in it." + +"Where is the big world?" she challenged him, laughing. "When you're +young you want to go all round the globe to look for it. And when you've +gone, don't you find that your world everywhere is about as big as you +are?" + +Mr. Marsh eyed her hard, and shook his head, with a little scornful +downward thrust of the corners of his mouth, as though he were an augur +who refused to lend himself to the traditional necessity to keep up the +appearance of believing in an exploded religion. "_You_ know where the +big world is," he said firmly. "It's where there are only people who +don't have to work, who have plenty of money and brains and beautiful +possessions and gracious ways of living, and few moral scruples." He +defined it with a sovereign disregard for softening phrases. + +She opposed to this a meditative, "Oh, I suppose the real reason why I +go less and less to New York, is that it doesn't interest me as it used +to. Human significance is what makes interest for me, and when you're +used to looking deep into human lives out of a complete knowledge of +them as we do up here, it's very tantalizing and tormenting and after a +while gets boring, the superficial, incoherent glimpses you get in such +a smooth, glib-tongued circle as the people I happen to know in New +York. It's like trying to read something in a language of which you know +only a few words, and having the book shown to you by jerks at that!" + +Mr. Marsh remarked speculatively, as though they were speaking of some +quite abstract topic, "It may also be possibly that you are succumbing +to habit and inertia and routine." + +She was startled again, and nettled . . . and alarmed. What a rude thing +to say! But the words were no sooner out of his mouth than she had felt +a scared wonder if perhaps they were not true. She had not thought of +that possibility. + +"I should think you would like the concerts, anyhow," suggested Mr. +Welles. + +"Yes," said Marise, with the intonation that made the affirmation almost +a negative. "Yes, of course. But there too . . . music means so much to +me, so very much. It makes me sick to see it pawed over as it is among +people who make their livings out of it; used as it so often is as a +background for the personal vanity or greed of the performer. Take an +ordinary afternoon solo concert given by a pianist or singer . . . it +always seems to me that the music they make is almost an unconsidered +by-product with them. What they're really after is something else." + +Marsh agreed with her, with a hearty relish, "Yes, musicians are an +unspeakable bunch! + +"I suppose," Marise went on, "that I ought not to let that part of it +spoil concert music for me. And it doesn't, of course. I've had some +wonderful times . . . people who play in orchestra and make chamber-music +are the real thing. But the music you make yourself . . . the music we +make up here . . . well, perhaps my taste for it is like one's liking +(some people call it perverse) for French Primitive painting, or the +something so awfully touching and heart-felt that was lost when the +Renaissance came up over the Alps with all its knowingness." + +"You're not pretending that you get Vermonters to make music?" protested +Marsh, highly amused at the notion. + +"I don't know," she admitted, "whether it is music or not. But it is +something alive." She fell into a muse, "Queer, what a spider-web of +tenuous complication human relationships are. I never would have +thought, probably, of trying anything of the sort if it hadn't been for +a childhood recollection. . . . French incarnation this time," she said +lightly to Marsh. "When I was a little girl, a young priest, just a +young parish priest, in one of the poor hill-parishes of the Basque +country, began to teach the people of his parish really to sing some of +the church chants. I never knew much about the details of what he did, +and never spoke to him in my life, but from across half the world he has +reached out to touch this cornet of America. By the time I was a young +lady, he had two or three big country choruses under his direction. We +used to drive up fist to one and then to another of those hill-towns, +all white-washed houses and plane-tree atriums, and sober-eyed Basques, +to hear them sing. It was beautiful. I never have had a more complete +expression of beauty in all my life. It seemed to me the very soul of +music; those simple people singing, not for pay, not for notoriety, out +of the fullness of their hearts. It has been one of the things I never +forgot, a standard, and a standard that most music produced on platforms +before costly audiences doesn't come up to." + +"I've never been able to make anything out of music, myself," confessed +Mr. Welles. "Perhaps you can convert me. I almost believe so." + +"'Gene Powers sings!" cried Marise spiritedly. "And if he does . . ." + +"Any relation to the lively old lady who brings our milk?" + +"Her son. Haven't you seen him yet? A powerfully built granite rock of a +man. Silent as a granite rock too, as far as small talk goes. But he +turns out to have a bass voice that is my joy. It's done something for +him, too, I think, really and truly, without sentimental exaggeration at +all. He suffered a great injustice some six or seven years ago, that +turned him black and bitter, and it's only since he has been singing in +our winter choir that he has been willing to mix again with anyone." + +She paused for a moment, and eyed them calculatingly. It occurred to her +that she had been talking about music and herself quite enough. She +would change the subject to something matter-of-fact. "See here, you'll +be sure to have to hear all that story from Mr. Bayweather in relentless +detail. It might be your salvation to be able to say that I had told +you, without mentioning that it was in a severely abridged form. He'd +want to start back in the eighteenth century, and tell you all about +that discreditable and unreconstructed Tory ancestor of mine who, when +he was exiled from Ashley, is said to have carried off part of the town +documents with him to Canada. Whether he did or not (Mr. Bayweather has +a theory, I believe, that he buried them in a copper kettle on Peg-Top +Hill), the fact remains that an important part of the records of Ashley +are missing and that has made a lot of trouble with titles to land +around here. Several times, unscrupulous land-grabbers have taken +advantage of the vagueness of the titles to cheat farmers out of their +inheritance. The Powers case is typical. There always have been Powerses +living right there, where they do now; that big pine that towers up so +over their house was planted by 'Gene's great-grandfather. And they +always owned an immense tract of wild mountain land, up beyond the Eagle +Rock range, along the side of the Red-Brook marsh. But after paying +taxes on it for generations all during the time when it was too far away +to make it profitable to lumber, it was snatched away from them, seven +years ago, just as modern methods and higher prices for spruce would +have made it very valuable. A lawyer from New Hampshire named Lowder +turned the trick. I won't bother you going into the legal details--a +question of a fake warranty deed, against 'Gene's quit-claim deed, which +was all he had in absence of those missing pages from the town records. +As a matter of fact, the lawyer hasn't dared to cut the lumber off it +yet, because his claim is pretty flimsy; but flimsy or not, the law +regards it as slightly better than 'Gene's. The result is that 'Gene +can't sell it and daren't cut it for fear of being involved in a +law-suit that he couldn't possibly pay for. So the Powers are poor +farmers, scratching a difficult living out of sterile soil, instead of +being well-to-do proprietors of a profitable estate of wood-land. And +when we see how very hard they all have to work, and how soured and +gloomy it has made 'Gene, and how many pleasures the Powers' children +are denied, we all join in when Mrs. Powers delivers herself of her +white-hot opinion of New Hampshire lawyers! I remember perfectly that +Mr. Lowder,--one of the smooth-shaven, thin-lipped, fish-mouthed +variety, with a pugnacious jaw and an intimidating habit of talking his +New Hampshire dialect out of the corner of his mouth. The poor Powers +were as helpless as rabbits before him." + +It all came up before her as she talked, that horrid encounter with +commercial ruthlessness: she saw again poor 'Gene's outraged face of +helpless anger, felt again the heat of sympathetic indignation she and +Neale had felt, recognized again the poison which triumphant +unrighteousness leaves behind. She shook her head impatiently, to shake +off the memory, and said aloud, "Oh, it makes me sick to remember it! We +couldn't believe, any of us, that such bare-faced iniquity could +succeed." + +"There's a good deal of bare-faced iniquity riding around prosperously +in high-powered cars," said Mr. Welles, with a lively accent of +bitterness. "You have to get used to it in business life. It's very +likely that your wicked Mr. Lowder in private life in New Hampshire is a +good husband and father, and contributes to all the charitable +organizations." + +"I won't change _my_ conception of him as a pasty-faced demon," insisted +Marise. + +It appeared that Mr. Marsh's appetite for local history was so slight as +to be cloyed even by the very much abbreviated account she had given +them, for he now said, hiding a small yawn, with no effort to conceal +the fact that he had been bored, "Mrs. Crittenden, I've heard from Mr. +Welles' house the most tantalizing snatches from your piano. Won't you, +now we're close to it, put the final touch to our delightful lunch-party +by letting us hear it?" + +Marise was annoyed by his _grand seigneur_ air of certainty of his own +importance, and piqued that she had failed to hold his interest. Both +impressions were of a quicker vivacity than was at all the habit of her +maturity. She told herself, surprised, that she had not felt this little +sharp sting of wounded personal vanity since she was a girl. What did +she care whether she had bored him or not? But it was with all her +faculties awakened and keen that she sat down before the piano and +called out to them, "What would you like?" + +They returned the usual protestations that they would like anything she +would play, and after a moment's hesitation . . . it was always a leap in +the dark to play to people about whose musical capacities you hadn't the +faintest idea . . . she took out the Beethoven Sonata album and turned to +the Sonata Pathetique. Beethoven of the early middle period was the +safest guess with such entirely unknown listeners. For all that she +really knew, they might want her to play Chaminade and Moskowsky. Mr. +Welles, the nice old man, might find even them above his comprehension. +And as for Marsh, she thought with a resentful toss of her head that he +was capable of saying off-hand, that he was really bored by all +music--and conveying by his manner that it was entirely the fault of the +music. Well, she would show him how she could play, at least. + +She laid her hands on the keys; and across those little smarting, +trivial personalities there struck the clear, assured dignity and worth +of her old friend . . . was there ever such a friend as that rough old +German who had died so long before she was born? No one could say the +human race was ignoble or had never deserved to live, who knew his +voice. In a moment she was herself again. + +Those well-remembered opening chords, they were by this time not merely +musical sounds. They had become something within her, of her own being, +rich with a thousand clustered nameless associations, something that +thrilled and sang and lived a full harmonious life of its own. That +first pearling down-dropping arabesque of treble notes, not only her +fingers played those, but every fiber in her, answering like the +vibrating wood of a violin, its very cells rearranged in the pattern +which the notes had so many times called into existence . . . by the time +she had finished she had almost forgotten that she had listeners. + +And when, sitting for a moment, coming back slowly from Beethoven's +existence to her own, she heard no sound or stir from the porch, she +had only a quiet smile of tolerant amusement. Apparently she had not +guessed right as to their tastes. Or perhaps she had played them to +sleep. + +As for herself, she was hungry for more; she reached out her hand +towards that world of high, purified beauty which miraculously was +always there, with open doors of gold and ivory. . . . + +What now? What did she know by heart? The Largo in the Chopin Sonata. +That would do to come after Beethoven. + +The first plunge into this did not so intimately startle and stir her as +the Beethoven movement had done. It was always like that, she thought as +she played, the sound of the first note, the first chord struck when one +had not played for a day or so; it was having one's closed eyes unsealed +to the daylight anew, an incredulous rapture. But after that, though you +didn't go on quaking and bowing your head, though you were no longer +surprised to find music still there, better than you could possibly +remember it, though you took it for granted, how deeply and solidly and +steadfastly you lived in it and on it! It made you like the child in the +Wordsworth sonnet, "A beauteous evening, calm and free"; it took you in +to worship quite simply and naturally at the Temple's inner shrine; and +you adored none the less although you were not "breathless with +adoration," like the nun; because it was a whole world given to you, not +a mere pang of joy; because you could live and move and be blessedly and +securely at home in it. + +She finished the last note of the Largo and sat quiet for a moment. Then +she knew that someone had come into the room behind her. She turned +about, facing with serene, wide brows whatever might be there. + +The first meeting with the eyes of the man who stood there moved her. So +he too deeply and greatly loved music! His face was quite other from the +hawk-like, intent, boldly imperious countenance which she had seen +before. Those piercing eyes were softened and quietly shining. The +arrogant lines about the mouth that could look so bitter and skeptical, +were as sweet and candid as a child's. + +He smiled at her, a good, grateful, peaceful smile, and nodded, as +though now they understood each other with no more need for words. "Go +on . . . go on!" was all he said, very gently and softly. He sank down in +an arm-chair and leaned his head back in the relaxed pose of listening. + +He looked quite and exactly what Marise was feeling. + +It was with a stir of all her pulses, a pride, a glory, a new sympathy +in her heart, that she turned back to the piano. + + + + +CHAPTER V + +A LITTLE GIRL AND HER MOTHER + +_An Afternoon in the Life of Elly Crittenden, aet. 8 Years_ + + +April 6. + +Elly Crittenden had meant to go straight home from school as usual with +the other children, Paul and Mark, and Addle and Ralph Powers. And as +usual somehow she was ever so far behind them, so far that there wasn't +any use trying to catch up. Paul was hurrying to go over and see that +new old man next door, as usual. She might as well not try, and just +give up, and get home ever so late, the way she always did. Oh well, +Father wasn't at home, and Mother wouldn't scold, and it was nice to +walk along just as slow as you wanted to, and feel your rubber boots +squizzle into the mud. How _good_ it did seem to have real mud, after +the long winter of snow! And it was nice to hear the brooks everywhere, +making that dear little noise and to see them flashing every-which-way +in the sun, as they tumbled along downhill. And it was nice to smell +that smell . . . what _was_ that sort of smell that made you know the +sugaring-off had begun? You couldn't smell the hot boiling sap all the +way from the mountain-sides, but what you did smell made you think of +the little bark-covered sap-houses up in the far woods, with smoke and +white steam coming out from all their cracks, as though there was +somebody inside magicking charms and making a great cloud to cover it, +like Klingsor or the witch-ladies in the Arabian Nights. There was a +piece of music Mother played, that was like that. You could almost see +the white clouds begin to come streeling out between the piano-keys, and +drift all around her. All but her face that always looked through. + +The sun shone down so warm on her head, she thought she might take off +her woolen cap. Why, yes, it was plenty warm enough. Oh, how good it +felt! How _good_ it did feel! Like somebody actually touching your hair +with a warm, soft hand. And the air, that cool, cool air, all damp with +the thousand little brooks, it felt just as good to be cool, when you +tossed your hair and the wind could get into it. How _good_ it did feel +to be bare-headed, after all that long winter! Cool inside your hair at +the roots, and warm outside where the sun pressed on it. Cool wind and +warm sun, two different things that added up to make one lovely feel for +a little girl. The way your hair tugged at its roots, all streaming +away; every single little hair tied tight to your head at one end, and +yet so wildly loose at the other; tight, strong, firm, and yet light and +limber and flag-flapping . . . it was like being warm and cool at the same +time, so different and yet the same. + +And there, underneath all this fluttering and tossing and differences, +there were your legs going on just as dumb and steady as ever, stodge, +stodge, stodge! She looked down at them with interest and appreciation +of their faithful, dutiful service, and with affection at the rubber +boots. She owed those to Mother. Paul had scared her so, when he said, +so stone-wally, the way Paul always spoke as if that settled everything, +that _none_ of the little girls at school wore rubber boots, and he +thought Elly oughtn't to be allowed to look so queer. It made him almost +ashamed of his sister, he said. But Mother had somehow . . . what _had_ +she said to fix it? . . . oh well, something or other that left her her +rubber boots and yet Paul wasn't mad any more. + +And what could she _do_ without rubber boots, when she wanted to wade +through a brook, like this one, and the brooks were as they were now, +all running spang full to the very edge with snow-water, the way this +one did? Oo . . . Ooh . . . Ooh! how queer it did feel, to be standing most +up to your knees this way, with the current curling by, all cold and +snaky, feeling the fast-going water making your boot-legs shake like +Aunt Hetty's old cheeks when she laughed, and yet your feet as _dry_ +inside! How could they feel as cold as that, without being wet, as +though they were magicked? That was a _real_ difference, even more than +the wind cool inside your hair and the sun warm on the outside; or your +hair tied tight at one end and all wobbly loose at the other. But this +wasn't a nice difference. It didn't add up to make a nice feeling, but a +sort of queer one, and if she stood there another minute, staring down +into that swirly, snatchy water, she'd fall right over into it . . . it +seemed to be snatching at _her!_ Oh gracious! This wasn't much better! +on the squelchy dead grass of the meadow that looked like real ground +and yet you sank right into it. Oh, it was _horridly_ soft, like +touching the hand of that new man that had come to live with the old +gentleman next door. She must hurry as fast as she could . . . it felt as +though it was sucking at her feet, trying to pull her down altogether +like the girl with the red shoes, and she didn't have any loaves of +bread to throw down to step on . . . + +Well, there! this was better, as the ground started uphill. There was +firm ground under her feet. Yes, not mud, nor soaked, flabby +meadow-land, but solid earth, _solid, solid!_ She stamped on it with +delight. It was just as nice to have solid things _very_ solid, as it +was to have floaty things like clouds _very_ floaty. What was horrid was +to have a thing that _looked_ solid, and yet was all soft, like gelatine +pudding when you touched it. + +Well, for goodness' sake, where was she? Where had she come to, without +thinking a single thing about it? Right on the ridge overlooking Aunt +Hetty's house to be sure, on those rocks that hang over it, so you could +almost throw a stone down any one of the chimneys. She might just as +well go down and make Aunt Hetty a visit now she was so near, and walk +home by the side-road. Of course Paul would say, nothing could keep him +from saying, that she had planned to do that very thing, right along, +and when she left the school-house headed straight for Aunt Hetty's +cookie-jar. Well, _let_ him! She could just tell him, she'd never +_dreamed_ of such a thing, till she found herself on those rocks. + +She walked more and more slowly, letting herself down cautiously from +one ledge to another, and presently stopped altogether, facing a beech +tree, its trunk slowly twisted into a spiral because it was so hard to +keep alive on those rocks. She was straight in front of it, staring into +its gray white-blotched bark. Now if _Mother_ asked her, of course she'd +have to say, yes, she had planned to, _sort of_ but not quite. Mother +would understand. There wasn't any use trying to tell things how they +really were to Paul, because to him things weren't ever +sort-of-but-not-quite. They either were or they weren't. But Mother +always knew, both ways, hers and Paul's. + +She stepped forward and downward now, lightened. Her legs stretched out +to carry her from one mossed rock to another. "Striding," that was what +she was doing. Now she knew just what "striding" meant. What fun it was +to _feel_ what a word meant! Then when you used it, you could feel it +lie down flat in the sentence, and fit into the other words, like a +piece in a jig-saw puzzle when you got it into the right place. +Gracious! How fast you could "stride" down those rocks into Aunt Hetty's +back yard! + +Hello! Here at the bottom was some snow, a great big drift of it still +left, all gray and shrunk and honey-combed with rain and wind, with a +little trickle of water running away softly and quietly from underneath +it, like a secret. Well, think of there being still _snow_ left anywhere +except on top of the mountains! She had just been thinking all the +afternoon how _good_ it seemed to have the snow all gone, and here she +ran right into some, as if you'd been talking about a person, saying how +sick and tired you were of everlastingly seeing him around, and there he +was, right outside the window and hearing it all, and knowing it wasn't +_his_ fault he was still hanging on. You'd feel bad to know he'd heard. +She felt bad now! After all, the fun the snow had given them, all that +winter, sleighing and snow-shoeing and ski-running and sliding downhill. +And when she remembered how _glad_ she'd been to see the first snow, how +she and little Mark had run to the window to see the first flakes, and +had hollered, Oh goody, _goody!_ And here was all there was left, just +one poor old forgotten dirty drift, melting away as fast as it _could_, +so's to get itself out of the way. She stood looking down on it +compassionately, and presently, stooping over, gave it a friendly, +comforting pat with one mittened hand. + +Then she was pierced with an arrow of hunger, terrible, devouring +starvation! Why was it she was always so _much_ hungrier just as she got +out of school, than ever at meal-times? She did hope this wouldn't be +one of those awful days when Aunt Hetty's old Agnes had let the +cookie-jar get empty! + +She walked on fast, now, across the back yard where the hens, just as +happy as she was to be on solid ground, pottered around dreamily, their +eyes half-shut up. . . . Elly could just think how good the sun must feel +on their feathers! She could imagine perfectly how it would be to have +feathers instead of skin and hair. She went into the kitchen door. +Nobody was there. She went through into the pantry. Nobody there! +Nobody, that is, except the cookie-jar, larger than any other object in +the room, looming up like a wash-tub. She lifted the old cracked plate +kept on it for cover. _Oh_, it was _full_,--a fresh baking! And raisins +in them! The water ran into her mouth in a little gush. Oh _my_, how +good and cracklesome they looked! And how beautifully the sugar +sprinkled on them would grit against your teeth as you ate it! Oh +_gracious!_ + +She put her hand in and touched one. There was nothing that felt like a +freshly baked cookie; even through your mitten you could _know_, with +your eyes shut, it was a cookie. She took hold of one, and stood +perfectly still. She could take that, just as easy! Nobody would miss +it, with the jar so full. Aunt Hetty and Agnes were probably +house-cleaning, like everybody else, upstairs. Nobody would ever know. +The water of desire was at the very corners of her mouth now. She felt +her insides surging up and down in longing. _Nobody_ would know! + +She opened her hand, put the cookie back, laid the plate on the top of +the jar, and walked out of the pantry. Of course she couldn't do that. +What had she been thinking of,--such a stealy, common thing, and she +_Mother's_ daughter! + +But, oh! It was awful, having to be up to Mother! She sniffed forlornly +and drew her mitten across her nose. She _had_ wanted it so! And she was +just _dying_, she was so hungry. And Mother wouldn't even let her _ask_ +people for things to eat. Suppose Aunt Hetty didn't think to ask her! + +She went through the dining-room, into the hall, and called upstairs, +"Aunt Hetty! Aunt Hetty!" She was almost crying she felt so sorry for +herself. + +"Yis," came back a faint voice, very thin and high, the way old people's +voices sounded when they tried to call loud. "Up in the east-wing +garret." + +She mounted the stairs heavily, pulling herself along by those spindling +old red balustrades, just like so many old laths, noticing that her +rubber boots left big hunks of mud on the white-painted stairs, but too +miserable to care. + +The door to the east-wing garret was open. Aunt Hetty was there, bossing +Agnes, and they were both "dudsing," as Elly called it to herself, +leaning over trunks, disappearing in and out of closets, turning inside +out old bags of truck, sorting over, and, for all Elly could see, +putting the old duds back again, just where they had been before. +Grown-ups did seem to run round in circles, so much of their time! + +She sat down wearily on an ugly little old trunk near the door. Aunt +Hetty shut up a drawer in a dresser, turned to Elly, and said, "Mercy, +child, what's the matter? Has the teacher been scolding you?" + +"No, Aunt Hetty," said Elly faintly, looking out of the window. + +"Anybody sick at your house?" asked Aunt Hetty, coming towards the +little girl. + +"No," said Elly, shaking her head. + +"Don't you feel well?" asked Aunt Hetty, laying one wrinkled, shaky old +hand on her shoulder. + +"No, Aunt Hetty," said Elly, her eyes large and sad. + +"Maybe she's hungry," suggested Agnes, in a muffled voice from the +depths of a closet. + +"Are you?" asked Aunt Hetty. + +"Yes," cried Elly. + +Aunt Hetty laughed. "Well, I don't know if there are any cookies in the +house or not," she said, "we've been so busy house-cleaning. Agnes, did +you bake any cookies this morning?" + +Elly was struck into stupor at this. Think of not _knowing_ if there +were any cookies in the house! + +Agnes appeared, tiny and old and stooped and wrinkled, like her +mistress. She had a big, rolled-up woolen-covered comforter in her arms, +over which she nodded. "Yes, I made some. You told me to make some every +Wednesday," she said. She went on, looking anxiously at Aunt Hetty, +"There ain't any moth-holes in this. Was this the comfortable you meant? +I thought this was the one you told me to leave out of the camphor +chest. I thought you told me . . ." + +"You know where to find the cookies, don't you, Elly?" asked Aunt Hetty, +over her shoulder, trotting rapidly like a little dry, wind-blown leaf, +towards Agnes and the comforter. + +"Oh _yes_, Aunt Hetty!" shouted Elly, halfway down the stairs. + +Aunt Hetty called after her, "Take all you want . . . three or four. They +won't hurt you. There's no egg in our recipe." + +Elly was there again, in the empty pantry, before the cookie-jar. She +lifted the cracked plate again. . . . But, oh! how differently she did +feel now! . . . and she had a shock of pure, almost solemn, happiness at +the sight of the cookies. She had not only been good and done as Mother +would want her to, but she was going to have _four_ of those cookies. +Three _or_ four, Aunt Hetty had said! As if anybody would take three if +he was let to have four! Which ones had the most raisins? She knew of +course it wasn't _so very_ nice to pick and choose that way, but she +knew Mother would let her, only just laugh a little and say it was a +pity to be eight years old if you couldn't be a little greedy! + +Oh, how happy she was! How light she felt! How she floated back up the +stairs! What a perfectly sweet old thing Aunt Hetty was! And what a nice +old house she had, though not so nice as home, of course. What pretty +mahogany balusters, and nice white stairs! Too bad she had brought in +that mud. But they were house-cleaning anyhow. A little bit more to +clean up, that was all. And what _luck_ that they were in the east-room +garret, the one that had all the old things in it, the hoop-skirts and +the shells and the old scoop-bonnets, and the four-poster bed and those +fascinating old cretonne bags full of treasures. + +She sat down near the door on the darling little old hair-covered trunk +that had been Great-grandfather's, and watched the two old women at +work. The first cookie had disappeared now, and the second was well on +the way. She felt a great appeasement in her insides. She leaned back +against the old dresses hung on the wall and drew a long breath. + +"Well," said Aunt Hetty, "you've got neighbors up your way, so they tell +me. Funny thing, a city man coming up here to live. He'll never stick it +out. The summer maybe. But that's all. You just see, come autumn, if he +don't light out for New York again." + +Elly made no comment on this. She often heard her elders say that she +was not a talkative child, and that it was hard to get anything out of +her. That was because mostly they wanted to know about things she +hadn't once thought of noticing, and weren't a bit interested when she +tried to talk about what she _had_ noticed. Just imagine trying to tell +Aunt Hetty about that poor old gray snow-bank out in her woods, all +lonely and scrumpled up! She went on eating her cookie. + +"How does he like it, anyhow?" asked Aunt Hetty, bending the upper part +of her out of the window to shake something. "And what kind of a critter +is he?" + +"Well, he's rather an old man," said Elly. She added conscientiously, +trying to be chatty, "Paul's crazy about him. He goes over there all the +time to visit. I like him all right. The old man seems to like it here +all right. They both of them do." + +"Both?" said Aunt Hetty, curving herself back into the room again. + +"Oh, the other one isn't going to _live_ here, like Mr. Welles. He's +just come to get Mr. Welles settled, and to make him a visit. His name +is Mr. Marsh." + +"Well, what's _he_ like?" asked Aunt Hetty, folding together the old +wadded petticoat she had been shaking. + +"Oh, he's all right too," said Elly. She wasn't going to say anything +about that funny softness of his hands, she didn't like, because that +would be like speaking about the snow-drift; something Aunt Hetty would +just laugh at, and call one of her notions. + +"Well, what do they _do_ with themselves, two great hulking men set off +by themselves?" + +Elly tried seriously to remember what they did do. "I don't see them, of +course, much in the morning before I go to school. I guess they get up +and have their breakfast, the way anybody does." + +Aunt Hetty snorted a little, "Gracious, child, a person needs a +corkscrew to get anything out of you. I mean all day, with no chores, or +farmin', or _any_thing." + +"I don't _know_," Elly confessed. "Mr. Clark, of course, he's busy +cooking and washing dishes and keeping house, but . . ." + +"Are there _three_ of them?" Aunt Hetty stopped her dudsing in her +astonishment. "I thought you said two." + +"Oh well, Mr. Marsh sent down to the city and had this Mr. Clark come up +to work for them. He doesn't call him 'Mr. Clark'--just 'Clark,' short +like that. I guess he's Mr. Marsh's hired man in the city. Only he can +do everything in the house, too. But I don't feel like calling him +'Clark' because he's grown-up, and so I call him '_Mr._ Clark.'" She did +not tell Aunt Hetty that she sort of wanted to make up to him for being +somebody's servant and being called like one. It made her mad and she +wanted to show he could be a mister as well as anybody. She began on the +third cookie. What else could she say to Aunt Hetty, who always wanted +to know the news so? She brought out, "Well, _I_ tell you, in the +afternoon, when I get home, mostly old Mr. Welles is out in his garden." + +"_Gardin_!" cried Aunt Hetty. "Mercy on us, making garden the fore-part +of April. Where does he think he's living? Florida?" + +"I don't believe he's exactly making garden," said Elly. "He just sort +of pokes around there, and looks at things. And sometimes he sits down +on the bench and just _sits_ there. He's pretty old, I guess, and he +walks kind of tired, always." + +"Does the other one?" asked Aunt Hetty. + +This made Elly sit up, and say very loud, "No, _indeedy_!" She really +hadn't thought before how very _un_tired Mr. Marsh always seemed. She +added, "No, the other one doesn't walk tired, nor he doesn't poke around +in the garden. He takes long tramps way back of the mountains, over +Burnham way." + +"For goodness' sakes, what's he find up there?" + +"He likes it. He comes over and borrows our maps and things to study, +and he gets Mother to tell him all about everything. He gets Toucle to +tell him about the back trails, too." + +"Well, he's a smart one if he can get a word out of Toucle." + +"Yes, he does. Everybody talks to him. You _have_ to if he starts in. +He's very lively." + +"Does he get _you_ to talk?" asked Aunt Hetty, laughing at the idea. + +"Well, some," stated Elly soberly. She did not say that Mr. Marsh always +seemed to her to be trying to get some secret out of her. She didn't +_have_ any secret that she knew of, but that was the way he made her +feel. She dodged him mostly, when she could. + +"What's the news from your father?" + +"Oh, he's all right," said Elly. She fell to thinking of Father and +wishing he would come back. + +"When's he going to get through his business, up there?" + +"Before long, I guess. Mother said maybe he'd be back here next month." +Elly was aware that she was again not being talkative. She tried to +think of something to add. "I'm very much obliged for these cookies," +she said. "They are awfully good." + +"They're the kind your mother always liked, when she was your age," said +Aunt Hetty casually. "I remember how she used to sit right there on +Father's hair-trunk and eat them and watch me just like you now." + +At this statement Elly could feel her thoughts getting bigger and longer +and higher, like something being opened out. "And the heaven was removed +as a scroll when it is rolled up." That sentence she'd heard in church +and never understood, and always wondered what was behind, what they had +seen when the scroll was rolled up. . . . Something inside her now seemed +to roll up as though she were going to see what was behind it. How much +longer time was than you thought! Mother had sat there as a little girl +. . . a little girl like her. Mother who was now grown-up and _finished_, +knowing everything, never changing, never making any mistakes. Why, how +_could_ she have been a little girl! And such a short time ago that Aunt +Hetty remembered her sitting there, right there, maybe come in from +walking across that very meadow, and down those very rocks. _What had +she been thinking about, that other little girl who had been Mother?_ +"Why" . . . Elly stopped eating, stopped breathing for a moment. "Why, she +herself would stop being a little girl, and would grow up and be a +Mother!" She had always known that, of course, but she had never _felt_ +it till that moment. It made her feel very sober; more than sober, +rather holy. Yes, that was the word,--holy,--like the hymn. Perhaps some +day another little girl would sit there, and be just as surprised to +know that _her_ mother had been really and truly a little girl too, and +would feel queer and shy at the idea, and all the time her mother had +been only _Elly_. But would she _be_ Elly any more, when she was grown +up? What would have happened to Elly? And after that little girl, +another; and one before Mother; and back as far as you could see, and +forwards as far as you could see. It was like a procession, all half in +the dark, marching forward, one after another, little girls, mothers, +mothers and little girls, and then more . . . what for . . . oh, _what +for?_ + +She was a little scared. She wished she could get right up and go _home_ +to Mother. But the procession wouldn't stop . . . wouldn't stop. . . . + +Aunt Hetty hung up the last bag. "There," she said, "that's all we can +do here today. Elly, you'd better run along home. The sun'll be down +behind the mountain _now_ before you get there." + +Elly snatched at the voice, at the words, at Aunt Hetty's wrinkled, +shaking old hand. She jumped up from the trunk. Something in her face +made Aunt Hetty say, "Well, you look as though you'd most dropped to +sleep there in the sun. It does make a person feel lazy this first warm +March sun. I declare this morning I didn't want to go to work +house-cleaning. I wanted to go and spend the day with the hens, singing +over that little dozy ca-a-a-a they do, in the sun, and stretch one leg +and one wing till they most broke off, and ruffle up all my feathers +and let 'em settle back very slow, and then just _set_." + +They had started downstairs before Aunt Hetty had finished this, the +little girl holding tightly to the wrinkled old hand. How peaceful Aunt +Hetty was! Even the smell of her black woolen dresses always had a +_quiet_ smell. And she must see all those hunks of mud on the white +stairs, but she never said a word. Elly squeezed her hand a little +tighter. + +What was it she had been thinking about on the hair-trunk that made her +so glad to feel Aunt Hetty peaceful? Oh yes, that Mother had been there, +where she was, when she was a little girl. Well, gracious! What of that? +She'd always known that Mother had visited Aunt Hetty a lot and that +Aunt Hetty had been awfully good to her, and that Mother loved Aunt +Hetty like everything. What had made it seem so queer, all of a sudden? + +"Well," said Aunt Hetty at the front door, "step along now. I don't want +you should be late for supper." She tipped her head to look around the +edge of the top of the door and said, "Well, I declare, just see that +moon showing itself before ever the sun gets down." + +She walked down the path a little way with Elly, who still held her +hand. They stood together looking up at the mountain, very high and blue +against the sky that was green . . . yes, it really was a pale, clear +green, at the top of the mountain-line. People always said the sky was +blue, except at sunset-time, like now, when it was filling the Notch +right to the top with every color that could be. + +"The lilacs will begin to swell soon," said Aunt Hetty. + +"I saw some pussy-willows out, today," answered Elly. + +The old woman and the little girl lifted their heads, threw them back, +and looked up long into the sky, purely, palely high above them. + +"It's quite a sightly place to live, Crittenden's is," said Aunt Hetty. + +Elly said nothing, it being inconceivable to her that she could live +anywhere else. + +"Well, good-bye," said Aunt Hetty. It did not occur to her to kiss the +little girl. It did not occur to Elly to want a kiss. They squeezed +their hands together a little bit more, and then Elly went down the +road, walking very carefully. + +Why did she walk so carefully, she wondered? She felt as though she were +carrying a cup, full up to the brim of something. And she mustn't let it +spill. What was it so full of? Aunt Hetty's peacefulness, maybe. + +Or maybe just because it was beginning to get twilight. That always made +you feel as though something was being poured softly into you, that you +mustn't spill. She was glad the side-road was so grass-grown. You could +walk on it, so still, like this, and never make a sound. + +She thought again of Father and wished he would come home. She _liked_ +Father. He was solid. He was solid like that solid earth she liked so +much to walk on. It was just such a comfort to feel him. Father was like +the solid ground and Mother was like the floaty clouds. Why, yes, they +were _every_ way like what she had been thinking about. . . . Father was +the warm sun on the outside, and Mother was the cool wind on the inside. +Father was the end that was tied tight and firm so you _knew_ you +couldn't lose it, and Mother was the end that streamed out like flags in +the wind. But they weren't either of them like that slinky, swirly +water, licking at you, in such a hurry to get on past you and get what +it was scrambling to get, whatever that was. + +Well, of all things! There was old Mr. Welles, coming towards her. _He_ +must be out taking a walk too. How slowly he went! And kept looking up +the way she and Aunt Hetty had, at the sky and the mountains. He was +quite close now. Why . . . why, he didn't know she was there. He had gone +right by her and never even saw her and yet had been so close she could +see his face plainly. He must have been looking very hard at the +mountains. But it wasn't hard the way he was looking, it was soft. How +soft his face had looked, almost quivery, almost. . . . But that was silly +to think of . . . almost as though he felt like crying. And yet all +shining and quiet, too, as if he'd been in church. + +Well, it _was_ a little bit like being in church, when you could see the +twilight come down very slow like this, and settle on the tree-tops and +then down through them towards you. You always felt as though it was +going to do something to you when it got to you; something peaceful, +like old Aunt Hetty. + +She was at her own front path now, it was really almost dark. Mother was +playing the piano. But not for either of the boys. It was grown-up music +she was playing. Elly hesitated on the flagged stones. Maybe she was +playing for Mr. Marsh again. She advanced slowly. Yes, there he was, +sitting on the door-step, across the open door, leaning back his head, +smoking, sometimes looking out at the sunset, and sometimes looking in +towards the piano. + +Elly made a wide circuit under the apple-trees, and went in the +side-door. Toucle was only just setting the table. Elly would have +plenty of time to get off her rubber boots, look up her old felt +slippers, and put them on before supper time. Gracious! Her stockings +were wet. She'd have to change them, too. She'd just stay upstairs till +Mr. Marsh went away. She didn't feel to talk to him. + + * * * * * + +When out of her window she saw him step back across the grass to Mr. +Welles' house, Elly came downstairs at once. The light in the +living-room made her blink, after all that outdoor twilight and the +indoor darkness of her room upstairs. + +Mother was still at the piano, her hands on the keys, but not playing. +At the sight of her, Elly's heart filled and brightened. Her busy, busy +thoughts stopped for the first time that day. She felt as you do when +you've been rowing a boat a long time and finally, almost where you +want to go, you stop and let her slide in on her own movement, quiet and +soft and smooth, and reach out your hand to take hold of the +landing-place. Elly reached out her arm and put it around Mother's neck. +She stood perfectly quiet. There wasn't any need to be anything _but_ +quiet now you'd got to where you were going. + +She had been out on the rim of the wheel, all around and around it, and +up and down the spokes. But now she was at the center where all the +spokes ended. + +She closed her eyes and laid her head on Mother's soft shoulder. + +"Did you have a good walk, all by yourself, dear?" asked Mother. + +"Oh yes, it was all right," said Elly. + +"Your feet aren't wet, are they?" + +"No," said Elly, "I took off my boots just as soon as I came in, and +changed my stockings." + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +THINGS TAKE THEIR COURSE + + +_A Couple of Hours from Mr. Welles' New Life_. + + +I + +April 10. + +One of the many things which surprised Mr. Welles was that he seemed to +need less sleep than in the city. Long hours in bed had been one of the +longed-for elements of the haven of rest which his retiring from the +office was to be. Especially as he had dragged himself from bed to stop +the relentless snarl of his alarm-clock, had he hoped for late morning +sleeps in his new home, when he could wake up at seven, feel himself +still heavy, unrefreshed, unready for the day, and turn on the pillow to +take another dose of oblivion. + +But here, after the first ten days of almost prostrate relaxation, he +found himself waking even before the dawn, and lying awake in his bed, +waiting almost impatiently for the light to come so that he could rise +to another day. He learned all the sounds of the late night and early +morning, and how they had different voices in the dark; the faint +whisper of the maple-branches, the occasional stir and muffled chirp of +a bird, the hushed, secret murmur of the little brook which ran between +his garden and the Crittenden yard, and the distant, deeper note of the +Necronsett River as it rolled down the Ashley valley to The Notch. He +could almost tell, without opening his eyes, when the sky grew light +over the Eagle Rocks, by the way the night voices lifted, and carried +their sweet, muted notes up to a clearer, brighter singing. + +When that change in the night-voices came, he sat up in bed, turning +his face from the window, for he did not want any mere partial glimpse +for his first contact with the day, and got into his clothes, moving +cautiously not to waken Vincent, who always sat up till all hours and +slept till ten. Down the stairs in his stocking-feet, his shoes in his +hand; a pause in the living-room to thread and fasten shoe-laces; and +then, his silly old heart beating fast, his hand on the door-knob. The +door slowly opened, and the garden, his own shining garden, offered +itself to him anew, so fresh in the dew and the pale gold of the +slanting morning sun-rays, that he was apt to swallow hard as he first +stepped out into it and stood still, with bare head lifted, drawing one +long breath after another. + +He was seldom alone in those early hours, although the house slept +profoundly behind him; a robin, the only bird whose name he was sure of, +hopped heavily and vigorously about on the sparkling grass; a little +brown bird of whose name he had not the slightest notion, but whose +voice he knew very well by this time, poured out a continuous cascade of +quick, high, eager notes from the top of the elm; a large toad squatted +peaceably in the sun, the loose skin over its forehead throbbing +rhythmically with the life in it; and over on the steps of the +Crittendens' kitchen, the old Indian woman, as motionless as the toad, +fixed her opaque black eyes on the rising sun, while something about +her, he could never decide what, throbbed rhythmically with the life in +her. Mr. Welles had never in all his life been so aware of the rising +sun, had never so felt it like something in himself as on those mornings +when he walked in his garden and glanced over at the old Indian. + +Presently, the Crittenden house woke, so to speak, with one eye, and +took on the aspect of a house in which someone is astir. First came the +fox-terrier, inevitable precursor of his little master, and then, +stepping around Toucle as though she were a tree or a rock, came his +little partner Paul, his freckled face shining with soap and the +earliness of the hour. Mr. Welles was apt to swallow hard again, when +he felt the child's rough, strong fingers slip into his. + +"Hello, Mr. Welles," said Paul. + +"Hello, Paul," said Mr. Welles. + +"I thought sure I'd beat you to it for once, this morning," was what +Paul invariably said first. "I can't seem to wake up as early as you and +Toucle." + +Then he would bring out his plan for that particular morning walk. + +"Maybe we might have time to have me show you the back-road by Cousin +Hetty's, and get back by the men's short-cut before breakfast, maybe? +Perhaps?" + +"We could try it," admitted Mr. Welles, cautiously. It tickled him to +answer Paul in his own prudent idiom. Then they set off, surrounded and +encompassed by the circles of mad delight which Medor wove about them, +rushing at them once in a while, in a spasm of adoration, to leap up and +lick Paul's face. + +Thus on one of these mornings in April, they were on the back-road to +Cousin Hetty's, the right-hand side solemn and dark with tall pines, +where the ground sloped up towards the Eagle Rocks; jungle-like with +blackberry brambles and young pines on the left side where it had been +lumbered some years ago. Paul pointed out proudly the thrifty growth of +the new pines and explained it by showing the several large trees left +standing at intervals down the slope towards the Ashley valley. "Father +always has them do that, so the seeds from the old trees will seed up +the bare ground again. Gosh! You'd ought to hear him light into the +choppers when they forget to leave the seed-pines or when they cut under +six inches butt diameter." + +Mr. Welles had no more notion what cutting under six inches butt +diameter meant than he had of the name of the little brown bird who sang +so sweetly in his elm; but Paul's voice and that of the nameless bird +gave him the same pleasure. He tightened his hold of the tough, sinewy +little fingers, and looked up through the glorious brown columns of the +great pines towards where the sky-line showed, luminous, far up the +slope. + +"That's the top of the Eagle Rocks, where you see the sky," explained +his small cicerone, seeing the direction of his eyes. "The Powerses lost +a lot of sheep off over them, last year. A dog must ha' started running +them down in the pasture. And you know what fools sheep are. Once they +get scared they can't think of anything to do except just to keep +a-running till something gets in their way. About half of the Powers +flock just ran themselves off the top of the Rocks, although the dog had +stopped chasing them, way down in the valley. There wasn't enough of +them left, even to sell to the butcher in Ashley for mutton. Ralph +Powers, he's about as old as I am, maybe a little bit older, well, his +father had given him a ewe and two twin lambs for his own, and didn't +they all three get killed that day! Ralph felt awful bad about it. He +don't ever seem to have any luck, Ralph don't." + +. . . How sweet it was, Mr. Welles thought to himself, how awfully sweet +to be walking in such pine-woods, on the early morning, preceded by such +a wildly happy little dog, with a little boy whose treble voice ran on +and on, whose strong little hand clasped yours so tightly, and who +turned up to you eyes of such clear trust! Was he the same man who for +such endless years had been a part of the flotsam cast out every morning +into the muddy, brawling flood of the city street and swept along to +work which had always made him uneasy and suspicious of it? + +"There's the whistle," said Paul, holding up a finger. "Father has the +first one blown at half-past six, so's the men can have time to get +their things ready and start; and not have to hurry." + +At this a faint stirring of interest in what the child was saying broke +through the golden haze of the day-dream in which Mr. Welles was +walking. "Where do they come from anyhow, the men who work in your +father's mill?" he asked. "Where do they live? There are so few homes at +Crittenden's." + +"Oh, they live mostly over the hill in the village, in Ashley. There are +lots of old houses there, and once in a while now they even have to +build a new one, since the old ones are all filled up. Mr. Bayweather +says that before Father and Mother came here to live and really run the +mill, that Ashley Street was all full of empty houses, without a light +in them, that the old folks had died out of. But now the men have bought +them up and live in them. It's just as bright, nights! With windows +lighted up all over. Father's had the electric current run over there +from the mill, now, and that doesn't cost anything except . . ." + +Mr. Welles' curiosity satisfied, he fell back into his old shimmer of +content and walked along, hearing Paul's voice only as one of the +morning sounds of the newly awakened world. + +Presently he was summoned out of this day-dream by a tug at his hand. +Paul gave out the word of command, "We turn here, so's to get into the +men's short-cut." + +This proved to be a hard-trodden path, lying like a loosely thrown-down +string, over the hill pasture-land which cut Ashley village off from +Crittenden's mill. It was to get around this rough tract that the road +had to make so long a detour. + +"Oh, I see," said Mr. Welles. "I'd been thinking that it must bother +them a lot to come the two miles along the road from the village." + +"Sure," said Paul. "Only the ones that have got Fords come that way. +This is ever so much shorter. Those that step along fast can make it +easy in twelve or fifteen minutes. There they come now, the first of +them." He nodded backward along the path where a distant dark line of +men came treading swiftly and steadily forward, tin pails glistening in +their hands. + +"Some of those in that first bunch are really choppers by rights," Paul +diagnosed them with a practised eye, "but of course nobody does much +chopping come warmer weather. But Father never lays off any men unless +they want to be. He fixes some jobs for them in the lumber-yard or in +the mill, so they live here all the year around, same's the regular +hands." + +The two stood still now, watching the men as their long, powerful +strides brought them rapidly nearer. Back of them the sun rose up +splendid in the sparkling, dustless mountain air. The pasture grass on +either side of the sinuous path lay shining in the dew. Before them the +path led through a grove of slim, white birches, tremulous in a pale +cloud of light green. + +"Well, they've got a pretty good way to get to their work, all right," +commented Mr. Welles. + +"Yep, pretty good," agreed Paul. "It's got tramped down so it's quite +smooth." + +A detachment of the file of tall, strongly built, roughly dressed men +had now reached them, and with friendly, careless nods and greetings to +Paul, they swung by, smoking, whistling, calling out random remarks and +jokes back and forth along the line. + +"Hello, Frank. Hello, Mike. Hello, Harry. Hello, Jom-bastiste. Hello, +Jim." Paul made answer to their repeated, familiar, "Hello, Paul." + + * * * * * + +Mr. Welles drew back humbly from out their path. These were men, useful +to the world, strong for labor. He must needs stand back with the child. + +With entire unexpectedness, he felt a wistful envy of those men, still +valid, still fit for something. For a moment it did not seem as sweet as +he had thought it would always be, to feel himself old, old and +useless. + + +II + +April 12. + +He was impatient to be at the real work of gardening and one morning +applied seriously to Mrs. Crittenden to be set at work. Surely this must +be late enough, even in this "suburb of the North Pole," as Vincent +called Vermont. Well, yes, Mrs. Crittenden conceded to him, stopping her +rapid manipulation of an oiled mop on the floor of her living-room, if +he was in such a hurry, he could start getting the ground ready for the +sweet peas. It wouldn't do any harm to plant them now, though it might +not do any good either; and he mustn't be surprised to find occasional +chunks of earth still frozen. She would be over in a little while to +show him about it. Let him get his pick-mattock, spade, and rake ready, +up by the corner of his stone wall. + + * * * * * + +He was waiting there, ten minutes later, the new implements (bought at +Mrs. Crittenden's direction days and days ago) leaning against the wall. +The sun was strong and sweet on his bared white head, the cool earth +alive under his feet, freed from the tension of frost which had held it +like stone when he had first trod his garden. He leaned against the +stone wall, laid a century ago by who knew what other gardener, and +looked down respectfully at the strip of ground along the stones. There +it lay, blank and brown, shabby with the litter of broken, sodden stems +of last year's weeds, and unsightly with half-rotten lumps of manure. +And that would feed and nourish . . . + +For an instant there stood there before his flower-loving eyes the +joyful tangle of fresh green vines, the pearly many-colored flesh of the +petals, their cunning, involved symmetry of form--all sprung from a +handful of wrinkled yellow seeds and that ugly mixture of powdered stone +and rotten decay. + +It was a wonderful business, he thought. + +Mrs. Crittenden emerged from her house now, in a short skirt, rough +heavy shoes, and old flannel shirt. She looked, he thought, ever so trig +and energetic and nice; but suddenly aware that Vincent was gazing idly +out of an upper window at them, he guessed that the other man would not +admire the costume. Vincent was so terribly particular about how ladies +dressed, he thought to himself, as he moved forward, mattock in hand. + +"I'm ashamed to show you how dumb I am about the use of these tools," he +told her, laughing shamefacedly. "I don't suppose you'll believe me, but +honestly I never had a pick-mattock in my hand till I went down to the +store to buy one. I might as well go the whole hog and confess I'd never +even heard of one till you told me to get it. Is this the way you use +it?" He jabbed ineffectually at the earth with the mattock, using a +short tight blow with a half-arm movement. The tool jarred itself half +an inch into the ground and was almost twisted out of his hand. + +"No, not quite," she said, taking the heavy tool out of his hand. If she +were aware of the idle figure at the upper window, she gave no sign of +it. She laid her strong, long, flexible hands on the handle, saying, +"So, you hold it this way. Then you swing it up, back of your head. +There's a sort of knack to that. You'll soon catch it. And then, if the +ground isn't very hard, you don't need to use any strength at all on the +downward stroke. Let Old Mother Gravity do the work. If you aim it +right, its own weight is enough for ordinary garden soil, that's not in +sod. Now watch." + +She swung the heavy tool up, shining in the bright air, all her tall, +supple body drawn up by the swing of her arms, cried out, "See, now I +relax and just let it fall," and bending with the downward rush of the +blade, drove it deep into the brown earth. A forward thrust of the long +handle ("See, you use it like a lever," she explained), a small +earthquake in the soil, and the tool was free for another stroke. + +At her feet was a pool of freshly stirred fragments of earth, loose, +friable, and moist, from which there rose in a gust of the spring +breeze, an odor unknown to the old man and thrilling. + +He stooped down, thrust his hand into the open breast of earth, and took +up a handful of the soil which had lain locked in frost for half a year +and was now free for life again. Over it his eyes met those of the +beautiful woman beside him. + +She nodded. "Yes, there's nothing like it, the smell of the first earth +stirred every spring." + +He told her, wistfully, "It's the very first stirred in all my life." + +They had both lowered their voices instinctively, seeing Vincent emerge +from the house-door and saunter towards them immaculate in a gray suit. +Mr. Welles was not at all glad to see him at this moment. "Here, let me +have the mattock," he said, taking it out of Mrs. Crittenden's hands, "I +want to try it myself." + +He felt an anticipatory impatience of Vincent's everlasting talk, to +which Mrs. Crittenden always had, of course, to give a polite attention; +and imitating as well as he could, the free, upward swing of his +neighbor, he began working off his impatience on the unresisting earth. +But he could not help hearing that, just as he expected, Vincent plunged +at once into his queer, abrupt talk. He always seemed to think he was +going right on with something that had been said before, but really, for +the most part, as far as Mr. Welles could see, what he said had nothing +to do with anything. Mrs. Crittenden must really be a very smart woman, +he reflected, to seem to know what he meant, and always to have an +answer ready. + +Vincent, shaking his head, and looking hard at Mrs. Crittenden's rough +clothes and the handful of earth in her fingers, said with an air of +enforced patience with obvious unreasonableness, "You're on the wrong +track, you know. You're just all off. Of course with you it can't be +pose as it looks when other people do it. It must be simply +muddle-headed thinking." + +He added, very seriously, "You infuriate me." + +Mr. Welles, pecking feebly at the ground, the heavy mattock apparently +invested with a malicious life of its own, twisting perversely, heavily +lop-sided in his hands, thought that this did not sound like a polite +thing to say to a lady. And yet the way Vincent said it made it sound +like a compliment, somehow. No, not that; but as though it were awfully +important to him what Mrs. Crittenden did. Perhaps that counted as a +compliment. + +He caught only a part of Mrs. Crittenden's answer, which she gave, +lightly laughing, as though she did not wish to admit that Vincent could +be so serious as he sounded. The only part he really heard was when she +ended, ". . . oh, if we are ever going to succeed in forcing order on the +natural disorder of the world, it's going to take everybody's shoulder +to the wheel. Women can't stay ornamental and leisurely, and elegant, +nor even always nice to look at." + +Mr. Welles, amazed at the straining effort he needed to put forth to +manage that swing which Mrs. Crittenden did so easily, took less than +his usual small interest in the line of talk which Vincent was so fond +of springing on their neighbor. He heard him say, with his air of always +stating a foregone conclusion, something so admitted that it needed no +emphasis, "It's Haroldbellwrightism, pure and simple, to imagine that +anything you can ever do, that anybody can ever do, will help bring +about the kind of order _you're_ talking about, order for everybody. The +only kind of order there ever will be, is what you get when you grab a +little of what you want out of the chaos, for your own self, while +there's still time, and hold on to it. That's the only way to get +anywhere for yourself. And as for doing something for other people, the +only satisfaction you can give anybody is in beauty." + +Mr. Welles swam out of the breakers into clear water. Suddenly he caught +the knack of the upward swing, and had the immense satisfaction of +bringing the mattock down squarely, buried to the head in the earth. + +"There!" he said proudly to Mrs. Crittenden, "how's that for fine?" + +He looked up at her, wiping the sweat from his forehead. He wondered for +an instant if she really looked troubled, or if he only imagined it. +There was no doubt about how Vincent looked, as though he thought Mr. +Welles, exulting over a blow with a mattock, an old imbecile in his +dotage. + +Mr. Welles never cared very much whether he seemed to Vincent like an +old imbecile or not, and certainly less than nothing about it today, +intoxicated as he was with the air, the sun, and his new mastery over +the soil. He set his hands lovingly to the tool and again and again +swung it high over his head, while Vincent and Mrs. Crittenden strolled +away, still talking. . . . "Doesn't it depend on what you mean by +'beauty'?" Mrs. Crittenden was saying. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +THE NIGHT-BLOOMING CEREUS + +_An Evening in the Life of Mrs. Neale Crittenden_ + + +April 20. + +Nowadays she so seldom spoke or acted without knowing perfectly well +what she was about, that Marise startled herself almost as much as her +callers by turning over that leaf in the photograph album quickly and +saying with abruptness, "No, never mind about that one. It's nothing +interesting." + +Of course this brought out from Paul and little Mark, hanging over her +shoulder and knee, the to-be-expected shouts of, "Oh, let's see it! What +is it?" + +Marise perceived that they scented something fine and exciting such as +Mother was always trying to keep from them, like one man choking another +over the edge of a cliff, or a woman lying on her back with the blood +all running from her throat. Whenever pictures like that were in any of +the magazines that came into the house, Marise took them away from the +little boys, although she knew helplessly that this naturally made them +extremely keen not to miss any chance to catch a glimpse of such a one. +She could see that they thought it queer, there being anything so +exciting in this old album of dull snapshots and geographical +picture-postcards of places and churches and ruins and things that +Father and Mother had seen, so long ago. But you never could tell. The +way Mother had spoken, the sound of her voice, the way she had flapped +down the page quick, the little boys' practised ears and eyes had +identified all that to a certainty with the actions that accompanied +pictures she didn't want them to see. So, of course, they clamored, "Oh +_yes_, Mother, just one look!" + +Elly as usual said nothing, looking up into Mother's face. Marise was +extremely annoyed. She was glad that Elly was the only one who was +looking at her, because, of course, dear old Mr. Welles' unobservant +eyes didn't count. She was glad that Mr. Marsh kept his gaze downward on +the photograph marked "Rome from the Pincian Gardens," although through +the top of his dark, close-cropped head she could fairly feel the +racing, inquiring speculations whirling about. Nor had she any right to +resent that. She supposed people had a right to what went on in their +own heads, so long as they kept it to themselves. And it had been +unexpectedly delicate and fine, the way he had come to understand, +without a syllable spoken on either side, that that piercing look of his +made her uneasy; and how he had promised her, wordlessly always, to bend +it on her no more. + +_Why_ in the world had it made her uneasy, and why, a thousand times +why, had she felt this sudden unwillingness to look at the perfectly +commonplace photograph, in this company? Something had burst up from the +subconscious and flashed its way into action, moving her tongue to speak +and her hand to action before she had the faintest idea it was there . . . +like an action of youth! And see what a silly position it had put her +in! + +The little boys had succeeded with the inspired tactlessness of children +in emphasizing and exaggerating what she had wished could be passed over +unnoticed, a gesture of hers as inexplicable to her as to them. Oh well, +the best thing, of course, was to carry it off matter-of-factly, turn +the leaf back, and _let_ them see it. And then refute them by insisting +on the literal truth of what she had said. + +"There!" she said carelessly; "look at it then." + +The little boys bent their eager faces over it. Paul read out the title +as he had been doing for the other photographs, "'View of the Campagna +from the top of the cable-railway at Rocca di Papa. Rome in the +distance.'" + +She had to sustain, for an instant, an astonished and disconcerted look +from all those eyes. It made her quite genuinely break into a laugh. It +was really a joke on them. She said to the little boys mischievously, +"What did Mother say? Do you find it very interesting?" + +Paul and Mark stared hard at the very dull photograph of a cliff and a +plain and not even a single person or donkey in it, and gave +up the riddle. Mother certainly _had_ spoken to them in that +hide-it-away-from-the-children voice, and yet there was nothing there. + +Marise knew that they felt somehow that Mother had unfairly slipped out +between their fingers, as grown-ups are always doing. Well, it wasn't +fair. She hated taking advantage of them like that. It was a sort of sin +against their awakening capacity to put two and two together and make a +human total, and understand what went on about them. + +But it hadn't been against _their_ capacity to put two and two together +that she had instinctively thrown up that warding-off arm, which hadn't +at all warded off attention, but rather drawn it hard and scrutinizing, +in spite of those down-dropped sharp eyes. Well, there was no sum he +could do with only two, and slight probability he would ever get the +other two to put with it . . . whatever the other two might be. + +Mr. Welles' pleasant old voice said, "It's a very pretty picture, I'm +sure. They certainly have very fine views about the Eternal City. I envy +you your acquaintance with all those historic spots. What is the next +one?" + +Dear old Mr. Welles! What a restful presence! How unutterably sweet and +uncomplicated life could be with a good big dose of simplicity holding +everything in a clear solution, so that it never occurred to you that +what things seemed was very different from what they were. + +"Ready to turn over, dears?" she asked the little boys. This time she +was in her usual control of the machine, regulated what she did from +the first motion to the last, made her voice casual but not elaborately +so, and put one arm around Mark's slim little shoulder with just the +right degree of uninterest in those old and faded photographs. + +Very deep down, at the edge of consciousness, something asked her, "Why +did you try to hide that photograph?" + +She could not answer this question. She didn't know why, any more than +the little boys did. And it wouldn't do now, with the need to be +mistress-of-the-house till a call ended, to stop to try to think it out. +Later on, tonight, after the children were in bed, when she was brushing +her hair . . . oh, probably she'd find as you so often did, when you went +after the cause of some unexpected little feeling, that it came from a +meaningless fortuitous association of ideas, like Elly's hatred of +grape-jelly because she had once taken some bitter medicine in it. + +"'View of the Roman Aqueduct, taken from the tramway line to Tivoli,'" +read out Paul. + +"Very pretty view," said Mr. Welles. + +Mr. Marsh's silences were as abysmal as his speech was Niagara-like on +occasion. He said nothing. + +Elly stirred and looked toward the doorway. Toucle stood there, her +shoe-button eyes not blinking in the lamp-light although she probably +had been sitting on the steps of the kitchen, looking out into the +darkness, in the long, motionless vigil which made up Toucle's evenings. +As they all turned their faces towards her, she said, "The cereus is +going to bloom tonight," and disappeared. + +Marise welcomed this diversion. Ever since that absurd little gesture +about the photograph, she had felt thickening about her . . . what? What +you call "depression" (whatever that meant), the dull hooded apparition +that came blackly and laid its leaden hand on your heart. This news was +just the thing. It would change what was threatening to stand stagnant +and charge it with fresh running currents. She got up briskly to her +feet. + +"Come on, children," she said. "I'll let you sit up beyond bed-time +tonight. Scatter quick, and put on your things. We'll all go down the +road to the Powers house and see the cereus in bloom." + +The children ducked quickly out of the room, thudding along softly in +their felt slippers. Scramblings, chatterings, and stamping sounded back +from the front hall, as they put on their boots and wraps. + +"Wouldn't you like to come, too?" she asked the men, rescuing them from +the rather high-and-dry position in which this unexpected incident had +left them. It was plainly, from their faces, as inexplicable as +unexpected. She explained, drawing a long, plain, black silk scarf +closely about her head and shoulders, "Why, yes, do come. It's an +occasion as uniquely Ashleyian as pelota is Basque. You, Mr. Marsh, with +your exhaustive inquiries into the habits and manners of Vermont +mountaineers, your data won't be complete unless you've seen Nelly +Powers' night-blooming cereus in its one hour of glory. Seriously, I +assure you, you won't encounter anything like it, anywhere else." + +As Marsh looked at her, she noted with an inward amusement that her +words had lighted a smouldering glow of carefully repressed exasperation +in his eyes. It made her feel quite gay and young to be teasing somebody +again. She was only paying him back in his own coin. He himself was +always telling everybody about his deep interest in the curious quaint +ways of these mountaineers. And if he didn't have a deep interest in +their curious quaint ways, what else could he give as a reason for +staying on in the valley? + +The men turned away to get their hats. She settled the folds of her +heavy black silk mantilla more closely about her head, glancing at +herself in the mirror. She smiled back with sympathy at the smiling face +she saw there. It was not so often since the war that she saw her own +face lighted with mirth. + +Gravely, something deep on the edge of the unconscious called up to her, +"You are talking and feeling like a coquette." + +She was indignant at this, up in arms to defend human freedom. "Oh, what +a hateful, little-villagey, prudish, nasty-minded idea!" she cried to +herself. "Who would have thought that narrowness and priggishness could +rub off on a person's mind like that! Mrs. Bayweather could have thought +that! Mercy! As if one civilized being can't indulge in a light touch or +two in human intercourse with another!" + +The two men were ready now and all the party of six jostled each other +cheerfully as they went out of the front door. Paul had secured the hand +of old Mr. Welles and led him along with an air of proprietary +affection. + +"Don't you turn out the lamp, or lock the door, or _any_thing?" asked +the old man, now. + +"Oh no, we won't be gone long. It's not more than half a mile to the +Powers'. There's not a soul in the valley who would think of going in +and rummaging . . . let alone taking anything. And we never have tramps. +We are too far from the railroad," said Marise. + +"_Well!_" exclaimed the other, looking back as they went down the path, +"it certainly looks queer to me, the door standing open into this black +night, and the light shining in that empty room." + +Elly looked back too. She slipped her hand out of her mother's and ran +towards the house. She darted up to the door and stood there, poised +like a swallow, looking in. + +"What does she want?" asked Mr. Welles with the naive conviction of the +elderly bachelor that the mother must know everything in the child's +mind. + +"I don't know," admitted Marise. "Nobody ever knows exactly what is in +Elly's mind when she does things. Maybe she is looking to see that her +kitten is safe." + +The little girl ran back to them. + +"What did you want, dear?" asked her mother. + +"I just wanted to look at it again," said Elly. "I _like_ it, like that, +all quiet, with nobody in it. The furniture looks as though it were +having a good rest from us." + +"Oh, listen to the frogs!" screamed Mark, out of the darkness where he +had run to join Toucle. + +Elly and Paul sprang forward to join their little brother. + + * * * * * + +"What in the world are we going to see?" asked Marsh. "You forget you +haven't given us the least idea." + +"You are going to see," Marise set herself to amuse them, "you're going +to see a rite of the worship of beauty which Ashley, Vermont, has +created out of its own inner consciousness." + +She had succeeded in amusing at least one of them, for at this Mr. Marsh +gave her the not disagreeable shock of that singular, loud laugh of his. +It was in conversation like something-or-other in the orchestra . . . the +cymbals, that must be it . . . made you jump, and tingle with answering +vibrations. + +"Ashleyians in the role of worshipers of beauty!" he cried, out of the +soft, moist, dense darkness about them. + +"None so blind as those who won't see," she persisted. "Just because +they go to it in overalls and gingham aprons, instead of peplums and +sandals." + +"What _is_ a night-blooming cereal?" asked Mr. Welles, patient of the +verbose by-play of his companions that never got anybody anywhere. + +What an old dear Mr. Welles was! thought Marise. It was like having the +sweetest old uncle bestowed on you as a pendant to dear Cousin Hetty. + +". . . -eus, not -eal," murmured Marsh; "not that I know any more than you +what it is." + +Marise felt suddenly wrought upon by the mildness of the spring air, +the high, tuneful shrillness of the frogs' voices, the darkness, sweet +and thick. She would not amuse them; no, she would really tell them, +move them. She chose the deeper intonations of her voice, she selected +her words with care, she played upon her own feeling, quickening it into +genuine emotion as she spoke. She would make them feel it too. + +"It is a plant of the cactus family, as native to America as is Ashley's +peculiar sense of beauty which you won't acknowledge. It is as ugly to +look at, the plant is, all spines and thick, graceless, fleshy pads; as +ugly as Ashley life looks to you. And this crabbed, ungainly +plant-creature is faithfully, religiously tended all the year around by +the wife of a farmer, because once a year, just once, it puts forth a +wonderful exotic flower of extreme beauty. When the bud begins to show +its color she sends out word to all her neighbors to be ready. And we +are all ready. For days, in the back of our minds as we go about our +dull, routine life, there is the thought that the cereus is near to +bloom. Nelly and her grim husband hang over it day by day, watching it +slowly prepare for its hour of glory. Sometimes when they cannot decide +just the time it will open, they sit up all through a long night, hour +after hour of darkness and silence, to make sure that it does not bloom +unseen. When they see that it is about to open, they fling open their +doors, wishing above everything else to share that beauty with their +fellows. Their children are sent to announce, as you heard Toucle say +tonight, 'The cereus is going to bloom.' And all up and down this end of +the valley, in those ugly little wooden houses that look so mean and +dreary to you, everywhere people tired from their day's struggle with +the earth, rise up and go their pilgrimage through the night . . . for +what? To see something rare and beautiful." + +She stopped speaking. On one side of her she heard the voice of the +older man say with a quiver, "Well, I can understand why your neighbors +love you." + +With entire unexpectedness Marsh answered fiercely from the other side, +"_They_ don't love her! They're not capable of it!" + +Marise started, as though a charged electric wire had fallen across her +arm. Why was there so often a note of anger in his voice? + +For a moment they advanced silently, pacing forward, side by side, +unseen but not unfelt by each of the others. + +The road turned now and they were before the little house, every window +alight, the great pine somber and high before it. The children and +Toucle were waiting at the door. They all went in together, shaking +hands with the mistress of the house, neatly dressed, with a clean, +white flounced apron. "Nelly's garment of ceremony!" thought Marise. + +Nelly acknowledged, with a graceful, silent inclination of her shining +blonde head, the presence of the two strangers whom Marise presented to +her. What an inscrutable fascination Nelly's silence gave to her! You +never knew what strange thoughts were going on behind that proud +taciturnity. She showed the guests to chairs, of which a great many, +mostly already filled, stood about the center table, on which sprawled +the great, spiny, unlovely plant. Marise sat down, taking little Mark on +her knees. Elly leaned against her. Paul sat close beside old Mr. +Welles. Their eyes were on the big pink bud enthroned in the +uncomeliness of the shapeless leafpads. + +"Oh!" said Elly, under her breath, "it's not open yet! We're going to +_see_ it open, this time!" She stared at it, her lips parted. Her mother +looked at her, tenderly aware that the child was storing away an +impression to last her life long. Dear, strangely compounded little +Elly, with her mysticism, and her greediness and her love of beauty all +jumbled together! A neighbor leaned from her chair to say to Mrs. +Crittenden, "Warm for this time of year, ain't it?" And another +remarked, looking at Mark's little trousers, "That material come out +real good, didn't it? I made up what I got of it, into a dress for +Pearl." They both spoke in low tones, but constrained or sepulchral, for +they smiled and nodded as though they had meant something else and +deeper than what they had said. They looked with a kindly expression for +moment at the Crittenden children and then turned back to their gaze on +the flower-bud. + +Nelly Powers, walking with a singular lightness for so tall a woman, +ushered in another group of visitors--a tall, unshaven farmer, his wife, +three little children clumping in on shapeless cow-hide boots, and a +baby, fast asleep, its round bonneted head tucked in the hollow of its +mother's gingham-clad shoulder. They sat down, nodding silent greetings +to the other neighbors. In turning to salute them, Marise caught a +glimpse of Mr. Marsh, fixing his brilliant scrutiny first on one and +then on another of the company. At that moment he was gazing at Nelly +Powers, "taking her in" thought Marise, from her beautiful hair to those +preposterously high-heeled shoes she always would wear on her shapely +feet. His face was impassive. When he looked neutral like that, the +curious irregularity of his features came out strongly. He looked like +that bust of Julius Caesar, the bumpy, big-nosed, strong-chinned one, +all but that thick, closely cut, low-growing head of dark hair. + +She glanced at Mr. Welles, and was surprised to find that he was looking +neither at the people nor the plant. His arm was around his favorite +Paul, but his gaze seemed turned inward, as though he were thinking of +something very far away. He looked tired and old, it seemed to her, and +without that quietly shining aspect of peace which she found so +touching. Perhaps he was tired. Perhaps she ought not to have brought +him out, this evening, for that long walk over rough country roads. How +much older he was than his real age in years! His life had used him up. +There must have been some inner maladjustment in it! + +There was a little stir in the company, a small inarticulate sound from +Elly. Marise saw everyone's eyes turn to the center of the room and +looked back to the plant. The big pink bud was beginning visibly to +swell. + +A silence came into the room. No one coughed, or stirred, or scraped a +chair-leg. It was as though a sound would have wounded the flower. All +those human souls bowed themselves. Almost a light shone upon them . . . a +phrase from Dante came to Marise's mind . . . "_la mia menta fu percossa +da un fulgore_ . . ." + +With a quick involuntary turn she looked at Marsh, fearing his mockery +of her, "quoting the _Paradiso_, about Vermont farmers!" as though he +could know, for all those sharp eyes of his, what was going on hidden in +her mind! + +All this came and went in an instant, for she now saw that one big, +shining petal was slowly, slowly, but quite visibly uncurling at the +tip. From that moment on, she saw nothing, felt nothing but the opening +flower, lived only in the incredibly leisurely, masterful motion with +which the grotesquely shaped protecting petals curled themselves back +from the center. Their motion was so slow that the mind was lost in +dreaminess in following it. Had that last one moved? No, it stood still, +poised breathlessly . . . and yet, there before them, revealed, exultant, +the starry heart of the great flower shimmered in the lamp-light. + + * * * * * + +Then she realized that she had not breathed. She drew in a great +marveling aspiration, and heard everyone about her do the same. They +turned to each other with inarticulate exclamations, shaking their heads +wonderingly, their lips a little apart as they drew long breaths. + +Two very old women, rubbing their age-dimmed eyes, stood up, tiptoed to +the table, and bent above the miraculously fine texture of the flower +their worn and wrinkled faces. The petals cast a clear, rosy reflection +upon their sallow cheeks. Some of the younger mothers took their little +children over to the table and lifting them up till their round shining +eyes were on a level with the flower, let them gaze their fill at the +mysterious splendor of stamen and pistil. + +"Would you like to go quite close and look at it, children?" Marise +asked her own brood. + +The little boys stepped forward at once, curiously, but Elly said, "No, +oh _no!_" and backed off till she stood leaning against Toucle's knee. +The old woman put her dark hand down gently on the child's soft hair and +smiled at her. How curious it was to see that grim, battered old visage +smile! Elly was the only creature in the world at whom the old Indian +ever smiled, indeed almost the only thing in the house which those +absent old eyes ever seemed to see. Marise remembered that Toucle had +smiled when she first took the baby Elly in her arms. + + * * * * * + +A little murmur of talk arose now, from the assembled neighbors. They +stood up, moved about, exchanged a few laconic greetings, and began +putting their wraps on. Marise remembered that Mr. Welles had seemed +tired and as soon as possible set her party in motion. + +"Thank you so much, Nelly, for letting us know," she said to the +farmer's wife, as they came away. "It wouldn't seem like a year in our +valley if we didn't see your cereus in bloom." + +She took Elly's hand in one of hers, and with Mark on the other side +walked down the path to the road. The darkness was intense there, +because of the gigantic pine-tree which towered above the little house. +"Are you there, Paul?" she called through the blackness. The little +boy's voice came back, "Yes, with Toucle, we're ahead." The two men +walked behind. + +Elly's hand was hot and clasped her mother's very tightly. Marise bent +over the little girl and divined in the darkness that she was crying. +"Why, Elly darling, what's the matter?" she asked. + +The child cried out passionately, on a mounting note, "Nothing, nothing! +_Nothing!_" She flung her arms around her mother's neck, straining her +close in a wild embrace. Little Mark, on the other side, yawned and +staggered sleepily on his feet. Elly gave her mother a last kiss, and +ran on ahead, calling over her shoulder, "I'm going to walk by myself!" + +"_Well!_" commented the old gentleman. + +Mr. Marsh had not been interested in this episode and had stood gazing +admiringly up at the huge pine-tree, divining its bulk and mass against +the black sky. + +"Like Milton's Satan, isn't it?" was his comment as they walked on, +"with apologies for the triteness of the quotation." + +For a time nothing was said, and then Marsh began, "Now I've seen it, +your rite of the worship of beauty. And do you know what was really +there? A handful of dull, insensitive, primitive beings, hardened and +calloused by manual toil and atrophied imaginations, so starved for any +variety in their stupefyingly monotonous life that they welcome +anything, anything at all as a break . . . only if they could choose, they +would infinitely prefer a two-headed calf or a bearded woman to your +flower. The only reason they go to see that is because it is a +curiosity, not because of its beauty, because it blooms once a year +only, at night, and because there is only one of them in town. Also +because everybody else goes to see it. They go to look at it only +because there aren't any movies in Ashley, nor anything else. And you +know all this just as well as I do." + +"Oh, Mr. Welles," Marise appealed to him, "do you think that is the +truth of the facts?" + +The old man pronounced judgment gently. "Well, I don't know that +_any_thing is the truth. I should say that both of you told the truth +about it. The truth's pretty big for any one person to tell. Isn't it +all in the way you look at it?" He added, "Only personally I think Mrs. +Crittenden's the nicest way." + +Marsh was delighted with this. "There! I hope you're satisfied. You've +been called 'nice.' That ought to please any good American." + +"I wonder, Mr. Welles," Marise said in an ostentatiously casual tone, "I +wonder if Mr. Marsh had been an ancient Greek, and had stood watching +the procession going up the Acropolis hill, bearing the thank-offerings +from field and loom and vineyard, what do you suppose he would have +seen? Dullness and insensitiveness in the eyes of those Grecian +farmer-lads, no doubt, occupied entirely with keeping the oxen in line; +a low vulgar stare of bucolic curiosity as the country girls, bearing +their woven linen, looked up at the temple. Don't you suppose he would +have thought they managed those things a great deal more artistically in +Persia?" + +"Well, I don't know much about the ancient Greeks," said Mr. Welles +mildly, "but I guess Vincent would have been about the same wherever he +lived." + +"Who is satisfied with the verdict now?" triumphed Marise. + +But she noticed that Marsh's attack, although she considered that she +had refuted it rather neatly, had been entirely; efficacious in +destroying the aura of the evening. Of the genuine warmth of feeling +which the flower and the people around it had roused in her heart, not +the faintest trace was left. She had only a cool interested certainty +that her side had a perfectly valid foundation for arguing purposes. Mr. +Marsh had accomplished that, and more than that, a return from those +other centers of feeling to her preoccupation with his own personality. + +He now went on, "But I'm glad to have gone. I saw a great deal else +there than your eccentric plant and the vacancy of mind of those sons of +toil, cursed, soul-destroying toil. For one thing, I saw a woman of +very great beauty. And that is always so much gained." + +"Oh yes," cried Marise, "that's so. I forgot that you could see that. +I've grown so used to the fact that people here don't understand how +splendidly handsome Nelly Powers is. Their taste doesn't run to the +statuesque, you know. They call that grand silent calm of her, +stupidness! Ever since 'Gene brought her here as a bride, a year after +we came to live in Crittenden's, I have gone out of my way to look at +her. You should see her hanging out the clothes on a windy day. One +sculptured massive pose after another. But even to see her walk across +the room and bend that shining head is thrilling." + +"I saw something else, too," went on Marsh, a cool voice speaking out of +the darkness. "I saw that her black, dour husband is furiously in love +with her and furiously jealous of that tall, ruddy fellow with an +expressive face, who stood by the door in shirt-sleeves and never took +his eyes from her." + +Marise was silent, startled by this shouting out of something she had +preferred not to formulate. + +"Vincent, you see too much," said Mr. Welles resignedly. The phrase ran +from his tongue as though it were a familiar one. + +Marise said slowly, "I've sometimes thought that Frank Warner did go to +the Powers' a good deal, but I haven't wanted to think anything more." + +"What possible reason in the world have you for not wanting to?" asked +Marsh with the most authentic accent of vivid and astonished curiosity. + +"What reason . . . ?" she repeated blankly. + +He said dispassionately, "I don't like to hear _you_ make such a flat, +conventional, rubber-stamp comment. Why in the world shouldn't she love +a fine, ardent, _living_ man, better than that knotty, dead branch of a +husband? A beautiful woman and a living, strong, vital man, they belong +together. Whom God hath joined . . . Don't try to tell me that your +judgment is maimed by the Chinese shoes of outworn ideas, such as the +binding nature of a mediaeval ceremony. That doesn't marry anybody, and +you know it. If she's really married to her husband, all right. But if +she loves another man, and knows in her heart that she would live a +thousand times more fully, more deeply with him . . . why, she's _not_ +married to her husband, and nothing can make her. You know that!" + +Marise sprang at the chance to turn his own weapons of mockery against +him. "Upon my word, who's idealizing the Yankee mountaineer now?" she +cried, laughing out as she spoke at the idea of her literal-minded +neighbors dressed up in those trailing rhetorical robes. "I thought you +said they were so dull and insensitive they could feel nothing but an +interest in two-headed calves, and here they are, characters in an +Italian opera. I only wish Nelly Powers were capable of understanding +those grand languages of yours and then know what she thought of your +idea of what's in her mind. And as for 'Gene's jealousy, I'll swear that +it amounts to no more than a vague dislike for Frank Warner's 'all the +time hanging around and gassin' instead of stickin' to work.' And you +forget, in your fine modern clean-sweep, a few old-fashioned facts like +the existence of three Powers children, dependent on their mother." + +"You're just fencing, not really talking," he answered imperturbably. +"You can't pretend to be sincere in trying to pull that antimacassar +home-and-mother stuff on me. Ask Bernard Shaw, ask Freud, ask Mrs. +Gilman, how good it is for children's stronger, better selves, to live +in the enervating, hot-house concentration on them of an unbalanced, +undeveloped woman, who has let everything else in her personality +atrophy except her morbid preoccupation with her own offspring. That's +really the meaning of what's sentimentally called 'mothering.' Probably +it would be the best thing in the world for the Powers children if +their mother ran away with that fine broth of a lad." + +"But Nelly loves her children and they love her!" Marise brought this +out abruptly, impulsively, and felt, as she heard the words, that they +had a flat, naive sound, out of key with the general color of this talk, +like a C Major chord introduced into Debussy nuances. + +"Not much she doesn't, nor they her. Any honest observer of life knows +that the only sincere relation possible between the young and the old +(after the babies are weaned) is hostility. We hated our elders, because +they got in our way. And they'll hate us as soon as they get the +strength to, because we'll be in their way. And we will hate them +because they will want to push us off the scene. It's impossible to +ignore the gulf. Most human tragedies come from trying to pretend it's +not there." + +"Why, Mr. Welles," cried Marise again, "what do you say to such talk? +Don't you find him perfectly preposterous?" + +Mr. Welles answered a little absently. "Oh, I'm pretty well used to him, +by now. And all his friends in the city are talking like that now. It's +the fashion. I'm so old that I've seen a good many fashions in talk come +and go. I never could see that people _acted_ any differently, no matter +which way they talk." As he finished, he drew a long sigh, which had +obviously no connection with what he had been saying. With the sigh, +came an emanation from him of dispirited fatigue. Marise wished she +dared draw his hand upon her arm and ask him to lean on her as they +walked. + +Nothing more was said for a time. Marise lost herself in the outdoor +wideness of impression that always came to her under a night sky, where +she felt infinity hovering near. She was aware of nothing but the faint +voice of the pines, the distant diminuendo of the frog's song, the firm +elastic quality of the ground under her feet, so different from the iron +rigidity of the winter earth, and the cool soft pressure of the +night-air on her cheeks, when, like something thrust into her mind from +the outside, there rose into her consciousness, articulate and complete, +the reason why she had shrunk from looking at the photograph of Rocca di +Papa. It was because it was painful to her, intimately painful and +humiliating to remember how she and Neale had felt there, the wild, high +things they had said to each other, that astounding flood of feeling +which had swept them away at the last. What had become of all that? +Where now was that high tide? + + * * * * * + +Of course she loved Neale, and he loved her; there was nobody like +Neale, yes, all that; but oh! the living flood had been ebbing, ebbing +out of their hearts. They were not _alive_ as they had been alive when +they had clung to each other, there on that age-old rock, and felt the +tide of all the ages lift them high. + +It must have been ebbing for a long time before she realized it because, +hurried, absorbed, surrounded incessantly by small cares as she was, +hustled and jostled in her role of mother and mistress-of-the-house in +servantless America, with the primitive American need to do so much with +her own hands, she had not even had the time to know the stupid, tragic +thing that was happening to her . . . that she was turning into a slow, +vegetating plant instead of a human being. And now she understood the +meaning of the strange dejection she had felt the day when little Mark +went off to school with the others. How curiously jaded and apprehensive +she had felt that morning, and when she had gone downstairs to see the +callers who arrived that day. That was the first time she had _felt_ +that the tide was ebbing. + +All this went through her mind with the cruel swiftness of a +sword-flash. And the first reaction to it, involuntary and reflex, was +to crush it instantly down, lest the man walking at her side should be +aware of it. It had come to her with such loud precision that it seemed +it must have been audible. + +As she found herself still on the dark country road, cloaked and +protected by the blackness of the starless night, she was struck with +wonder, as though she had never thought of it before, at the human body, +its opaque, inscrutable mystery, the locked, sealed strong-box of +unimaginable secrets which it is. There they were, the three of them, +stepping side by side, brushing each other as they moved; and as remote +from each other as though they were on different stars. What were the +thoughts, powerful, complex, under perfect control, which were being +marshaled in that round, dark head? She felt a little afraid to think; +and turned from the idea to the other man with relief. She knew (she +told herself) as though she saw inside, the tired, gentle, simple, +wistful thoughts that filled the white head on her other side. + +With this, they were again at the house, where the children and Toucle +had preceded them. Paul was laughing and saying, "Elly's the looniest +kid! She's just been saying that Father is like . . ." Elly, in a panic, +sprang up at him, clapping her hand over his mouth, crying out, "No, +Paul, you shan't tell! _Don't!_" + +The older, stronger child pulled himself away and, holding her at arm's +length, continued, "She said Father was like the end of her hair that's +fastened into her head, and Mother was the end that flaps in the wind, +and Mr. Marsh was like the Eagle Rock brook, swirly and hurrying the way +it is in the spring." + +Elly, half crying, came to her mother. "Mother, it's nasty-horrid in +Paul to tell when I didn't want him to." + +Marise began taking off the little girl's coat. "It wasn't very kind in +Paul, but there was nothing in those funny little fancies to hide, +dear." + +"I didn't care about you and Father!" explained the child. "Only . . ." +She looked at Mr. Marsh from under downbent brows. + +"Why, Elly, I am very much complimented, I'm sure," Marsh hastened to +tell her, "to be compared with such a remarkably nice thing as a brook +in spring-time. I didn't suppose any young lady would ever have such a +poetic idea about me." + +"Oh . . ." breathed Elly, relieved, "well . . ." + +"Do you suppose you little folks can get yourselves to bed without me?" +asked Marise. "If one of you big children will unbutton Mark in the +back, he can manage the rest. I must set a bread-sponge before I go +upstairs." + +They clung to her imploringly. "But you'll be upstairs in time to kiss +us good-night in our beds," begged Elly and Mark together. Paul also +visibly hung on his mother's answer. + +Marise looked down into their clear eyes and eager faces, reaching out +to her ardently, and she felt her heart melt. What darlings they were! +What inestimable treasures! How sweet to be loved like that! + +She stooped over them and gathered them all into a great armful, kissing +them indiscriminately. "Yes, of course, I will . . . and give you an extra +kiss now!" she cried. + +She felt Marsh's eyes on her, sardonically. + +She straightened herself, saying with affectionate roughness, "There, +that's enough. Scamper along with you. And don't run around with bare +feet!" + +She thought to herself that she supposed this was the sort of thing +Marsh meant when he spoke about hot-house enervating concentration. She +had been more stung by that remark of his than she had been willing to +acknowledge to Marsh or to herself. + +But for the moment, any further reflection on it was cut short by the +aspect of Mr. Welles' face. He had sunk into a chair near the lamp, with +an attitude and an expression of such weariness, that Marise moved +quickly to him. "See here, Mr. Welles," she said impulsively, "you have +something on your mind, and I've got the mother-habit so fastened on me +that I can't be discreet and pretend not to notice it. I want to make +you say what the trouble is, and then flu it right, just as I would for +one of mine." + +The old man looked up at her gratefully and reaching out one of his +wrinkled hands took hers in it. "It does me good to have you so nice to +me," he said, "but I'm afraid even you can't fix it right. I've had a +rather distressing letter today, and I can't seem to get it out of my +mind." + +"Schwatzkummerer can't send the gladioli," conjectured Marsh. + +For the first time since he had entered the house, Marise felt a passing +dislike for him. She had often felt him to be hard and ruthless, but she +had never seen anything cheap in him, before, she thought. + +"What was your letter?" she asked the older man. + +"Oh, nothing in the least remarkable, nothing new," he said heavily. +"I've got a cousin whom I haven't seen since she was a little little +girl, though she must be somewhere near my age, now. She has been a +teacher in a school for Negroes, down in Georgia, for years, most of her +life. But I had sort of lost track of her, till I had to send her some +little family trinkets that were left after my old aunt died. Her +letter, that I received today, is in answer to that. And while she was +writing, she gave me her news, and told me a good deal about conditions +down there. Pretty bad, I should think it, pretty bad." + +A little spasm crossed his face. He shook his head, as though to shake +off a clinging filament of importunate thought. + +"What's the trouble? Do they need money, the school?" asked Marise with +a vague idea of getting up a contribution. + +"No, my cousin didn't say anything about that. It's not so simple. It's +the way the Negroes are treated. No, not lynchings, I knew about them. +But I knew they don't happen every day. What I hadn't any idea of, till +her letter came, was how every day, every minute of every day, they're +subject to indignity that they can't avoid, how they're made to feel +themselves outsiders and unwelcome in their own country. She says the +Southern white people are willing to give them anything that will make +good day-laborers of them, almost anything in fact except the thing they +can't rise without, ordinary human respect. It made a very painful +impression on my mind, her letter, very. She gave such instances. I +haven't been able to get it out of my mind. For instance, one of the +small things she told me . . . it seems incredible . . . is that Southern +white people won't give the ordinary title of respect of Mr. or Mrs. or +Dr. even to a highly educated Negro. They call them by their first +names, like servants. Think what an hourly pin-prick of insult that must +be. Ever since her letter came, I've been thinking about it, the things +she told me, about what happens when they try to raise themselves and +refine themselves, how they're made to suffer intimately for trying to +be what I thought we all wanted all Americans to be." He looked at +Marise with troubled eyes. "I've been thinking how it would feel to be a +Negro myself. What a different life would be in front of your little +Elly if she had Negro blood!" + +Marise had listened to him in profound silence. Sheer, unmixed +astonishment filled her mind, up to the brim. Of all the totally +unexpected things for Mr. Welles to get wrought up about! + +She drew a long breath. How eternally disconcerting human beings are! +There she had been so fatuously sure, out there on the walk home, that +she knew exactly what was in that old white head. And all the time it +had been this. Who could have made the faintest guess at that? It +occurred to her for the first time that possibly more went on under Mr. +Welles' gently fatigued exterior than she thought. + +She found not a word to say, so violent and abrupt was the transition of +subject. It was as though she had been gazing down through a powerful +magnifying glass, trying to untangle with her eyes a complicated twist +of moral fibers, inextricably bound up with each other, the moral +fibers that made up her life . . . and in the midst of this, someone had +roughly shouted in her ear, "Look up there, at that distant cliff. +There's a rock on it, all ready to fall off!" + +She could not be expected all of a sudden, that way, to re-focus her +eyes. And the rock was so far away. And she had such a dim sense of the +people who might be endangered by it. And the confusion here, under the +microscope of her attention, was so vital and immediate, needing to be +understood and straightened before she could go on with her life. + +She looked at the old man in an astonishment which she knew must seem +fairly stupid to him, but she could not bring out anything else. What +was it to her, whether a Negro physician was called Dr. or "Jo"? + +Mr. Welles patted her hand, released it, smiled at her kindly, and stood +up. "I'm pretty tired. I guess we'd better be getting along home, +Vincent and I." + +"Well, I should say we _would_ better be getting along home to bed!" +agreed the other man, coming forward and slipping his arm under the +older man's. "I'll tuck you up, my old friend, with a good hot toddy +inside you, and let you sleep off this outrageously crazy daylight +nightmare you've cooked up for yourself. And don't wake up with the fate +of the Japanese factory-hand sitting on your chest, or you'll get hard +to live with." + +Mr. Welles answered this with literal good faith. "Oh, the Japanese +factory-hands, they're not on the conscience of Americans." + +"But, when I see an aged and harmless inhabitant of Ashley, Vermont, +stretching his poor old protesting conscience till it cracks, to make it +reach clear down to the Georgia Negroes, how do I know where he's going +to stop?" + +The old man turned to their hostess. "Well, good-night, Mrs. Crittenden. +I enjoyed seeing that wonderful flower very much. I wonder if I could +grow one like it? It would be something to look forward to, to have the +flower open in your own house." + +To Marise he looked so sweet and good, and like a tired old child, that +she longed to kiss him good-night, as she had her own. But even as she +felt the impulse, she had again a startled sense of how much more goes +on under the human surface than ever appears. Evidently Mr. Welles, too, +was a locked and sealed strong-box of secrets. + + * * * * * + +In the doorway Marsh stopped abruptly and said, looking at the dense, +lustreless black silk wrap about Marise's head and shoulders, "What's +that thing? I meant to ask you when you put it on." + +She felt as she often did when he spoke to her, as startled as though he +had touched her. What an extraordinarily living presence he was, so that +a word from him was almost like an actual personal contact. But she took +care not to show this. She looked down casually at the soft, opaque +folds of her wrap. "Oh, this is a thousand years old. It dates from the +Bayonne days. It's Basque. It's their variation, I imagine, on the +Spanish mantilla. They never wear hats, the Basque women. The little +girls, when they have made their first communion, wear a scarf of light +net, or open transparent lace. And when they marry they wear this. It's +made of a special sort of silk, woven just for this purpose. As far away +as you can see a woman in the Basque country, if she wears this, you +know she's married." + +"Oh, you do, do you?" said Marsh, going out after his companion. + + * * * * * + +They were very far from the Negroes in Georgia. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +WHAT GOES ON INSIDE + +_Half an Hour in the Life of a Modern Woman_ + + +May 8. + +Marise looked at the clock. They all three looked at the clock. On +school mornings the clock dominated their every instant. Marise often +thought that the swinging of its great pendulum was as threatening as +the Pendulum that swung in the Pit. Back and forth, back and forth, +bringing nearer and nearer the knife-edge of its dire threat that nine +o'clock would come and the children not be in school. Somehow they must +all manage to break the bonds that held them there and escape from the +death-trap before the fatal swinging menace reached them. The stroke of +nine, booming out in that house, would be like the Crack o' Doom to the +children. + +Marise told Paul not to eat so fast, and said to Elly, who was finishing +her lessons and her breakfast together, "I let you do this, this one +time, Elly, but I don't want you to let it happen again. You had plenty +of time yesterday to get that done." + +She stirred her coffee and thought wistfully, "What a policeman I must +seem to the children. I wish I could manage it some other way." + +Elly, her eyes on the book, murmured in a low chanting rhythm, her mouth +full of oatmeal, "Delaware River, Newcastle, Brandywine, East Branch, +West Branch, Crum Creek, Schuylkill." + +Paul looked round at the clock again. His mother noted the gesture, the +tension of his attitude, his preoccupied expression, and had a quick +inner vision of a dirty, ragged, ignorant, gloriously free little boy on +a raft on the Mississippi river, for whom life was not measured out by +the clock, in thimbleful doses, but who floated in a golden liberty on +the very ocean of eternity. "Why can't we bring them up like Huckleberry +Finns!" she thought, protestingly, pressing her lips together. + +Then she laughed inwardly at the thought of certain sophisticated +friends and their opinion of her life. "I daresay we do seem to be +bringing them up like Huckleberry Finns, in the minds of any of the New +York friends, Eugenia Mills for instance!" She remembered with a passing +gust of amusement the expression of slightly scared distaste which +Eugenia had for the children. "Too crudely quivering lumps of +life-matter for Eugenia's taste," she thought, and then, "I wonder what +Marsh's feeling towards children really is, children in general. He +seems to have the greatest capacity to ignore their existence at all. Or +does he only seem to do that, because I have grown so morbidly conscious +of their existence as the only thing vital in life? That's what he +thinks, evidently. Well, I'd like to have him live a mother's life and +see how he'd escape it!" + +"Mother," said Paul seriously, "Mother, Mark isn't even awake yet, and +he'll never be ready for school." + +"Oh, his teacher had to go to a wedding today. Don't you remember? He +doesn't have any school till the afternoon session." + +She thought to herself, "What a sense of responsibility Paul has! He is +going to be one of the pillars of the earth, one of those miraculous +human beings who are mixed in just the right proportions, so that they +aren't pulled two ways at once. _Two_ ways! Most of us are pulled a +thousand ways! It is one of the injustices of the earth that such people +aren't loved as much as impulsive, selfish, brilliant natures like dear +little Mark's. Paul has had such a restful personality! Even when he +was a baby, he was so straight-backed and robust. There's no yellow +streak in Paul, such as too much imagination lets in. I know all about +that yellow streak, alas!" + +The little boy reached down lovingly, and patted the dog, sitting in a +rigid attitude of expectancy by his side. As the child turned the light +of his countenance on those adoring dog eyes, the animal broke from his +tenseness into a wriggling fever of joy. + +"'Oh, my God, my dear little God!'" quoted Marise to herself, watching +uneasily the animal's ecstasy of worship. "I wish dogs wouldn't take us +so seriously. We don't know so much more than they, about anything." She +thought, further, noticing the sweetness of the protecting look which +Paul gave to Medor, "All animals love Paul, anyhow. Animals know more +than humans about lots of things. They haven't that horrid perverse +streak in them that makes humans dislike people who are too often in the +right. Paul is like my poor father. Only I'm here to see that Paul is +loved as Father wasn't. Medor is not the only one to love Paul. _I_ love +Paul. I love him all the more because he doesn't get his fair share of +love. And old Mr. Welles loves him, too, bless him!" + +"Roanoke River, Staunton River, Dan River," murmured Elly, swallowing +down her chocolate. She stroked a kitten curled up on her lap. + +"What shall I have for lunch today?" thought Marise. "There are enough +potatoes left to have them creamed." + +Like a stab came the thought, "Creamed potatoes to please our palates +and thousands of babies in Vienna without milk enough to _live_!" She +shook the thought off, saying to herself, "Well, would it make any +difference to those Viennese babies if I deprived my children of +palatable food?" and was aware of a deep murmur within her, saying only +half-articulately, "No, it wouldn't make any literal difference to those +babies, but it might make a difference to you. You are taking another +step along the road of hardening of heart." + +All this had been the merest muted arpeggio accompaniment to the steady +practical advance of her housekeeper's mind. "And beefsteak . . . Mark +likes that. At fifty cents a pound! What awful prices. Well, Neale +writes that the Canadian lumber is coming through. That'll mean a fair +profit. What better use can we put profit to, than in buying the best +food for our children's growth. Beefsteak is not a sinful luxury!" + +The arpeggio accompaniment began murmuring, "But the Powers children. +Nelly and 'Gene can't afford fifty cents a pound for beefsteak. Perhaps +part of their little Ralph's queerness and abnormality comes from lack +of proper food. And those white-cheeked little Putnam children in the +valley. They probably don't taste meat, except pork, more than once a +week." She protested sharply, "But if their father won't work steadily, +when there is always work to be had?" And heard the murmuring answer, +"Why should the children suffer because of something they can't change?" + +She drew a long breath, brushed all this away with an effort, asking +herself defiantly, "Oh, what has all this to do with _us_?" And was +aware of the answer, "It has everything to do with us, only I can't +figure it out." + +Impatiently she proposed to herself, "But while I'm trying to figure it +out, wouldn't I better just go ahead and have beefsteak today?" and +wearily, "Yes, of course, we'll have beefsteak as usual. That's the way +I always decide things." + +She buttered a piece of toast and began to eat it, thinking, "I'm a +lovely specimen, anyhow, of a clear-headed, thoughtful modern woman, +muddling along as I do." + +The clock struck the half-hour. Paul rose as though the sound had lifted +him bodily from his seat. Elly did not hear, her eyes fixed dreamily on +her kitten, stroking its rounded head, lost in the sensation of the +softness of the fur. + +Her mother put out a reluctant hand and touched her quietly. "Come, dear +Elly, about time to start to school." + +As she leaned across the table, stretching her neck towards the child, +she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror on the other side of the +room, and thought, "Oh, how awful! I begin to look as Cousin Hetty does, +with that scrawny neck. . . ." + +She repulsed the thought vigorously. "Well, what does it matter if I do? +There's nothing in my life, any more, that depends on my looking young." + +At this thought, something perfectly inchoate, which she did not +recognize, began clawing at her. She pushed it off, scornfully, and +turned to Elly, who got up from the table and began collecting her books +into her school-bag. Her face was rosy and calm with the sweet ineffable +confidence of a good child who has only good intentions. As she packed +her books together, she said, "Well, I'm ready. I've done my grammar, +indefinite pronouns, and I can say all those river-tributaries +backwards. So now I can start. Good-bye, Mother dear." Marise bent to +kiss the shining little face. "Good-bye, Elly." + +To herself she thought, as her face was close to the child's, "I wonder +if I look to my little girl as Cousin Hetty used to look to me?" and +startled and shocked that the idea kept recurring to her, assuming an +importance she was not willing to give it, she cried out to herself, +"Oh, stop being so paltry about that!" + +Aloud she said, "Don't forget to put your rubbers on. Have you a clean +handkerchief? Oh, _Elly_, look at your nails! Here, hand me the +nail-file over there, Paul. I'll clean them more quickly than you, +dear." + +As she cleaned the nails, one eye on the grimly relentless clock, the +ideas flicked through her mind like quick, darting flames. "What +mediaeval nonsense we do stuff into the school-children's head. What an +infamous advantage we take of the darlings' trust in us and their +docility to our purposes! My dear little daughter with her bright face +of desire-to-do-her-best! What wretched chaff she is getting for that +quick, imaginative brain of hers! It's not so bad for Paul, but . . . oh, +even for him what nonsense! Rules of grammar, names of figures of +speech . . . stuff left over from scholastic hair-splitting! And the +tributaries of rivers . . . !" She glanced up for an instant and was struck +into remorse by the tranquil expression of peace in the little girl's +clear eyes, bent affectionately on her mother. "Oh, my poor, darling +little daughter," she thought, "how _can_ you trust anything in this +weak and wicked world as you trust your broken reed of a mother? I don't +know, dear child, any more than you do, where we are going, nor how we +are going to get there. We are just stumbling along, your father and I, +as best we can, dragging you and your brothers along with us. And all we +can do for you, or for each other, is to love you and . . ." + +Elly withdrew her hand. "There, Mother, I know they're clean enough now. +I'm afraid I'll be late if I don't go. And you know she scolds like +everything if anybody's late." She repeated in a rapid murmur, "The +tributaries of the Delaware on the left bank are . . ." + +Her mother's mind went back with a jerk to the question of +river-tributaries. "And what's the use of cramming her memory with facts +she could find in three minutes in any Atlas if by any strange chance +she should ever ever need to know about the tributaries of the Delaware. +As well set her to learning the first page of the Telephone Directory! +Why don't I do the honest thing by her and say to her that all that is +poppy-cock?" + + * * * * * + +An inner dialogue flashed out, lunge, parry, riposte, like rapier blades +at play. "Because if I told her it is nonsense, that would undermine her +faith in her teacher and her respect for her." + +"But why _should_ she respect her teacher if her teacher does not +deserve that sort of respect? Ought even a little child to respect +anything or anybody merely because of a position of authority and not +because of intrinsic worth? No, of course not." + +"Oh, you know that's only wild talk. Of course you couldn't send the +child to school, and keep her under her teacher, unless you preserve the +form of upholding the teacher's authority." + +"Yes, but in Heaven's name, why _do_ we send her to school? She could +learn twenty times more, anywhere else." + +"Because sending her to school keeps her in touch with other children, +with her fellow-beings, keeps her from being 'queer' or different. She +might suffer from it as she grew up, might desire more than anything in +the world to be like others." + + * * * * * + +Elly had been staring at her mother's face for a moment, and now said, +"Mother, what _makes_ you look so awfully serious?" + +Marise said ruefully, "It's pretty hard to explain to a little girl. I +was wondering whether I was as good a mother to you as I ought to be." + +Elly was astonished to the limit of astonishment at this idea. "Why, +Mother, how _could_ you be any better than you are?" She threw herself +on her mother's neck, crying, "Mother, I wish you never looked serious. +I wish you were always laughing and cutting up, the way you used to. +Seems to me since the war is over, you're more soberer than you were +before, even, when you were so worried about Father in France. I'd +rather you'd scold me than look serious." + +Paul came around the table, and shouldered his way against Elly up to a +place where he touched his mother. "Is that masculine jealousy, or real +affection?" she asked herself, and then, "Oh, what a _beast_! To be +analyzing my own children!" And then, "But how am I ever going to know +what they're like if I don't analyze them?" + +The dog, seeing the children standing up, half ready to go out, began +barking and frisking, and wriggling his way to where they stood all +intertwined, stood up with his fore-paws against Paul. The kitten had +been startled by his approach and ran rapidly up Marise as though she +had been a tree, pausing on her shoulder to paw at a loosened hair-pin. + +Marise let herself go on this wave of eager young life, and thrust down +into the dark all the razor-edged questions. "Oh, children! children! +take the kitten off my back!" she said, laughing and squirming. "She's +tickling me with her whiskers. Oh, _ow_!" She was reduced to helpless +mirth, stooping her head, reaching up futilely for the kitten, who had +retreated to the nape of her neck and was pricking sharp little +pin-pointed claws through to the skin. The children danced about chiming +out peals of laughter. The dog barked excitedly, standing on his +hind-legs, and pawing first at one and then at another. Then Paul looked +at the clock, and they all looked at the clock. The children, flushed +with fun, crammed on their caps, thrust their arms into coats, bestowed +indiscriminate kisses on their mother and the kitten, and vanished for +the morning, followed by the dog, pleading with little whines to be +taken along too. The kitten got down and began soberly to wash her face. + + * * * * * + +There was an instant of appalling silence in the house, the silence that +is like no other, the silence that comes when the children have just +gone. Through it, heavy-footed and ruthless, Marise felt something +advancing on her, something which she dreaded and would not look at. + +From above came a sweet, high, little call, "Mo-o-o-ther!" Oh, a +respite--Mark was awake! + +His mother sprang upstairs to snatch at him as he lay, rosy and smiling +and sleepy. She bent over him intoxicated by his beauty, by the +flower-perfection of his skin, by the softness of his sleep-washed eyes. + +She heard almost as distinctly as though the voice were in her ear, "Oh, +you mothers use your children as other people use drugs. The +child-habit, the drug-habit, the baby-habit, the morphine habit . . . two +different ways of getting away from reality." That was what Marsh had +said one day. What terribly tarnishing things he did say. How they did +make you question everything. She wondered what Neale would say to them. + +She hoped to have a letter from Neale today. She hoped so, suddenly, +again, with such intensity, such longing, such passion that she said to +herself, "What nonsense that was, that came into my head, out on the +road in the dark, the other night, that Neale and I had let the +flood-tide of emotion ebb out of our hearts! What could have put such a +notion into my head?" What crazy, fanciful creatures women are! Always +reaching out for the moon. Yes, that must have been the matter with her +lately, that Neale was away. She missed him so, his strength and courage +and affection. + +"I'm awfully hungry," remarked Mark in her ear. "I feel the hole right +_here_." He laid a small shapely hand on the center of his pajama-clad +body, but he kept the other hand and arm around his mother's neck, and +held her close where he had pulled her to him in his little bed. As he +spoke he rubbed his peach-like cheek softly against hers. + +A warm odor of sleep and youth and clean, soaped skin came up from him. +His mother buried her face in it as in a flower. + +"Ooh!" he cried, laughing richly, "you're tickling me." + +"I _mean_ to tickle you!" she told him savagely, worrying him as a +mother-cat does her kitten. He laughed delightedly, and wriggled to +escape her, kicking his legs, pushing at her softly with his hands, +reaching for the spot back of her ear. "I'll tickle _you_," he crowed, +tussling with her, disarranging her hair, thudding his little body +against her breast, as he thrashed about. The silent house rang with +their laughter and cries. + +They were both flushed, with lustrous eyes, when the little boy finally +squirmed himself with a bump off the bed and slid to the floor. + +At this point the kitten came walking in, innocent-eyed and grave. Mark +scrambled towards her on his hands and knees. She retreated with a comic +series of stiff-legged, sideways jumps, that made him roll on the floor, +chuckling and giggling, and grabbing futilely for the kitten's paws. + +Marise had stood up and was putting the loosened strands of her hair +back in place. The spell was broken. Looking down on the laughing child, +she said dutifully, "Mark, the floor's cold. You mustn't lie down on it. +And, anyhow, you're ever so late this morning. Hop up, dear, and get +into your clothes." + +"Oh, Mother, _you_ dress me!" he begged, rolling over to look up at her +pleadingly. + +She shook her head. "Now, Mark, that's silly. A great big boy like you, +who goes to school. Get up quick and start right in before you take +cold." + +He scrambled to his feet and padded to her side on rosy bare feet. +"Mother, you'll have to 'tay here, anyhow. You know I can't do those +back buttons. And I always get my drawer-legs twisted up with my both +legs inside my one leg." + +Marise compromised. "Well, yes, if you'll hurry. But not if you dawdle. +Mother has a lot to do this morning. Remember, I won't help you with a +single thing you can do yourself." + +The child obediently unbuttoned his pajamas and stepping out of them +reached for his undershirt. His mother, looking at him, fell mentally on +her knees before the beautiful, living body. "Oh, my son, the straight, +strong darling! My precious little son!" She shook with that foolish +aching anguish of mothers, intolerable. . . . "Why must he stop being so +pure, so _safe_? How can I live when I am no longer strong enough to +protect him?" + +Mark remarked plaintively, shrugging himself into the sleeves of his +shirt, "I've roden on a horse, and I've roden on a dog, and I've even +roden on a cow, but I've never roden on a camel, and I _want_ to." + +The characteristic Mark-like unexpectedness of this made her smile. + +"You probably will, some day," she said, sitting down. + +"But I've never even _sawn_ a camel," complained Mark. "And Elly and +Paul have, and a elephant too." + +"Well, you're big enough to be taken to the circus this year," his +mother promised him. "This very summer we'll take you." + +"But I want to go _now_!" clamored Mark, with his usual disregard of +possibilities, done in the grand style. + +"Don't dawdle," said his mother, looking around for something to read, +so that she would seem less accessible to conversation. She found the +newspaper under her hand, on the table, and picked it up. She had only +glanced at the head-lines yesterday. It took a lot of moral courage to +read the newspapers in these days. As she read, her face changed, +darkened, set. + +The little boy, struggling with his underwear, looked at her and decided +not to ask for help. + +She was thinking as she read, "The Treaty muddle worse than ever. Great +Britain sending around to all her colonies asking for the biggest navy +in the world. Our own navy constantly enlarged at enormous cost. +Constantinople to be left Turkish because nobody wants anybody else to +have it. Armenian babies dying like flies and evening cloaks advertised +to sell for six hundred dollars. Italy land-grabbing. France frankly for +anything except the plain acceptance of the principles we thought the +war was to foster. The same reaction from those principles starting on a +grand scale in America. Men in prison for having an opinion . . . what a +hideous bad joke on all the world that fought for the Allies and for the +holy principles they claimed! To think how we were straining every nerve +in a sacred cause two years ago. Neale's enlistment. Those endless +months of loneliness. That constant terror about him. And homes like +that all over the world . . . with _this_ as the result. Could it have +been worse if we had all just grabbed what we could get for ourselves, +and had what satisfaction we could out of the baser pleasures?" + +She felt a mounting wave of horror and nausea, and knowing well from +experience what was on its way, fought desperately to ward it off, +reading hurriedly a real-estate item in the newspaper, an account of a +flood in the West, trying in vain to fix her mind on what she read. But +she could not stop the advance of what was coming. She let the newspaper +fall with a shudder as the thought arrived, hissing, gliding with +venomous swiftness along the familiar path it had so often taken to her +heart . . . "suppose this reactionary outburst of hate and greed and +intolerance and imperialistic ambitions all around, means that the +'peace' is an armed truce only, and that in fifteen years the whole +nightmare will start over." + +She looked down at the little boy, applying himself seriously to his +buttons. "In fifteen years' time my baby will be a man of twenty-one." + +Wild cries broke out in her heart. "No, oh no! I couldn't live through +another. To see them all go, husband and sons! Not another war! Let me +live quickly, anyhow, somehow, to get it over with . . . and die before it +comes." + +The little boy had been twisting himself despairingly, and now said in a +small voice, "Mother, I've tried and I've tried and I can't do that back +button." + +His mother heard his voice and looked down at him uncomprehendingly for +a moment. He said, less resigned, impatience pricking through his tone, +"Mother, I _told_ you I never could reach that button behind." + +She bent from her chair, mechanically secured the little garment, and +then, leaning back, looked down moodily at her feet. The little boy +began silently to put on and lace up his shoes. + +Marise was aware of a dimming of the light in the inner room of her +consciousness, as though one window after another were being darkened. A +hushed, mournful twilight fell in her heart. Melancholy came and sat +down with her, black-robed. What could one feel except Melancholy at the +sight of the world of humanity, poor world, war-ridden, broken in +health, ruined in hope, the very nerves of action cut by the betrayal of +its desperate efforts to be something more than base. + + * * * * * + +Was that really Melancholy? Something else slid into her mind, something +watchful. She sat perfectly still so that no chance movement should +disturb that mood till it could be examined and challenged. There was +certainly something else in her heart beside sorrow over the miseries of +the after-war world. + +She persisted in her probing search, felt a cold ray of daylight strike +into that gloom and recognized with amazement and chagrin what else it +was! Disgusting! There in the very bottom of her mind, lay still that +discomfort at beginning to look like Cousin Hetty! And so that wound to +her vanity had slowly risen again into her consciousness and clothed +itself in the ampler, nobler garments of impersonal Melancholy. . . . +"_Oh_," she cried aloud, impatiently, contemptuous of herself, "what +picayune creatures human beings are! I'm ashamed to be one!" + +She started up and went to the window, looking out blankly at the +mountain wall, as she had at the newspaper, not seeing what was there, +her eyes turned inward. "Wait now, wait. Don't go off, half-cocked. Go +clear through with this thing," she exhorted herself. "There _must_ be +more in it than mere childish, silly vanity." She probed deep and +brought up, "Yes, there is more to it. In the first place I was priggish +and hypocritical when I tried to pretend that it was nothing to me when +I looked in the glass and saw for the first time that my youth has begun +to leave me. That was Anglo-Saxon pretense, trying to seem to myself +made of finer stuff than I really am. It's really not cheerful for any +woman, no matter on what plane, to know that the days of her physical +flowering are numbered. I'd have done better to look straight at that, +and have it out with myself." + +She moved her head very slightly, from side to side. "But there was more +than that. There was more than that. What was it?" She leaned her ear as +if to listen, her eyes very large and fixed. "Yes, there _was_ the war, +and the awfulness of our disappointment in it, too, after all. There was +the counsel of despair about everything, the pressure on us all to think +that all efforts to be more than base are delusions. We were so terribly +fooled with our idealistic hopes about the war . . . who knows but that we +are being fooled again when we try for the higher planes of life? +Perhaps those people are right who say that to grab for the pleasures of +the senses is the best . . . those are _real_ pleasures, at least. Who +knows if there is anything else?" + +Something like a little, far-away tolling said to her, "There was +something else. There was something else." + +This time she knew what it was. "Yes, there was that other aspect of the +loss of physical youth, when you think that the pleasures of the senses +are perhaps all there are. There was the inevitable despairing wonder if +I had begun to have out of my youth all it could have given, whether +. . ." + +There tolled in her ear, "Something else, something else there." But now +she would not look, put her hands over her eyes, and stood in the dark, +fighting hard lest a ray of light should show her what might be there. + +A voice sounded beside her. Toucle was saying, "Have you got one of your +headaches? The mail carrier just went by. Here are the letters." + +She took down her hands, and opened her eyes. She felt that something +important hung on there being a letter from Neale. She snatched at the +handful of envelopes and sorted them over, her fingers trembling. Yes, +there it was, the plain stamped envelope with Neale's firm regular +handwriting. + +She felt as though she were a diver whose lungs had almost collapsed, +who was being drawn with heavenly swiftness up to the surface of the +water. She tore open the envelope and read, "Dearest Marise." It was as +though she had heard his voice. + +She drew in a great audible breath and began to read. What a relief it +was to feel herself all one person, not two or three, probing hatefully +into each other! + + * * * * * + +But there was something she had not done, some teasing, unimportant +thing, she ought to finish before going on with the letter. She looked +up vacantly, half-absently, wondering what it was. Her eyes fell on +Toucle. Toucle was looking at her, Toucle who so seldom looked at +anything. She felt a momentary confusion as though surprised by another +person in a room she had thought empty. And after that, uneasiness. She +did not want Toucle to go on looking at her. + +"Mark hasn't had his breakfast yet," she said to the old Indian woman. +"Won't you take him downstairs, please, and give him a dish of porridge +for me?" + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +"The Gent Around the Lady + +and + +The Lady Round the Gent" + +_An Evening in the Life of Mr. Vincent Marsh_ + +May 25. + + +"Come in, come in!" cried an old black-clad woman, with a white apron, +who opened the door wider into the flaring brilliance of the lamp-lit +kitchen. "I'm _real_ glad you felt to come to one of our dances. They're +old-fashioned, but _we_ like 'em." She closed the door behind them and +added cordially, "Now Mr. Welles is going to live here, he'll have to +learn to shake his feet along with the rest of us." + +Mr. Welles was frankly terrified at the idea. "Why, I never dreamed of +dancing in all my life!" he cried. "I only came to look on." He +hesitated to divest himself of his overcoat, panic-struck and meditating +flight. Vincent fell upon him from one side and the lively old woman +from the other. Together they stripped the older man of his wraps. +"Never too late to learn," old Mrs. Powers assured him briskly. "You +dance with _me_ and I'll shove ye around, all right. There ain't a +quadrille ever danced that I couldn't do backwards with my eyes shut, as +soon as the music strikes up." She motioned them towards the door, "Step +right this way. The folks that have come are all in the settin'-room." + +As they followed her, Vincent said, "Mrs. Powers, aren't you going to +dance with me, too?" + +"Oh, of course I be," she answered smartly, "if you ask me." + +"Then I ask you now," he urged, "for the first dance. Only I don't know +any more than Mr. Welles how to dance a quadrille. But I'm not afraid." + +"I guess there ain't much ye _be_ afraid of," she said admiringly. They +came now into the dining-room and caught beyond that a glimpse of the +living-room. Both wore such an unusual aspect of elegance and grace that +Vincent stared, stopping to look about him. "Looks queer, don't it," +said Mrs. Powers, "with the furniture all gone. We always move out +everything we _can_, up garret, so's to leave room for dancing." + +Oh yes, that was it, Vincent thought; the shinily varnished cheap +furniture had almost disappeared, and the excellent proportions of the +old rooms could be seen. Lamps glowed from every shelf, their golden +light softened by great sprays of green branches with tender young +leaves, which were fastened everywhere over the doors, the windows, +banked in the corner The house smelled like a forest, indescribably +fresh and spicy. + +"There ain't many flowers yet; too early," explained Mrs. Powers +apologetically, "so we had to git green stuff out'n the woods to kind of +dress us up. 'Gene he _would_ have some pine boughs too. He's crazy +about pine-trees. I always thought that was one reason why he took it so +hard when we was done out of our wood-land. He thinks as much of that +big pine in front of the house as he does of a person. And tonight he's +got the far room all done up with pine boughs." + +They arrived in the living-room now, where the women and children +clustered on one side, and the men on the other, their lean boldly +marked faces startlingly clear-cut in the splendor of fresh shaves. The +women were mostly in light-colored waists and dark skirts, their hair +carefully dressed. Vincent noticed, as he nodded to them before taking +his place with the men, that not a single one had put powder on her +face. Their eyes looked shining with anticipation. They leaned their +heads together and chatted in low tones, laughing and glancing sideways +at the group of men on the other side of the room. Vincent wondered at +the presence of the children. When she arrived, he would ask Marise +about that. At the inward mention of the name he felt a little shock, +which was not altogether pleasurable. He narrowed his eyes and shook his +head slightly, as though to toss a lock of hair from his forehead, a +gesture which was habitual with him when he felt, with displeasure, an +unexpected emotion not summoned by his will. It passed at once. + +On joining the dark-suited group of men he found himself next to young +Frank Warner, leaning, loose-jointed and powerful, against the wall, and +not joining in the talk of weather, pigs, roads, and spring plowing +which rose from the others. Vincent looked at him with approval. He felt +strongly drawn to this splendid, primitive creature, and knew perfectly +well why. He liked anybody who had pep enough to have an original +feeling, not one prescribed by the ritual and tabu of his particular +tribe. + +"Hello, Frank," he said. "Have a cigarette? + +"We'll have to go out if we smoke," said Frank. + +"Well, why shouldn't we?" suggested Vincent, looking around him. +"There's nothing to do here, yet." + +Frank tore himself loose from the supporting wall with a jerk, and +nodded. Together they stepped out of the front door, unused by the +guests, who all entered by the kitchen. At first it was as though they +had plunged into black velvet curtains, so great was the contrast with +the yellow radiance of the room they had left. They looked back through +the unshaded windows and saw the room as though it were an illustration +in a book, or a scene in a moving-picture play, the men grouped in a +dark mass on one side, the women, smiling, bending their heads towards +each other, the lamps glowing on the green branches and on the shining +eyes of all those pleasure-expectant human beings. + +As they looked, Nelly Powers came in from another room, doubtless the +"far room" of which her mother-in-law had spoken. She was carrying a +large tray full of cups. She braced herself against the weight of the +earthenware and balancing herself with a free swinging motion on her +high-heeled shoes walked with an accentuation of her usual vigorous +poise. + +"By George, she's a beauty!" cried Vincent, not sorry to have an +opportunity to talk of her with his companion. + +Frank made no comment. Vincent laughed to himself at the enormous +capacity for silence of these savages, routing to the imagination of a +civilized being. He went on, determined to get some expression from the +other, "She's one of the very handsomest women I ever saw anywhere." + +Frank stirred in the darkness as though he were about to speak. Vincent +cocked his ear and prepared to listen with all the prodigious sharpness +of which he knew himself capable. If he could only once make this yokel +speak her name, he'd know . . . all he wanted to know. + +Frank said, "Yes, she's good-looking, all right." + +Vincent kept silence, pondering every tone and overtone of the remark. +He was astonished to find that he had no more direct light than ever on +what he wanted to know. He laughed again at his own discomfiture. There +were the two extremes, the super-sophisticated person who could control +his voice so that it did not give him away, and the utter rustic whose +voice had such a brute inexpressiveness that his meaning was as +effectively hidden. He would try again. He said casually, "She's an +enough-sight better-looking specimen than her husband. However does it +happen that the best-looking women are always caught by that sort of +chimpanzees? How did she ever happen to marry 'Gene, anyhow?" + +The other man answered, literally. "I don't know how she did happen to +marry him. She don't come from around here. 'Gene was off working in a +mill, down in Massachusetts, Adams way, and they got married there. They +only come back here to live after they'd had all that trouble with +lawyers and lost their wood-land. 'Gene's father died about that time. +It cut him pretty hard. And 'Gene and his wife they come back to run the +farm." + +At this point they saw, looking in at the lighted dumb-show in the +house, that new arrivals had come. Vincent felt a premonitory clap of +his heart and set his teeth in his cigarette. Yes, Marise had come, now +appeared in the doorway, tall, framed in green-leafed branches, the +smooth pale oval of her face lighted by the subtle smile, those dark +long eyes! By God! What would he not give to know what went on behind +that smile, those eyes! + +She was unwinding from her head the close, black nun-like wrap that +those narrow primitive country-women far away on the other side of the +globe had chosen to express their being united to another human being. +And a proper lugubrious symbol it made for their lugubrious, +prison-like, primitive view of the matter. + +Now she had it off. Her sleek, gleaming dark head stood poised on her +long, thick, white throat. What a woman! What she could be in any +civilized setting! + +She was talking to Nelly Powers now, who had come back and stood facing +her in one of those superb poses of hers, her yellow braids heavy as +gold. It was Brunhilda talking to Leonardo da Vinci's Ste. Anne. No, +heavens no! Not a saint, a musty, penitential negation like a saint! +Only of course, the Ste. Anne wasn't a saint either, but da Vinci's +glorious Renaissance stunt at showing what an endlessly desirable woman +he could make if he put his mind on it. + +"What say, we go in," suggested Frank, casting away the butt of his +cigarette. "I think I hear old Nate beginning to tune up." + +They opened the door and stepped back, the laughing confusion of their +blinking entrance, blinded by the lights, carrying off the first moments +of greeting. In the midst of this, Vincent heard the front door open +and, startled to think that anyone else had used that exit, turned his +head, and saw with some dismay that 'Gene had followed them in. How +near had he been to them in the black night while they talked of his +wife's mismated beauty? He walked past them giving no sign, his strong +long arms hanging a little in front of his body as he moved, his +shoulders stooped apparently with their own weight. From the dining-room +came a sound which Vincent did not recognize as the voice of any +instrument he had ever heard: a series of extraordinarily rapid staccato +scrapes, playing over and over a primitively simple sequence of notes. +He stepped to the door to see what instrument was being used and saw an +old man with a white beard and long white hair, tipped back in a chair, +his eyes half shut, his long legs stretched out in front of him, patting +with one thick boot. Under his chin was a violin, on the strings of +which he jiggled his bow back and forth spasmodically, an infinitesimal +length of the horse-hair being used for each stroke, so that there was +no sonority in the tones. Vincent gazed at him with astonishment. He had +not known that you could make a violin, a real violin, sound like that. + +Old Mrs. Powers said at his elbow, "The first sets are forming, Mr. +Marsh." She called across to Frank Warner, standing very straight with +Nelly Powers' hand on his arm, "Frank, you call off, wun't ye?" + +Instantly the young man, evidently waiting for the signal, sent out a +long clear shout, "First sets _fo-orming!_" + +Vincent was startled by the electrifying quality of the human voice when +not hushed to its usual smothered conversational dullness. + +"Two sets formed in the living-room! Two in the dining-room! One in the +far room!" chanted Frank. He drew a deep breath which visibly swelled +his great chest and sang out, resonantly, "Promenade _to_ your places!" + +He set the example, marching off through the throng with Nelly by his +side. + +"Frank, he generally calls off," explained old Mrs. Powers. "It's in +his family to. His father always did before him." She looked around her, +discerned something intelligible in what looked like crowding confusion +to Vincent and told him hurriedly, "Look-y-here, we'll have to git a +move on, if we git into a set. They're all full here." Frank appeared in +the doorway, alone, and lifted a long high arm. "_One_ couple needed in +the far room!" he proclaimed with stentorian dignity and seriousness. + +"Here we are!" shouted old Mrs. Powers, scrambling her way through the +crowd, and pulling Vincent after her. He could see now that the couples +about him were indeed in their places, hand in hand, facing each other, +gravely elate and confident. The younger ones were swinging their bodies +slightly, in time to the sharply marked beat of the fiddle, and in the +older ones, the pulse throbbed almost visibly as they waited. + +He felt the breath of pines on him, resinous, penetrating, stimulating. +He was in a small, square room with a low ceiling, dense and green with +pine-boughs, fastened to the walls. The odor was as strange an +accompaniment to dancing as was that furiously whirling primitive +iteration of the fiddle. + +"Over here!" cried Mrs. Powers, dragging masterfully at her partner. She +gave a sigh of satisfaction, caught at his hand and held it high. "All +ready, Frank," she said. + +Facing them, near the doorway stood Frank and Nelly, their heads up, +Nelly's small high-heeled shoe thrust forward, their clasped hands held +high. Vincent felt his blood move more quickly at the spectacle they +made. On one side stood Marise Crittenden, her fingers clasped by the +huge knotted hand of 'Gene Powers, and on the other was rounded, rosy +old Mr. Bayweather holding by the hand the oldest Powers child, a pretty +blonde girl of twelve. + +Frank's voice pealed out above the jig-jig-jigging of the fiddle. +"_Salute_ your partners!" + +Vincent had a qualm of a feeling he thought he had left behind him with +his boyhood, real embarrassment, fear of appearing at a disadvantage. +What in the world did their antiquated lingo _mean?_ Was he to _kiss_ +that old woman? + +Mrs. Powers said reassuringly, "Don't you worry. Just do what the others +do." + +As she spoke she was holding out her skirts and dipping to a courtesy. A +little later, he caught at the idea and sketched a bow such as to his +astonishment he saw the other men executing. Was he in old Versailles or +Vermont? + +He felt his hand seized by the old woman's. Such a hearty zest was in +her every action that he looked at her amazed. + +"Balance to the corners, right!" chanted Frank, sending his voice out +like a bugle so that it might be heard in all the rooms. + +With perfect precision, and poise, the men and women of the couples +separated, stepped swayingly, each towards the nearest of the couple to +their right, and retreated. + +"Balance to corners, left!" + +The same movement was executed to the other side. + +"First couple forward and back!" shouted Frank. + +Marise and 'Gene advanced, hand in hand, to meet the old clergyman and +the little girl. They met in the middle, poised an instant on the top +wave of rhythm and stepped back, every footfall, every movement, their +very breathing, in time to the beat-beat-beat of the fiddle's air which +filled the room as insistently as the odor of the pines. + +Mrs. Powers nodded her white head to it and tapped her foot. Marsh had +not ventured to remove his eyes from the weaving interplay of the +dancers in his own set. Now, for an instant, he glanced beyond them into +the next room. He received an impression of rapid, incessant, intricate +shifting to and fro, the whole throng of dancers in movement as swift +and disconcerting to the eyes as the bits of glass in a kaleidoscope. It +made him literally dizzy to see it, and he turned his eyes back to his +own set. + +The air changed, but not the rhythm, and all the men broke out in a +hoarse chant, singing to a whirring, rapid tune, + + "_Oh_, pass right through and never mind who + And leave the girl behind you. + Now come right back on the same old track + And _swing_ the girl behind you!" + +In obedience to these chanted commands, the four who were executing the +figure went through labyrinthine manoeuvers, forward and back, dividing +and reuniting. The old clergyman held out his hand to Mrs. Crittenden, +laughing as he swung her briskly about. 'Gene bent his great bulk +solemnly to swing his own little daughter. Then with neat exactitude, on +the stroke of the beat, they were all back in their places. + +"_Second_ couple forward and back!" sang out Frank, prolonging the +syllables in an intoned chant like a muezzin calling from a tower. +Vincent felt himself being pushed and shoved by Mrs. Powers through the +intricate figure. + + "Now come right back on the same old track + And _swing_ the girl behind you!" + +The men shouted loudly, stamping in time, with such a relish for the +beat of the rhythm that it sang itself through to the motor-centers and +set them throbbing. Vincent found himself holding Nelly Powers at arm's +length and swinging her till his head whirled. She was as light as +sea-foam, dreamy, her blue eyes shining. + +"_Grand_ right and left!" shouted Frank. + +Vincent's hand was seized by the little Powers girl. She swung him +competently and passed him on to her mother, who swam past him like a +goddess, a golden aroma of health and vivid sensual seduction trailing +from her as she moved. + +Then it was Marise's hand in his . . . how strange, how strange . . . that +hand which knew the secrets of Debussy's heart. . . . She grasped his +fingers firmly and looked at him full, laughingly, her face as open as +a child's . . . the many-sided tantalizing creature! She pulled him about +and was gone. + +And there was old Mrs. Powers in her place, absurdly light and elastic, +treading the floor in her flat, old-woman's shoes with brilliant +precision. + +"_All_ promenade!" cried Frank, this time his voice exultant that the +end was successfully reached. + +He seized Nelly by the waist and danced with her the length of the room, +followed by the other couples. The music stopped. He released her +instantly, made a strange, stiff little bow, and turned away. The set +was over. + +"There!" said Mrs. Powers, breathing quickly. "'Twan't so hard as you +thought 'twas goin' to be, was it?" + +"Good-evening," said Mr. Bayweather on the other side, wiping the pink +roll at the back of his neck. "What do you think of our aboriginal +folk-dancing? I'll warrant you did not think there was a place in the +United States where the eighteenth century dances had had an +uninterrupted existence, did you?" + +"I assure you I had never thought about the subject at all," said +Vincent, edging away rapidly towards escape. + +"Fascinating historical phenomenon, I call it," said the clergyman. +"Analogous to the persistence of certain parts of old English speech +which is to be observed in the talk of our people. For instance in the +eighteenth century English vocabulary, the phrase . . ." + +His voice died away in the voices of the people Vincent had put +resolutely between them shoving his way through the crowd, recklessly. +He was struck by the aspect of the people, their blood warmed, their +lips moist, their eyes gleaming. The rooms were growing hot, and the +odor of pines was heavy in the air. + +He found himself next to Nelly Powers, and asked her to dance with him, +"although I don't know at all how to do it," he explained. She smiled, +silently, indifferently, confidently, and laid her hand on his arm in +token of accepting his invitation. Vincent had a passing fancy that she +did not care at all with whom she danced, that the motion itself was +enough for her. But he reflected that it was probably that she did not +care at all whether she danced with _him_. + +From the other end of the room came Frank's deep-mouthed shout, "The set +is forming! Promenade _to_ your places!" + +Nelly moved swiftly in that direction and again Vincent found himself +opposite Frank, dancing this time with Marise Crittenden. + +The music broke out into its shaking, quavering iteration of the pulse +of the dance. + +"Salute your partners!" + +This time Vincent knew what to do, and turning, bowed low to Nelly, who +made him a deep courtesy, her toe pointed, instep high, her eyes +shining, looking straight at him but evidently not seeing him. The music +seemed to float her off on a cloud. + +"Chassay _to_ the corners, right!" + +Vincent untangled the difference between "chassay" and "balance" and +acquitted himself. Now that his first panic of astonishment was over, he +observed that the figures of the dance were of great simplicity, all but +the central part, the climax. + +When the preliminary part was over, the music changed and again the men +broke out into their accompanying chant. This time it ran, + + "The gent around the lady + _and_ + The lady around the gent. + _Then_ + The lady around the lady + _and_ + The gent around the gent." + +Somewhere in the hypnotic to-and-fro of those swaying, poised, alert +human figures, he encountered Marise, coming on her suddenly, and +finding her standing stock-still. + +"_Around_ me!" she commanded, imperatively, nodding and laughing. "Just +as the song says." + + "The gent around the lady," + +sang the men. + +Frank was circling about Nelly, his eyes on hers, treading lightly, his +tall body apparently weighing no more than thistle-down. It was as +though he were weaving a charm. + +Vincent ended his circle. + +The men sang, "_And_ the lady round the gent." + +Marise and Nelly stepped off, overlaying the men's invisible circle with +one of their own. + +The room beyond boiled with the dervish-like whirling of the dancers. +The fiddle rose louder and shriller, faster and faster. The men sang at +the tops of their voices, and beat time heavily. Under cover of this +rolling clamor, Vincent called out boldly to Marise, "A symbol of life! +A symbol of our life!" and did not know if she heard him. + + "_Then_ + The lady around the lady." + +Nelly and Marise circled each other. + + "_And_ + The gent around the gent." + +He and Frank followed them. + +His head was turning, the room staggered around him. Nelly's warm, +vibrant hand was again in his. They were in their places. Frank's voice +rose, resounding, "_Pro_menade all!" + +Nelly abandoned herself to his arms, in the one brief moment of close +physical contact of the dance. They raced to the end of the room. + +The music stopped abruptly, but it went on in his head. + +The odor of pines rose pungent in the momentary silence. Everyone was +breathing rapidly. Nelly put up a hand to touch her hair. Vincent, +reflecting that he would never acquire the native-born capacity for +abstaining from chatter, said, because he felt he must say something, +"What a pleasant smell those pine-branches give." + +She turned her white neck to glance into the small room lined with the +fragrant branches, and remarked, clearly and dispassionately, "I don't +like the smell." + +Vincent was interested. He continued, "Well, you must have a great deal +of it, whether you like it or not, from that great specimen by your +front door." + +She looked at him calmly, her eyes as blue as precious stones. "The old +pine-tree," she said, "I wish it were cut down, darkening the house the +way it does." She spoke with a sovereign impassivity, no trace of +feeling in her tone. She turned away. + +Vincent found himself saying almost audibly, "Oh _ho_!" He had the +sensation, very agreeable to him, of combining two clues to make a +certainty. He wished he could lay his hands on a clue to put with Marise +Crittenden's shrinking from the photograph of the Rocca di Papa. + +He had not spoken to Marise that evening, save the first greetings, and +his impudent shout to her in the dance, and now turned to find her. On +the other side of the room she was installed, looking extraordinarily +young and girl-like, between Mr. Welles and Mr. Bayweather, fanning +first one and then the other elderly gentleman and talking to them with +animation. They were both in need of fanning, puffing and panting hard. +Mr. Welles indeed was hardly recognizable, the usual pale quiet of his +face broken into red and glistening laughter. + +"I see you've been dancing," said Vincent, coming to a halt in front of +the group and wishing the two old gentlemen in the middle of next week. + +"Old Mrs. Powers got me," explained Mr. Welles. "You never saw anything +so absurd in your life." He went on to the others, "You simply can't +imagine how remarkable this is, for me. I never, _never_ danced and I no +more thought I ever _would_ . . ." + +Mr. Bayweather ran his handkerchief around and around his neck in an +endeavor to save his clerical collar from complete ruin, and said, +panting still, "Best thing in the world for you, Mr. Welles." + +"Yes indeed," echoed Marise. "We'll have to prescribe a dance for you +every week. You look like a boy, and you've been looking rather tired +lately." She had an idea and added, accusingly, "I do believe you've +gone on tormenting yourself about the Negro problem!" + +"Yes, he has!" Mr. Bayweather unexpectedly put in. "And he's not the +only person he torments about it. Only yesterday when he came down to +the rectory to see some old deeds, didn't he expatiate on that subject +and succeed in spoiling the afternoon. I had never been forced to think +so much about it in all my life. He made me very uncomfortable, very! +What's the use of going miles out of your way, I say, out of the station +to which it has pleased God to place us? I believe in leaving such +insoluble problems to a Divine Providence." + +Marise was evidently highly amused by this exposition of one variety of +ministerial principle, and looked up at Vincent over her fan, her eyes +sparkling with mockery. He savored with an intimate pleasure her +certainty that he would follow the train of her thought; and he decided +to try to get another rise out of the round-eyed little clergyman. "Oh, +if it weren't the Negro problem, Mr. Bayweather, it would be free-will +or predestination, or capital and labor. Mr. Welles suffers from a +duty-complex, inflamed to a morbid degree by a life-long compliance to a +mediaeval conception of family responsibility." + +Mr. Bayweather's eyes became rounder than ever at this, and Vincent went +on, much amused, "Mr. Welles has done his duty with discomfort to +himself so long that he has the habit. His life at Ashley seems too +unnaturally peaceful to him. I'd just as soon he took it out with +worrying about the Negroes. They are so safely far away. I had been on +the point of communicating to him my doubts as to the civic virtues of +the Martians, as a safety valve for him." + +Marise laughed out, as round a peal as little Mark's, but she evidently +thought they had gone far enough with their fooling, for she now brought +the talk back to a safe, literal level by crying, "Well, there's one +thing sure, Mr. Welles can't worry his head about _any_ of the +always-with-us difficulties of life, as long as he is dancing art Ashley +quadrille." + +Mr. Welles concurred in this with feeling. "I'd no idea I would ever +experience anything so . . . so . . . well, I tell you, I thought I'd left +_fun_ behind me, years and years ago." + +"Oh, what you've had is nothing compared to what you're going to have," +Marise told him. "Just wait till old Nate strikes up the opening bars of +'The Whirlwind' and see the roof of the house fly off. See here," she +laid her hand on his arm. "This is leap-year. I solemnly engage you to +dance 'The Whirlwind' with me." She made the gesture of the little-boy +athlete, feeling the biceps of one arm, moving her forearm up and down. +"I'm in good health, and good muscle, because I've been out stirring up +the asparagus bed with a spading-fork. I can shove you around as well as +old Mrs. Powers, if I do say it who shouldn't." + +Vincent looked down at her, bubbling with light-hearted merriment, and +thought, "There is no end to the variety of her moods!" + +She glanced up at him, caught his eyes on her and misinterpreted their +wondering expression. "You think I'm just silly and childish, don't +you?" she told him challengingly. "Oh, don't be such an everlasting +adult. Life's not so serious as all that!" + +He stirred to try to protest, but she went on, "It's dancing that sets +me off. Nelly Powers and I are crazy about it. And so far as my +observation of life extends, our dances here are the only social +functions left in the world, that people really _enjoy_ and don't go to +merely because it's the thing to. It always goes to my head to see +people enjoy themselves. It's so sweet." + +Mr. Welles gave her one of his affectionate pats on her hand. Vincent +asked her casually, "What's the idea of making a family party of it and +bringing the children too?" + +She answered dashingly, "If I answer you in your own language, I'd say +that it's because their households are in such a low and lamentably +primitive condition that they haven't any slave-labor to leave the +children with, and so bring them along out of mere brute necessity. If I +answer you in another vocabulary, I'd say that there is a close feeling +of family unity, and they _like_ to have their children with them when +they are having a good time, and find it pleasant to see mothers dancing +with their little boys and fathers with their little girls." + + * * * * * + +Without the slightest premonition of what his next question was to bring +out, and only putting it to keep the talk going, Vincent challenged her, +"Why don't you bring your own, then?" He kept down with difficulty the +exclamation which he inwardly added, "If you only knew what a relief it +is to see you for once, without that intrusive, tiresome bunch of +children!" + +"Why, sometimes I do," she answered in a matter-of-fact tone. "But I +just had a telegram from my husband saying that he is able to get home a +little sooner than he thought, and will be here early tomorrow morning. +And the children voted to go to bed early so they could be up bright +and early to see him." + +Vincent continued looking down on her blankly for an instant, after she +had finished this reasonable explanation. He was startled by the wave of +anger which spurted up over him like flame. + +He heard Mr. Welles make some suitable comment, "How nice." He himself +said, "Oh really," in a neutral tone, and turned away. + + * * * * * + +For a moment he saw nothing of what was before him, and then realized +that he had moved next to Frank Warner, who was standing by Nelly +Powers, and asking her to dance with him again. She was shaking her +head, and looking about the room uneasily. Vincent felt a gust of anger +again. "Oh, go _to_ it, Frank!" he said, in a low fierce tone. "Take her +out again, as often as you like. Why shouldn't you?" + +Nelly gave him one of her enigmatic looks, deep and inscrutable, +shrugged her shoulders, put her hand on Frank's arm, and walked off with +him. + +"They're the handsomest couple in the room," said Vincent, at random to +a farmer near him, who looked at him astonished by the heat of his +accent. And then, seeing that Nelly's husband was in possible earshot, +Vincent raised his voice recklessly. "They're the handsomest couple in +the room," he repeated resentfully. "They ought always to dance +together." + +If 'Gene heard, he did not show it, the granite impassivity of his harsh +face unmoved. + +Vincent went on towards the door, his nerves a little relieved by this +outburst. He would go out and have another cigarette, he thought, and +then take his old man-child home to bed. What were they doing in this +absurd place? + +The music began to skirl again as he stepped out and closed the door +behind him. + +He drew in deeply the fresh night-air, and looking upward saw that the +clouds had broken away and that the stars were out, innumerable, +thick-sown, studding with gold the narrow roof of sky which, rising from +the mountains on either side, arched itself over the valley. He stood +staring before him, frowning, forgetting what he had come out to do. He +told himself that coming from that yelling confusion inside, and the +glare of those garish lamps, he was stupefied by the great silence of +the night. There was nothing clear in his mind, only a turmoil of +eddying sensations which he could not name. He walked down to the huge +dark pine, the pine which 'Gene Powers loved like a person, and which +his wife wished were cut down. What a ghastly prison marriage was, he +thought, a thing as hostile to the free human spirit as an iron +ball-and-chain. + +He looked back at the little house, tiny as an insect before the great +bulk of the mountains, dwarfed by the gigantic tree, ridiculous, +despicable in the face of Nature, like the human life it sheltered. From +its every window poured a flood of yellow light that was drunk up in a +twinkling by the vastness of the night's obscurity. + +He leaned against the straight, sternly unyielding bole of the tree, +folding his arms and staring at the house. What a beastly joke the whole +business of living! + +A thousand ugly recollections poured their venom upon him from his past +life. Life, this little moment of blind, sensual groping and grabbing +for something worth while that did not exist, save in the stultification +of the intelligence. All that you reached for, so frantically, it was +only another handful of mud, when you held it. + +Past the yellow squares of the windows, he saw the shapes of the +dancers, insect-tiny, footing it to and fro. And in one of those +silhouettes he recognized Marise Crittenden. + +He turned away from the sight and struck his fist against the rough bark +of the tree. What an insane waste and confusion ruled everywhere in +human life! A woman like that to be squandered . . . an intelligence fine +and supple, a talent penetrating and rare like hers for music, a strange +personal beauty like that of no other woman, a depth one felt like +mid-ocean, a capacity for fun like a child's and a vitality of +personality, a power for passion that pulsed from her so that to touch +her hand casually set one thrilling . . . ! And good God! What was destiny +doing with her? Spending that gold like water on three brats incapable +of distinguishing between her and any good-natured woman who would put +on their shoes and wash their faces for them. Any paid Irish nurse could +do for them what their mother bent the priceless treasure of her +temperament to accomplish. The Irish nurse would do it better, for she +would not be aware of anything else better, which she might do, and +their mother knew well enough what she sacrificed . . . or if she did not +know it yet, she would, soon. She had betrayed that to him, the very +first time he had seen her, that astonishing first day, when, breathing +out her vivid charm like an aureole of gold mist, she had sat there +before him, quite simply the woman most to his taste he had even seen +. . . _here_! That day when she had spoken about the queerness of her +feeling "lost" when little Mark went off to school, because for the +first time in years she had had an hour or so free from those ruthless +little leeches who spent their lives in draining her vitality. He had +known, if she had not, the significance of that feeling of hers, the +first time she had had a moment to raise her eyes from her trivial task +and see that she had been tricked into a prison. That very day he had +wanted to cry out to her, as impersonally as one feels towards a +beautiful bird caught in a net, "Now, _now_, burst through, and spread +your wings where you belong." + +It was like wiping up the floor with cloth of gold. In order that those +three perfectly commonplace, valueless human lives might be added to the +world's wretched population, a nature as rare as a jewel was being +slowly ground away. What were the treasures to whom she was being +sacrificed? Paul, the greasy, well-intentioned, priggish burgher he +would make; Elly, almost half-witted, a child who stared at you like an +imbecile when asked a question, and who evidently scarcely knew that her +mother existed, save as cook and care-taker. And Mark, the passionate, +gross, greedy baby. There were the three walls of the prison where she +was shut away from any life worthy of her. + +And the fourth wall . . . + + * * * * * + +The blackness dropped deeper about him, and within him. There they were +dancing, those idiots, dancing on a volcano if ever human beings did, in +the little sultry respite from the tornado which was called the +world-peace. Well, that was less idiotic than working, at least. How +soon before it would break again, the final destructive hurricane, born +of nothing but the malignant folly of human hearts, and sweep away all +that they now agonized and sweated to keep? What silly weakness to spend +the respite in anything but getting as much of what you wanted as you +could, before it was all gone in the big final smash-up, and the yellow +or black man were on top. + + * * * * * + +With a bitter relish he felt sunk deep in one of his rank reactions +against life and human beings. Now at least he was on bed-rock. There +was a certain hard, quiet restfulness in scorning it all so +whole-heartedly as either stupid or base. + + * * * * * + +At this a woman's face hung suddenly there in the blackness. Her long +eyes seemed to look directly into his, a full revealing look such as +they had never given him in reality. His hard quiet was broken by an +agitation he could not control. No, no, there was something there that +was not mud. He had thought he would live and die without meeting it. +And there it was, giving to paltry life a meaning, after all, a +troubling and immortal meaning. + +A frosty breath blew down upon him from the mountains. A long shudder +ran through him. + +The sensation moved him to a sweeping change of mood, to a furious +resentment as at an indignity. God! What was he doing? Who was this +moping in the dark like a boy? + + * * * * * + +The great night stood huge and breathless above him as before, but now +he saw only the lamp-lit house, tiny as an insect, but vibrant with +eager and joyous life. With a strong, resolute step he went rapidly back +to the door, opened it wide, stepped in, and walked across the floor to +Marise Crittenden. "You're going to dance the next dance with _me_, you +know," he told her. + + + + +CHAPTER X + +AT THE MILL + +I + +_An Afternoon in the Life of Mr. Neale Crittenden, aet. 38_ + +May 27. + + +The stenographer, a pale, thin boy, with a scarred face, and very white +hands, limped over to the manager's desk with a pile of letters to be +signed. "There, Captain Crittenden," he said, pride in his accent. + +Neale was surprised and pleased. "All done, Arthur?" He looked over the +work hastily. "Good work, good work." He leaned back, looking up at the +other. "How about it, anyhow, Arthur? Is it going to work out all +right?" + +The stenographer looked at him hard and swallowed visibly. "I never +dreamed I'd be fit to do anything I like half so well. I thought when I +was in the hospital that I was done for, for sure. Captain Crittenden, +if you only knew what my mother and I think about what you've done for +. . ." + +Neale dodged hastily. "That's all right. That's all right. If you like +it, that's all that's necessary. And I'm not Captain any more." + +"I forget, sir," said the other apologetically. + +"Can you sit down and take a second batch right now? I want to get +through early. Mrs. Crittenden's going to bring some visitors to see the +place this afternoon, and I'll have to be with them more or less." + +He looked at the clock. It was half-past three. Marise had said she +would be there about four. He gave a calculating glance at the stack of +letters. He would never be able to get through those. "We'll have to get +a move on," he remarked. "Things got pretty well piled up while I was +away." + +He began to dictate rapidly, steadily, the end of a sentence clearly in +his mind before he pronounced the first word. He liked to dictate and +enjoyed doing it well. The pale young stenographer bent over his +note-book, his disfigured face intent and serious. + +"Turned out all right, Arthur has," thought Neale to himself. "I wasn't +so far off, when I thought of the business college for him." Then he +applied himself single-mindedly to his dictation, taking up one letter +after another, with hardly a pause in his voice. But for all his +diligence, he had not come to the bottom of the pile when four o'clock +struck; nor ten minutes later when, glancing out of the window, he saw +Marise and the children with Mr. Bayweather and the two other men coming +across the mill-yard. Evidently Mr. Bayweather had dropped in just as +they were going to start and had come along. He stopped dictating and +looked at the group with a certain interest. Marise and the children had +had a good deal to say yesterday about the newcomers to Crittenden's. + +It seemed to him that the impression he had received of them had been as +inaccurate as such second-hand impressions were apt to be. The older man +was just like any elderly business man, for all he could see, nothing so +especially attractive about him, although Marise had said in her ardent +way that he was "the sort of old American you love on sight, the kind +that makes you home-sick when you meet him in Europe." And as for Mr. +Marsh, he couldn't see any signs of his being such a record-breaking +live-wire as they had all said. He walked along quietly enough, and was +evidently as resigned as any of them to letting Mr. Bayweather do all +the talking. On the other hand, none of them had told him what a +striking-looking fellow he was, so tall, and with such a bold carriage +of that round dark head. + +"Here they come, Arthur," he remarked. "No more time. But I'll try to +squeeze in a minute or two, while they are here, to finish up these last +ones." + +The young man followed the direction of his eyes and nodded. He +continued looking at the advancing group for a moment, and as he stood +up, "You could tell that Mr. Marsh is a millionaire by the way his +clothes fit, couldn't you?" he remarked, turning to go back to his desk +in the outer office. + +They were coming down the hall now. Neale went forward to open the door, +met and breasted the wave of children who after hugging casually at his +knees and arms, swept by; and stepped forward to be presented to the +newcomers. They had not crossed the threshold, before his first +impression was reversed in one case. Marsh was a live-wire all right. +Now that he had seen his eyes, he knew what Elly had meant when she said +that when he looked at you it was like lightning. + +Mr. Bayweather barely waited for the first greetings to be pronounced +before he burst out, "Do they say, 'backwards and forwards' or 'back and +forth'?" + +Neale laughed. Old Bayweather was perennial. "Backwards and forwards, of +course," he said. "English people always say everything the longest +possible way." He explained to the others, "Mr. Bayweather is an +impassioned philologist . . ." + +"So I have gathered," commented Marsh. + +". . . and whenever any friends of his go on travels, they are always +asked to bring back some philological information about the region where +they go." + +He turned to Marise (how sweet she looked in that thin yellow dress). +"Where do you want your personally conducted to begin, dear?" he asked +her. (Lord! How good it seemed to get back to Marise!) + +Mr. Bayweather cut in hastily, "If I may be permitted to suggest, I +think a history of the mill would be advisable as a beginning. I will be +glad to tell the newcomers about this. I've just been working the +subject up for a chapter in history of Ashley." + +Neale caught an anguished side-glance from Marise and sent back to her a +shrugged message of helplessness in the face of Destiny. The man didn't +live who could head old Bayweather off when he got started on local +history. And besides, this would give him time to get those last three +letters finished. Aloud he said, "I wouldn't dare say a word about +history in Mr. Bayweather's presence. I have a few letters to finish. +I'll just step into the outer office and be ready to start when you've +heard the history lecture." He turned to the children, who were tapping +on the typewriter. "Look here, kids, you'd be better off where you won't +break anything. Get along with you out into the mill-yard and play on +the lumber-piles, why don't you? Paul, you see if you can tell yellow +birch from oak this time!" + +He and the children beat a retreat together into the outer office, where +he bent over Arthur's desk and began to dictate in a low voice, +catching, as he did so, an occasional rotund phrase from the +disquisition in the other room. ". . . the glorious spirit of manly +independence of the Green Mountain Boys . . ." + +To himself Neale thought, "He'd call it bolshevism if he met it today +. . ." + +". . . second building erected in the new settlement, 1766, as a +fort. . . . No, _no_, Mr. Marsh, _not_ against the Indians! Our early +settlers _here_ never had any trouble with the Indians." + +Neale laughed to himself at the clergyman's resentment of any ignorance +of any detail of Ashley's unimportant history. + +". . . as a fort against the York State men in the land-grant quarrels +with New Hampshire and New York, before the Revolution." Neale, smiling +inwardly, bet himself a nickel that neither of the two strangers had +ever heard of the Vermont land-grant quarrels, and found himself vastly +tickled by the profound silence they kept on the subject. They were +evidently scared to death of starting old Bayweather off on another +line. They were safe enough, if they only knew it. It was inconceivable +to Mr. Bayweather that any grown person should not know all about early +Vermont history. + +At this point Marise came out of the office, her face between laughter +and exasperation. She clasped her hands together and said, "Can't you do +_any_thing?" + +"In a minute," he told her. "I'll just finish these two letters and then +I'll go and break him off short." + +Marise went on to the accountant's desk, to ask about his wife, who sang +in her winter chorus. + +He dictated rapidly: "No more contracts will go out to you if this +stripping of the mountain-land continues. Our original contract has in +it the clause which I always insist on, that trees smaller than six +inches through the butt shall not be cut. You will please give your +choppers definite orders on this point, and understand that logs under +the specified size will not be accepted at the mill." He held out to the +stenographer the letter he was answering. "Here, Arthur, copy the name +and address off this. It's one of those French-Canadian names, hard to +spell if you don't see it." + +He paused an instant to hear how far Mr. Bayweather had progressed, and +heard him saying, "In the decade from 1850 on, there was a terrible and +scandalous devastation of the mountain-land . . ." and said to himself, +"Halfway through the century. I'll have time to go on a while. All +ready, Arthur." He dictated: "On birch brush-backs of the model +specified, we can furnish you any number up to . . ." He wound his way +swiftly and surely through a maze of figures and specifications without +consulting a paper or record, and drawing breath at the end, heard Mr. +Bayweather pronouncing his own name. ". . . Mr. Crittenden has taught us +all a great deal about the economic aspects of a situation with which we +had had years of more familiarity than he. His idea is that this +mountainous part of New England is really not fit for agriculture. +Farming in the usual sense has been a losing venture ever since the +Civil War high prices for wool ceased. Only the bottoms of the valleys +are fit for crops. Most of our county is essentially forest-land. And +his idea of the proper use to make of it, is to have a smallish +industrial population engaged in wood-working, who would use the bits of +arable land in the valleys as gardens to raise their own food. He has +almost entirely reorganized the life of our valley, along these lines, +and I daresay he cannot at all realize himself the prodigious change +from hopelessness and slow death to energy and forward-looking activity +which his intelligent grasp of the situation has brought to this corner +of the earth." + +The young stenographer had heard this too, and had caught the frown of +annoyance which the personal reference brought to Neale's forehead. He +leaned forward and said earnestly, "It's so, Captain . . . Mr. Crittenden. +It's _so_!" + +Mr. Bayweather went on, "There is enough wood in the forests within +reach of the mill to keep a moderate-sized wood-working factory going +indefinitely, cutting by rotation and taking care to leave enough trees +for natural reforestration. But of course that has not been the American +way of going at things. Instead of that steady, continuous use of the +woods, which Mr. Crittenden has shown to be possible, furnishing good, +well-paid work at home for the men who would be otherwise forced off +into cities, our poor mountains have been lumbered every generation or +so, on an immense, murderous, slashing scale, to make a big sum of money +for somebody in one operation. When old Mr. Burton Crittenden's nephew +came to town it was a different story. Mr. Neale Crittenden's ideal of +the lumber business is, as I conceive it, as much a service to mankind +as a doctor's is." + +Neale winced, and shook his head impatiently. How ministers did put the +Sunday-school rubber-stamp on everything they talked about--even +legitimate business. + +"And as Mrs. Crittenden's free-handed generosity with her musical +talent has transformed the life of the region as much as Mr. +Crittenden's high and disinterested . . ." + +"Oh _Gosh_, Arthur, never mind about the rest!" murmured Neale, moving +back quickly into the inner office to create a diversion. "All ready?" +he asked in a loud, hearty voice, as he came up to them. "Up to 1920 by +this time, Mr. Bayweather?" He turned to Marsh, "I'm afraid there is +very little to interest you, with your experience of production on a +giant scale, in a business so small that the owner and manager knows +every man by name and everything about him." + +"You couldn't show me anything more _out_ of my own experience," +answered Marsh, "than just that. And as for what I know about production +on a giant scale, I can tell you it's not much. I did try to hook on, +once or twice, years ago--to find out something about the business that +my father spent his life in helping to build up, but it always ended in +my being shooed out of the office by a rather irritable manager who knew +I knew nothing about any of it, and who evidently hated above everything +else, having amateur directors come horning in on what was no party of +theirs. 'If they get their dividends all right, what more do they want?' +was his motto. I never was able to make any sense out of it. It's all on +such a preposterously big scale now. Once in a while, touring, I have +come across one of our branch establishments and have stopped my car to +see the men come out of the buildings at quitting-time. That's as close +as I have ever come. Do you really know their _names_?" + +"I can't pronounce all the French-Canadian names to suit them, but I +know them all, yes. Most of them are just the overflow of the rural +population around here." + +He said to himself in congratulation, "Between us, we pried old +Bayweather loose from his soft soap, pretty neatly," and gave the man +before him a look of friendly understanding. He was a little startled, +for an instant, by the expression in the other's bright eyes, which he +found fixed on him with an intentness almost disconcerting. "Does he +think I'm trying to put something over on him?" he asked himself with a +passing astonishment, "or is he trying to put something over on me?" +Then he remembered that everyone had spoken of Marsh's eyes as peculiar; +it was probably just his habit. "He can look right through me and out at +the other side, for all _I_ care!" he thought indifferently, meeting the +other's gaze with a faintly humorous sense of something absurd. + +Marise had come back now, and was saying, "You really must get started, +Neale, the men will be quitting work soon." + +"Yes, yes, this minute," he told her, and led the way with Mr. Welles, +leaving Marise and Mr. Bayweather to be showman for Mr. Marsh. He now +remembered that he had not heard the older man say a single word as yet, +and surmised that he probably never said much when the fluent Mr. Marsh +was with him. He wondered a little, as they made their way to the +saw-mill, what Marise saw in either of them to interest her so much. Oh +well, they were a change, of course, from Ashley and Crittenden's +people, and different from the Eugenia Mills bunch, in New York, too. + +He stood now, beside Mr. Welles, in the saw-mill, the ringing high +crescendo scream of the saws filling the air. Marise stood at the other +end talking animatedly to the two she had with her. Marise was a wonder +on conversation anyhow. What could she find to say, now, for instance? +What in the world was there to say to an ex-office manager of a big +electrical company about a wood-working business? + +His eyes were caught by what one of the men was doing and he yelled at +him sharply, "Look out there, Harry! Stop that! What do I have a guard +rail there for, anyhow?" + +"What was the matter?" asked Mr. Welles, startled. + +"Oh, nothing much. One of the men dodging under a safety device to save +him a couple of steps. They get so reckless about those saws. You have +to look out for them like a bunch of bad children." + +Mr. Welles looked at him earnestly. "Are you . . . have you . . . Mr. +Bayweather has told us so much about all you do for the men . . . how they +are all devoted to you." + +Neale looked and felt annoyed. Bayweather and his palaver! "I don't do +anything for them, except give them as good wages as the business will +stand, and as much responsibility for running things as they'll take. +Beyond that, I let them alone. I don't believe in what's known as +'welfare work.' I wouldn't want them messing around in my private life, +and I don't believe they'd like me in theirs." + +The necessity to raise his voice to a shout in order to make himself +heard above the tearing scream of the saws made him sound very abrupt +and peremptory, more so than he had meant. As he finished speaking his +eyes met those of the older man, and were held by the clarity and candor +of the other's gaze. They were like a child's eyes in that old face. It +was as though he had been abrupt and impatient to Elly or Mark. + +As he looked he saw more than candor and clarity. He saw a deep +weariness. + +Neale smoothed his forehead, a little ashamed of his petulance, and drew +his companion further from the saws where the noise was less. He meant +to say something apologetic, but the right phrase did not come to him. +And as Mr. Welles said nothing further, they walked on in silence. They +passed through the first and second floors of the mill, where the +handling of the smaller pieces was done, and neither of them spoke a +word. Neale looked about him at the familiar, familiar scene, and found +it too dull to make any comment on. What was there to say? This was the +way you manufactured brush-backs and wooden boxes and such-like things, +and that was all. The older men bent over their lathes quietly, the +occasional woman-worker smartly hammering small nails into the holes +already bored for her, the big husky boys shoved the trucks around, the +elevator droned up and down, the belts flicked as they sped around and +around. Blest if he could think of any explanation to make to a grown +man on so simple and everyday a scene. And yet he did not enjoy this +silence because it seemed like a continuation of his grumpiness of a few +minutes ago. Well, the next time the old fellow said anything, he'd fall +over himself to be nice in his answer. + +Presently as they came to the outside door, Mr. Welles remarked with a +gentle dignity, in evident allusion to Neale's cutting him short, "I +only meant that I was very much interested in what I see here, and that +I would like very much to know more about it." + +Neale felt he fairly owed him an apology. He began to understand what +Marise meant when she had said the old fellow was one you loved on +sight. It was her way, emotionally heightened as usual, of saying that +he was really a very nice old codger. "I'll be glad to tell you anything +you want to know, Mr. Welles," he said. "But I haven't any idea what it +is that interests you. You fire ahead and ask questions and I'll agree +to answer them." + +"That's what I'd like, all right. And remember if I ask anything you +don't want to talk about . . ." He referred evidently to Neale's +impatience of a few minutes ago. + +"There aren't any trade secrets in the wood-working business," said +Neale, laughing. "Better come along and see our drying-room as we talk. +We've had to make some concession to modern haste and use kiln-drying, +although I season first in the old way as long as possible." They +stepped out of the door and started across the mill-yard. + +Mr. Welles said with a very faint smile in the corner of his pale old +lips, "I don't believe you want to show me any of this, Mr. Crittenden. +And honestly that isn't what interests me about it. I wouldn't know a +drying-room from a steam-laundry." + +Neale stopped short, and surveyed his companion with amusement and +admiration. "Good for you!" he cried. "Tell the truth and shame the +devil and set an example to all honest men. Mr. Welles, you have my +esteem." + +The old man had a shy smile at this. "I don't tell the truth that way to +everybody," he said demurely. + +Neale liked him more and more. "Sir, I am yours to command," he said, +sitting down on the steps, "ask ahead!" + +Mr. Welles turned serious, and hesitated. "Mr. Bayweather said . . ." He +began and looked anxiously at Neale. + +"I won't bite even if he did," Neale reassured him. + +Mr. Welles looked at him with the pleasantest expression in his eyes. +"It's a great relief to find that we can get on with one another," he +said, "for I must admit to you that I have fallen a complete victim to +Mrs. Crittenden. I . . . I love your wife." He brought it out with a +quaint, humorous roundness. + +"You can't get up any discussion with me about that," said Neale. "I do +myself." + +They both laughed, and Mr. Welles said, "But you see, caring such a lot +about her, it was a matter of great importance to me what kind of +husband she had. I find actually seeing you very exciting." + +"You're the first who ever found it so, I'm sure," said Neale, amused at +the idea. + +"But it wasn't this I wanted to say," said Mr. Welles. He went back and +said again, "Mr. Bayweather said your idea of business is service, like +a doctor's?" + +Neale winced at the Bayweather priggishness of this way of putting it, +but remembering his remorse for his earlier brusqueness, he restrained +himself to good humor and the admission, "Making allowance for +ministerial jargon, that's something like a fair statement." + +He was astonished at the seriousness with which Mr. Welles took this. +What was it to him? The old man looked at him, deeply, unaccountably, +evidently entirely at a loss. "Mr. Crittenden," he said abruptly, "to +speak right out, that sounded to me like the notion of a nice +idealistic woman, who has never been in business. You see I've _been_ in +a business office all my life!" + +Neale found his liking for the gentle, troubled old man enough for him +to say truthfully, "Mr. Welles, I don't mind talking to you about it. +Sure, yes I can understand how having a minister put it that way. . . . +Lord! How the old boy does spill over! And yet why should I care? I'm +ashamed of letting harmless Mr. Bayweather get on my nerves so." + +Mr. Welles started to speak, found no words, and waved an arm as if to +imply that _he_ understood perfectly. This made Neale laugh a little, +and gave him a picture of the helplessness of a newcomer to Ashley, +before the flood-tide of Mr. Bayweather's local learning. + +He went on, "He sort of taints an honest idea, doesn't he, by his +high-falutin' way of going on about it?" + +He hesitated, trying to think of simple words to sum up what he had, +after all, never exactly formulated because it had been so much an +attitude he and Marise had silently grown into. It was hard, he found, +to hit on any expression that said what he wanted to; but after all, it +wasn't so very important whether he did or not. He was only trying to +make a nice tired old man think himself enough respected to be seriously +talked to. He'd just ramble on, till Marise brought the other visitors +up to them. + +And yet as he talked, he got rather interested in his statement of it. A +comparison of baseball and tennis ethics came into his mind as apposite, +and quite tickled him by its aptness. Mr. Welles threw in an occasional +remark. He was no man's fool, it soon appeared, for all his mildness. +And for a time he seemed to be interested. + +But presently Neale noticed that the other was looking absent and no +longer made any comments. That was what happened, Neale reflected with +an inward smile, as he slowed down and prepared to stop, when anybody +succeeded in getting you started on your hobby. They were bored. They +didn't really want to know after all. It was like trying to tell folks +about your travels. + +But he was astonished to the limit of astonishment by what Mr. Welles +brought out in the silence which finally dropped between them. The old +man looked at him very hard and asked, "Mr. Crittenden, do you know +anything about the treatment of the Negroes in the South?" + +Neale sat up blinking. "Why no, nothing special, except that it's a +fearful knot we don't seem to get untied," he said. "I contribute to the +support of an agricultural school in Georgia, but I'm afraid I never +take much time to read the reports they send me. Why do you ask?" + +"Oh, no particular reason. I have a relative down there, that's all." + +Marise and the others came out of a door at the far-end of the building +now, and advanced towards them slowly. Neale and Mr. Welles watched +them. + +Neale was struck again by Marsh's appearance. As far away as you could +see him, he held the eye. "An unusual man, your friend Mr. Marsh," he +remarked. "Mrs. Crittenden tells me that he is one of the people who +have been everywhere and done everything and seen everybody. He looks +the part." + +Mr. Welles made no comment on this for a moment, his eyes on the +advancing group. Marise had raised her parasol of yellow silk. It made a +shimmering halo for her dark, gleaming hair, as she turned her head +towards Marsh, her eyes narrowed and shining as she laughed at something +he said. + +Then the old man remarked, "Yes, he's unusual, all right, Vincent is. He +has his father's energy and push." He added in a final characterization, +"I've known him ever since he was a little boy, and I never knew him not +to get what he went after." + + +II + +_How the Same Thing Looked to Mr. Welles_ + +As they walked along towards the mill, Mr. Welles had a distinct +impression that he was going to dislike the mill-owner, and as distinct +a certainty as to where that impression came from. He had received too +many by the same route not to recognize the shipping label. Not that +Vincent had ever said a single slighting word about Mr. Crittenden. He +couldn't have, very well, since they neither of them had ever laid eyes +on him. But Vincent never needed words to convey impressions into other +people's minds. He had a thousand other ways better than words. Vincent +could be silent, knock off the ashes from his cigarette, recross his +legs, and lean back in his chair in a manner that slammed an impression +into your head as though he had yelled it at you. + +But to be fair to Vincent, Mr. Welles thought probably he had been more +than ready to soak up an impression like the one he felt. They'd had +such an awfully good time with Mrs. Crittenden and the children, it +stood to reason the head of the house would seem to them like a +butter-in and an outsider in a happy-family group. + +More than this, too. As they came within hearing of the industrial +activity of the mill, and he felt his heart sink and turn sore and +bitter, Mr. Welles realized that Vincent had very little to do with his +dread of meeting the mill-owner. It was not Mr. Crittenden he shrank +from, it was the mill-owner, the business man . . . business itself. + +Mr. Welles hated and feared the sound of the word and knew that it had +him cowed, because in his long life he had known it to be the only +reality in the world of men. And in that world he had known the only +reality to be that if you didn't cut the other fellow's throat first he +would cut yours. There wasn't any other reality. He had heard +impractical, womanish men say there was, and try to prove it, only to +have their economic throats cut considerably more promptly than any +others. He had done his little indirect share of the throat-cutting +always. He was not denying the need to do it. Only he had never found it +a very cheerful atmosphere in which to pass one's life. And now he had +escaped, to the only other reality, the pleasant, gentle, slightly +unreal world of women, nice women, and children and gardens. He was so +old now that there was no shame in his sinking into that for what time +he had left, as other old fellows sank into an easy-chair. Only he +wished that he could have got along without being reminded so vividly, +as he would be by this trip to the business-world, of what paid for the +arm-chair, supported the nice women and children. He wished he hadn't +had to come here, to be forced to remember again that the inevitable +foundation for all that was pleasant and livable in private life was the +grim determination on the part of a strong man to give his strength to +"taking it out of the hide" of his competitors, his workmen, and the +public. He'd had a vacation from that, and it made him appallingly +depressed to take another dose of it now. He sincerely wished that sweet +Mrs. Crittenden were a widow with a small income from some impersonal +source with no uncomfortable human associations with it. He recalled +with a sad cynicism the story Mrs. Crittenden had told them about the +clever and forceful lawyer who had played the dirty trick on the farmer +here in Ashley, and done him out of his wood-land. She had been very +much wrought up about that, the poor lady, without having the least idea +that probably her husband's business-life was full of such +knifings-in-the-back, all with the purpose of making a quiet life for +her and the children. + +Well, there was nothing for it but to go on. It wouldn't last long, and +Mr. Welles' back was practised in bowing to weather he didn't like but +which passed if you waited a while. + +They were going up the hall now, towards a door marked "Office," the +children scampering ahead. The door was opening. The tall man who stood +there, nodding a welcome to them, must be Mr. Crittenden. + +So that was the kind of man he was. Nothing special about him. Just a +nice-looking American business-man, with a quiet, calm manner and a +friendly face. + +To the conversation which followed and which, like all such +conversations, amounted to nothing at all, Mr. Welles made no +contribution. What was the use? Mr. Bayweather and Vincent were there. +The conversation would not flag. So he had the usual good chance of the +silent person to use his eyes. He looked mostly at Mr. Crittenden. Well, +he wasn't so bad. They were usually nice enough men in personal +relations, business men. This one had good eyes, very nice when he +looked at the children or his wife. They were often good family men, +too. There was something about him, however, that wasn't just like all +others. What was it? Not clothes. His suit was cut off the same piece +with forty million other American business-suits. Not looks, although +there was an outdoor ruddiness of skin and clearness of eye that made +him look a little like a sailor. Oh yes, Mr. Welles had it. It was his +voice. Whenever he spoke, there was something . . . something _natural_ +about his voice, as though it didn't ever say things he didn't mean. + +Well, for Heaven's sake here was the old minister started off again on +one of his historical spiels. Mr. Welles glanced cautiously at Vincent +to see if he were in danger of blowing up, and found him looking +unexpectedly thoughtful. He was evidently not paying the least attention +to Mr. Bayweather's account of the eighteenth century quarrel between +New Hampshire and Vermont. He was apparently thinking of something else, +very hard. + +He himself leaned back in his chair, but half of one absent ear given to +Mr. Bayweather's lecture, and enjoyed himself looking at Mrs. +Crittenden. She was pretty, Mrs. Crittenden was. He hadn't been sure +the first day, but now he had had a chance to get used to her face being +so long and sort of pointed, and her eyes long too, and her black +eyebrows running back almost into her hair, he liked every bit of her +face. It looked so different from anybody else's. He noticed with an +inward smile that she was fidgety under Mr. Bayweather's historical +talk. _He_ was the only person with any patience in that whole bunch. +But at what a price had he acquired it! + +By and by Mrs. Crittenden got up quietly and went out into the other +office as if on an errand. + +Mr. Bayweather took advantage of her absence to tell them a lot about +how much the Crittendens had done for the whole region and what a golden +thing Mrs. Crittenden's music had been for everybody, and about an +original conception of business which Mr. Crittenden seemed to have. Mr. +Welles was not interested in music, but he was in business and he would +have liked to hear a great deal more about this, but just at this point, +as if to cut the clergyman off, in came Mr. Crttenden, very brisk and +prompt, ready to take them around the mill. + +Vincent stood up. They all stood up. Mr. Welles noted that Vincent had +quite come out of his brown study and was now all there. He was as he +usually was, a wire charged with a very high-voltage current. + +They went out now, all of them together, but soon broke up into two +groups. He stayed behind with Mr. Crittenden and pretended to look at +the machinery of the saw-mill, which he found very boring indeed, as he +hadn't the slightest comprehension of a single cog in it. But there was +something there at which he really looked. It was the expression of Mr. +Crittenden's face as he walked about, and it was the expression on the +faces of the men as they looked at the boss. + +Mr. Welles, not being a talker, had had a great deal of opportunity to +study the faces of others, and he had become rather a specialist in +expressions. Part of his usefulness in the office had come from that. +He had catalogued in his mind the different looks on human faces, and +most of them connected with any form of business organization were +infinitely familiar to him, from the way the casual itinerant temporary +laborer looked at the boss of his gang, to the way the star salesman +looked at the head of the house. + +But here was a new variety to him, these frank and familiar glances +thrown in answer to the nodded greeting or short sentence of the boss as +he walked about. They were not so much friendly (although they were that +too), as they were familiar and open, as though nothing lay hidden +behind the apparent expression. It was not often that Mr. Welles had +encountered that, a look that seemed to hide nothing. + +He wondered if he could find out anything about this from Mr. Crittenden +and put a question to him about his relations with his men. He tried to +make it tactful and sensible-sounding, but as he said the words, he knew +just how flat and parlor-reformerish they sounded; and it didn't +surprise him a bit to have the business-man bristle up and snap his head +off. It had sounded as though he didn't know a thing about business--he, +the very marrow of whose bones was soaked in a bitter knowledge that the +only thing that could keep it going was the fear of death in every man's +heart, lest the others get ahead of him and trample him down. + +He decided that he wouldn't say another thing, just endure the temporary +boredom of being trotted about to have things explained to him, which he +hadn't any intention of trying to understand. + +But Mr. Crittenden did not try to explain. Perhaps he was bored himself, +perhaps he guessed the visitor's ignorance. He just walked around from +one part of the big, sunshiny shops to another, taking advantage of this +opportunity to look things over for his own purposes. And everywhere he +went, he gave and received back that curious, new look of openness. + +It was not noisy here as in the saw-mill, but very quiet and peaceful, +the bee-like whirring of the belts on the pulleys the loudest continuous +sound. It was clean, too. The hardwood floor was being swept clean of +sawdust and shavings all the time, by a lame old man, who pottered +tranquilly about, sweeping and cleaning and putting the trash in a big +box on a truck. When he had it full, he beckoned to a burly lad, shoving +a truck across the room, and called in a clear, natural, friendly voice, +"Hey, Nat, come on over." The big lad came, whistling, pushed the box +off full, and brought it back empty, still whistling airily. + +There were a good many work-people in sight. Mr. Welles made a guessing +estimate that the business must keep about two hundred busy. And there +was not one who looked harried by his work. The big, cluttered place +heaped high with piles of curiously shaped pieces of wood, filled with +oddly contrived saws and lathes and knives and buffers for sawing and +turning and polishing and fitting those bits of wood, was brooded over +as by something palpable by an emanation of order. Mr. Welles did not +understand a detail of what he was looking at, but from the whole, his +mind, experienced in business, took in a singularly fresh impression +that everybody there knew what he was up to, in every sense of the word. + +He and Mr. Crittenden stood for a time looking at and chatting to a +gray-haired man who was polishing smoothly planed oval bits of board. He +stopped as they talked, ran his fingers over the satin-smoothed surface +with evident pleasure, and remarked to his employer, "Mighty fine maple +we're getting from the Warner lot. See the grain in that!" + +He held it up admiringly, turning it so that the light would show it at +its best, and looked at it respectfully. "There's no wood like maple," +he said. Mr. Crittenden answered, "Yep. The Warner land is just right +for slow-growing trees." He took it out of the workman's hand, looked it +over more closely with an evident intelligent certainty of what to look +for, and handed it back with a nod that signified his appreciation of +the wood and of the workmanship which had brought it to that state. + +There had been about that tiny, casual human contact a quality which Mr. +Welles did not recognize. His curiosity rose again. He wondered if he +might not succeed in getting some explanation out of the manufacturer, +if he went about it very tactfully. He would wait for his chance. He +began to perceive with some surprise that he was on the point of quite +liking Mrs. Crittenden's husband. + +So he tried another question, after a while, very cautiously, and was +surprised to find Mr. Crittenden no longer snappish, but quite friendly. +It occurred to him as the pleasantest possibility that he might find his +liking for the other man returned. That _would_ be a new present hung on +the Christmas tree of his life in Vermont. + +On the strength of this possibility, and banking on the friendliness in +the other man's eyes, he drove straight at it, the phrase which the +minister had used when he said that Mr. Crittenden thought of business +as an ideal service to humanity as much as doctoring. That had sounded +so ignorant and ministerial he hadn't even thought of it seriously, till +after this contact with the man of whom it had been said. The best way +with Crittenden was evidently the direct one. He had seen that in the +first five minutes of observation of him. So he would simply tell him +how bookish and impossible it had sounded, and see what he had to say. +He'd probably laugh and say the minister had it all wrong, of course, +regular minister's idea. + +And so presently they were off, on a real talk, beyond what he had hoped +for, and Crittenden was telling him really what he had meant. He was +saying in his firm, natural, easy voice, as though he saw nothing +specially to be self-conscious about in it, "Why, of course I don't rank +lumbering and wood-working with medicine. Wood isn't as vital to human +life as quinine, or a knowledge of what to do in typhoid fever. But +after all, wood is something that people have to have, isn't it? +Somebody has to get it out and work it up into usable shape. If he can +do this, get it out of the woods without spoiling the future of the +forests, drying up the rivers and all that, and have it transformed into +some finished product that people need in their lives, it's a sort of +plain, everyday service, isn't it? And to do this work as economically +as it can be managed, taking as low a price as you can get along with +instead of screwing as high a price as possible out of the people who +have to have it, what's the matter with that, as an interesting problem +in ingenuity? I tell you, Mr. Welles, you ought to talk to my wife about +this. It's as much her idea as mine. We worked it out together, little +by little. It was when Elly was a baby. She was the second child, you +know, and we began to feel grown-up. By that time I was pretty sure I +could make a go of the business. And we first began to figure out what +we were up to. Tried to see what sort of a go we wanted the business to +have. We first began to make some sense out of what we were doing in +life." + +Mr. Welles found himself overwhelmed by a reminiscent ache at this +phrase and burst out, his words tinged with the bitterness he tried to +keep out of his mind, "Isn't that an awful moment when you first try to +make some sense out of what you are doing in life! But suppose you had +gone on doing it, always, always, till you were an old man, and never +succeeded! Suppose all you seemed to be accomplishing was to be able to +hand over to the sons of the directors more money than was good for +them? I tell you, Mr. Crittenden, I've often wished that once, just +once, before I died I could be _sure_ that I had done anything that was +of any use to anybody." He went on, nodding his head, "What struck me so +about what Mr. Bayweather said is that I've often thought about doctors +myself, and envied them. They take money for what they do, of course, +but they miss lots of chances to make more, just so's to be of some use. +I've often thought when they were running the prices up and up in our +office just because they could, that a doctor would be put out of his +profession in no time by public opinion, if he ever tried to screw the +last cent out of everybody, the way business men do as a matter of +course." + +Mr. Crittenden protested meditatively against this. "Oh, don't you think +maybe there's a drift the other way among decent business people now? +Why, when Marise and I were first trying to get it clear in our own +heads, we kept it pretty dark, I tell you, that we weren't in it only +for what money we could make, because we knew how loony we'd seem to +anybody else. But don't you see any signs that lately maybe the same +idea is striking lots of people in America?" + +"No, I do _not_!" said Mr. Welles emphatically. "With a profiteer on +every corner! + +"But look-y-here, the howl about profiteers, isn't that something new? +Isn't that a dumb sort of application to business of the doctor's +standard of service? Twenty years ago, would anybody have thought of +doing anything but uneasily admiring a grocer who made all the money he +could out of his business? 'Why shouldn't he?' people would have thought +then. Everybody else did. Twenty years ago, would anybody have dreamed +of legally preventing a rich man from buying all the coal he wanted, +whether there was enough for everybody, or not?" + +Mr. Welles considered this in unconvinced silence. Mr. Crittenden went +on, "Why, sometimes it looks to me like the difference between what's +legitimate in baseball and in tennis. Every ball-player will try to +bluff the umpire that he's safe when he knows the baseman tagged him +three feet from the bag; and public opinion upholds him in his bluff if +he can get away with it. But like as not, the very same man who lies +like a trooper on the diamond, if he went off that very afternoon to +play tennis would never dream of announcing 'out' if his opponent's ball +really had landed in the court,--not if it cost him the sett and +match,--whether anybody was looking at him or not. It's 'the thing' to +try to get anything you can put over in baseball, anything the umpire +can't catch you at. And it's not 'the thing' in tennis. Most of the time +you don't even have any umpire. That's it: that's not such a bad way to +put it. My wife and I wanted to run our business on the tennis standard +and not on the baseball one. Because I believe, ultimately you know, in +fixing things,--everything,--national life as well, so that we'll need +as few umpires as possible. Once get the tennis standard adopted . . ." + +Mr. Welles said mournfully, "Don't get started on politics. I'm too old +to have any hopes of that!" + +"Right you are there," said Mr. Crittenden. "Economic organization is +the word. That's one thing that keeps me so interested in my little +economic laboratory here. Political parties are as prehistoric as the +mastodon, if they only knew it." + +Mr. Welles said, "But the queer thing is that you make it work." + +"Oh, anybody with a head for business could make it work. You've got to +know how to manage your machine before you can make it go, of course. +But that's not saying you have to drive it somewhere you don't want to +get to. I don't say that that workman back there who was making such a +beautiful job of polishing that maple could make it go. He couldn't." + +Mr. Welles persisted. "But I've always thought, I've always _seen_ it, +or thought I had . . . that life-and-death competition is the only +stimulus that's strong enough to stir men up to the prodigious effort +they have to put out to _make_ a go of their business, start the machine +running. That, and the certainty of all they could get out of the +consumer as a reward. You know it's held that there's a sort of mystic +identity between all you can get out of the consumer and the exact +amount of profit that'll just make the business go." + +Mr. Crittenden said comfortably, as though he were talking of something +that did not alarm him, "Oh well, the best of the feudal seigneurs +mournfully believed that a sharp sword and a long lance in their own +hands were the strongholds of society. The wolf-pack idea of business +will go the same way." He explained in answer to Mr. Welles' vagueness +as to this term, "You know, the conception that if you're going to get +hair brushes or rubber coats or mattresses or what-not enough for +humanity manufactured, the only way is to have the group engaged in it +form a wolf-pack, hunting down the public to extract from it as much +money as possible. The salesmen and advertisers take care of this +extracting. Then this money's to be fought for, by the people engaged in +the process, as wolves fight over the carcass of the deer they have +brought down together. This is the fight between the directors of labor +and the working-men. It's ridiculous to hold that such a wasteful and +incoherent system is the only one that will arouse men's energies enough +to get them into action. It's absurd to think that business men . . . +they're the flower of the nation, they're America's specialty, you know +. . . can only find their opportunity for service to their fellow-men by +such haphazard contracts with public service as helping raise money for +a library or heading a movement for better housing of the poor, when +they don't know anything about the housing of the poor, nor what it +ought to be. Their opportunity for public service is right in their own +legitimate businesses, and don't you forget it. Everybody's business is +his best way to public service, and doing it that way, you'd put out of +operation the professional uplifters who uplift as a business, and can't +help being priggish and self-conscious about it. It makes me tired the +way professional idealists don't see their big chance. They'll take all +the money they can get from business for hospitals, and laboratories, +and to investigate the sleeping sickness or the boll-weevil, but that +business itself could rank with public libraries and hospitals as an +ideal element in the life on the globe . . . they can't open their minds +wide enough to take in that." + +Mr. Welles had been following this with an almost painful interest and +surprise. He found it very agitating, very upsetting. Suppose there had +been something there, all the time. He must try to think it out more. +Perhaps it was not true. But here sat a man who had made it work. Why +hadn't he thought of it in time? Now it was too late. Too late for him +to do anything. Anything? The voice of the man beside him grew dim to +him, as, uneasy and uncertain, his spirits sank lower and lower. Suppose +all the time there had been a way out besides beating the retreat to the +women, the children, and the gardens? Only now it was too late! What was +the use of thinking of it all? + +For a moment he forgot where he was. It seemed to him that there was +something waiting for him to think of it . . . + +But oddly enough, all that presented itself to him, when he tried to +look, was the story that had nothing to do with anything, which his +cousin had told him in a recent letter, of the fiery sensitive young +Negro doctor, who had worked his way through medical school, and +hospital-training, gone South to practise, and how he had been treated +by the white people in the town where he had settled. He wondered if she +hadn't exaggerated all that. But she gave such definite details. Perhaps +Mr. Crittenden knew something about that problem. Perhaps he had an idea +about that, too, that might be of help. He would ask him. + + + + +PART II + + + + +CHAPTER XI + +IN AUNT HETTY'S GARDEN + +I + + +June 10. + +Marise bent to kiss the soft withered cheek. "Elly is a _real_ +Vermonter, but I'm not. She can get along with just 'Hello, Aunt Hetty,' +but that's not enough for me," she said tenderly to the old woman; "I +have to kiss you." + +"Oh, you can do as you like, for all of me," answered the other with an +unsparing indifference. + +Marise laughed at the quality of this, taking the shaky old hand in hers +with a certainty of affection returned. She went on, "This is a regular +descent on you, Cousin Hetty. I've come to show you off, you and the +house and the garden. This is Mr. Welles who has settled next door to +us, you know, and this is Mr. Marsh who is visiting him for a time. And +here are the children, and Eugenia Mills came up from the city +last night and will be here perhaps, if she gets up energy after +her afternoon nap, and Neale is coming over from the mill after +closing hours, and we've brought along a basket supper and, if +you'll let us, we're going to eat it out in your garden, under +Great-great-grandmother's willow-tree." + +Cousin Hetty nodded dry, though not uncordial greetings to the strangers +and said crisply, "You're welcome enough to sit around anywhere you can +find, and eat your lunch here, but where you're going to find anything +to show off, beats me." + +"Mr. Welles is interested in gardens and wants to look at yours." + +"Not much to look at," said the old lady uncompromisingly. + +"I don't want to look at a _garden_!" clamored little Mark, outraged at +the idea. "I want to be let go up to Aunt Hetty's yattic where the sword +and 'pinning-wheel are." + +"Would all you children like that best?" asked Marise. + +Their old kinswoman answered for them, "You'd better believe they would. +You always did yourself. Run along, now, children, and don't fall on the +attic stairs and hurt yourselves on the wool-hetchels." + +The fox-terrier, who had hung in an anguish of uncertainty and hope and +fear on the incomprehensible words passing between little Mark and the +grown-ups, perceiving now that the children ran clattering towards the +stairs, took a few agitated steps after them, and ran back to Marise, +shivering, begging with his eyes, in a wriggling terror lest he be +forbidden to follow them into the fun. Marise motioned him along up the +stairs, saying with a laughing, indulgent, amused accent, "Yes, yes, +poor Medor, you can go along with the children if you want to." + +The steel sinews of the dog's legs stretched taut on the instant, in a +great bound of relief. He whirled with a ludicrous and undignified +haste, slipping, his toe-nails clicking on the bare floor, tore across +the room and dashed up the stairs, drunk with joy. + +"If strong emotions are what one wants out of life," commented Marise +lightly, to Marsh, "one ought to be born a nervous little dog, given +over to the whimsical tyranny of humans." + +"There are other ways of coming by strong emotions," answered Marsh, not +lightly at all. + +"What in the world are wool-hetchels?" asked Mr. Welles as the grown-ups +went along the hall towards the side-door. + +"Why, when I was a girl, and we spun our own wool yarn . . ." began Cousin +Hetty, trotting beside him and turning her old face up to his. + +Marsh stopped short in the hall-way with a challenging abruptness that +brought Marise to a standstill also. The older people went on down the +long dusky hail to the door and out into the garden, not noticing that +the other two had stopped. The door swung shut behind them. + + * * * * * + +Marise felt the man's dark eyes on her, searching, determined. They were +far from those first days, she thought, when he had tacitly agreed not +to look at her like that, very far from those first days of delicacy and +lightness of touch. + +With a determination as firm as his own, she made her face and eyes +opaque, and said on a resolutely gay note, "What's the matter? Can't you +stand any more information about early times in Vermont? You must have +been having too heavy a dose of Mr. Bayweather. But _I_ like it, you +know. I find it awfully interesting to know so in detail about any past +period of human life; as much so . . . why not? . . . as researches into +which provinces of France used half-timber houses, and how late?" + +"You like a great many things!" he said impatiently. + +"We must get out into the garden with the others, or Cousin Hetty will +be telling her old-time stories before we arrive," she answered, moving +towards the door. + +She felt her pulse knocking loud and swift. Strange how a casual +interchange of words with him would excite and agitate her. But it had +been more than that. Everything _was_, with him. + +He gave the sidewise toss of his head, which had come to be so familiar +to her, as though he were tossing a lock of hair from his forehead, but +he said nothing more, following her down the long hall in silence. + +It was as though she had physically felt the steel of his blade slide +gratingly once more down from her parry. Her mental attitude had been so +entirely that of a fencer, on the alert, watchfully defensive against +the quick-flashing attack of the opponent, that she had an instant's +absurd fear of letting him walk behind her, as though she might feel a +thrust in the back. "How ridiculous of me!" she told herself with an +inward laugh of genuine amusement. "Women are as bad as fox-terriers +for inventing exciting occasions out of nothing at all." + +Then in a gust of deep anger, instantly come, instantly gone, "Why do I +tolerate this for a moment? I was perfectly all right before. Why don't +I simply send him about his business, as I would any other bold +meddler?" + +But after this, with an abrupt shift to another plane, "That would be +acting preposterously, like a silly, self-consciously virtuous matron. +What earthly difference does it make to me what a casual visitor to our +town says or does to amuse himself in his casual stay, that may end at +any moment? And how scarifyingly he would laugh at me, if he knew what +comic relics of old prudish reflexes are stirred up by the contact with +his mere human livingness. Heavens! How he would laugh to know me +capable of being so 'guindee,' so personal, fearing like any school-girl +a flirtation in any man's conversation. He must never see a trace of +that. No matter how startled I ever am, he mustn't see anything but a +smooth, amused surface. It would be intolerable to have him laugh at +me." + +Her hand was on the latch, when a deep, muffled murmur from the depths +admonished her, "Personal vanity . . . that's what's at the bottom of all +that you are telling yourself. It is a vain woman speaking, and fearing +a wound to her vanity." + +She resented this, pushed it back, and clicked the latch up firmly, +stepping out into the transparent gold of the late-afternoon sunshine. +She turned her head as her companion came up behind her on the garden +path, half expecting to have his eyes meet hers with a visible shade of +sardonic mockery, and prepared to meet it halfway with a similar +amusement at the absurdity of human beings, herself included. + + * * * * * + +He was not looking at her at all, but straight before him, unconscious +for an instant that she had turned her eyes on him, and in this instant +before the customary mask of self-consciousness dropped over his face, +she read there, plain and startling to see, unmistakable to her grown +woman's experience of life, the marks of a deep, and painful, and +present emotion. + +All of her hair-splitting speculations withered to nothing. She did not +even wonder what it was that moved him so strangely and dreadfully. +There was no room for thought in the profound awed impersonal sympathy +which with a great hush came upon her at the sight of another human +being in pain. + +He felt some intimate emanation from her, turned towards her, and for +the faintest fraction of time they looked at each other through a rent +in the veil of life. + + * * * * * + +Cousin Hetty's old voice called them cheerfully, "Over here, this way +under the willow-tree." + +They turned in that direction, to hear her saying, ". . . that was in 1763 +and of course they came on horseback, using the Indian trails the men +had learned during the French-and-Indian wars. Great-grandmother (she +was a twelve-year-old girl then) had brought along a willow switch from +their home in Connecticut. When the whole lot of them decided to settle +here in the valley, and her folks took this land to be theirs, she stuck +her willow switch into the ground, alongside the brook here, and this is +the tree it grew to be. Looks pretty battered up, don't it, like other +old folks." + +Mr. Welles tipped his pale, quiet face back to look up at the great +tree, stretching its huge, stiff old limbs mutilated by time and +weather, across the tiny, crystal brook dimpling and smiling and +murmuring among its many-colored pebbles. "Queer, isn't it," he +speculated, "how old the tree has grown, and how the brook has stayed +just as young as ever." + +"It's the other way around between 'Gene Powers' house and his +pine-tree," commented Aunt Hetty. "The pine-tree gets bigger and finer +and stronger all the time, seems 'sthough, and the house gets more +battered and feeble-looking." + +Marise looked across at Marsh and found his eyes on her with an +expression she rarely saw in them, almost a peaceful look, as of a man +who has had something infinitely satisfying fall to his lot. He smiled +at her gently, a good, quiet smile, and looked away into the extravagant +splendor of a row of peonies. + +Marise felt an inexplicable happiness, clear and sunny like the light in +the old garden. She sat down on the bench and fell into a more relaxed +and restful pose than she had known for some time. What a sweet and +gracious thing life could be after all! Could there be a lovelier place +on earth than here among Cousin Hetty's flower-children. Dear old Cousin +Hetty, with her wrinkled, stiff exterior, and those bright living eyes +of hers. She was the willow-tree outside and the brook inside, that's +what she was. What tender childhood recollections were bound up with the +sight of that quiet old face. + +"And those rose-bushes," continued the old woman, "are all cuttings my +great-great-grandmother brought up from Connecticut, and _they_ came +from cuttings our folks brought over from England, in 1634. If 'twas a +little later in the season, and they were in bloom, you'd see how +they're not nearly so I double as most roses. The petals are bigger and +not so curled up, more like wild roses." + +She sat down beside the others on the long wooden bench, and added, "I +never dig around one of those bushes, nor cut a rose to put in a vase, +without I feel as though Great-great-grandmother and Grandmother and all +the rest were in me, still alive." + +"Don't you think," asked Marise of the two men, "that there is something +awfully sweet about feeling yourself a part of the past generations, +like that? As we do here. To have such a familiarity with any corner of +the earth . . . well, it seems to me like music, the more familiar it is, +the dearer and closer it is . . . and when there are several generations +of familiarity back of you. . . . I always feel as though my life were a +part of something much bigger than just _my_ life, when I feel it a +continuation of their lives, as much as of my own childhood. It always +seems deep and quieting to me." + +Mr. Welles assented wistfully, "It makes me envious." + +Marsh shook his head, sending up a meditative puff of smoke. "If you +want to know how it really strikes me, I'll have to say it sounds plain +sleepy to me. Deep and quieting all right, sure enough. But so's opium. +And in my experience, most things just get duller and duller, the more +familiar they are. I don't begin to have time in my life for the living +I want to do, my own self! I can't let my grandmothers and grandfathers +come shoving in for another whirl at it. They've had their turn. And my +turn isn't a minute too long for me. Your notion looks to me . . . lots of +old accepted notions look like that to me . . . like a good big dose of +soothing syrup to get people safely past the time in their existences +when they might do some sure-enough personal living on their own hook." +He paused and added in a meditative murmur, "That time is so damn short +as it is!" + +He turned hastily to the old lady with an apology. "Why, I _beg_ your +pardon! I didn't realize I had gone on talking aloud. I was just +thinking along to myself. You see, your soothing syrup is working on me, +the garden, the sun, the stillness, all the grandmothers and +grandfathers sitting around. I am almost half asleep." + +"I'm an old maid, I know," said Cousin Hetty piquantly. "But I'm not a +proper Massachusetts old maid. I'm Vermont, and a swear-word or two +don't scare me. I was brought up on first-hand stories of Ethan Allen's +talk, and . . ." + +Marise broke in hastily, in mock alarm, "Now, Cousin Hetty, don't you +start in on the story of Ethan Allen and the cowshed that was too short. +I won't have our city visitors scandalized by our lack of . . ." + +Cousin Hetty's laughter cut her short, as merry and young a sound as the +voice of the brook. "I hadn't thought of that story in years!" she said. +She and Marise laughed together, looking at each other. But they said +nothing else. + +"Aren't you going to _tell_ us?" asked Mr. Welles with a genuine +aggrieved surprise which tickled Cousin Hetty into more laughter. + +"I shall not rest day or night, till I have found someone who knows that +story," said Marsh, adding, "Old Mrs. Powers must know it. And _she_ +will love to tell it to me. It is evidently the sort of story which is +her great specialty." + +They all laughed, foolishly, light-heartedly. + +Marise consciously delighted in the laughter, in the silly, light tone +of their talk, in the feeling of confidence and security which bathed +her as warmly as the new wine of the spring sunshine. She thought +passingly, swiftly, with her habitual, satiric wonder at her own +fancifulness, of her earlier notions about steel blades and passes and +parries, and being afraid to walk down the hall with her "opponent" back +of her. + +Her opponent, this potent, significant personality, lounging on the +bench beside her, resting in the interval of a life the intensity of +which was out of her world altogether, the life, all power, of a modern +rich man in great affairs; controlling vast forces, swaying and shaping +the lives of thousands of weaker men as no potentate had ever done, +living in the instants he allowed himself for personal life (she felt +again the pang of her sympathy for his look of fierce, inexplicable +pain) with a concentration in harmony with the great scale of his other +activities. It was, just as the cheap novels called it, a sort, a bad, +inhuman, colorful, fascinating sort of modern version of the superman's +life, she reflected. She had been ridiculous to project her village +insignificance into that large-scale landscape. + +A distant whistle blew a long, full note, filling the valley with its +vibrations. + +"Is that a train, at this hour?" murmured Mr. Welles. His voice was sunk +to a somnolent monotone, his hands folded over his waistcoat moved +slowly and rhythmically with his breathing. It was evident that he did +not in the least care whether it was a train or not. + +"Oh _no!_" said Marise, severely, disapproving the vagueness and +inaccuracy of his observation. "That's the mill-whistle, blowing the +closing-hour. You're no true Ashleyan, not to have learned the +difference between the voices of the different whistles of the day." + +She turned to Marsh, tilting her wings for a capricious flight. "I think +it's part of the stubborn stiff-jointedness of human imagination, don't +you, that we don't hear the beauty of those great steam-whistles. I +wonder if it's not unconscious art that gave to our mighty machines such +voices of qower." + +"Isn't it perhaps ostentatious to call the family saw-mill a 'mighty +machine'?" inquired Marsh mildly. He sat at the end of the bench, his +arm along the back behind Mr. Welles, his head turned to the side, his +soft hat pulled low over his forehead, looking at the garden and at +Marise out of half-shut, sleepy eyes. + +Marise went on, drawing breath for a longer flight. "When the train +comes sweeping up the valley, trailing its great beautiful banner of +smoke, I feel as though it were the crescendo announcing something, and +at the crossing, when that noble rounded note blares out . . . why, it's +the music for the setting. Nothing else could cope with the depth of the +valley, the highness and blackness of its mountain walls, and the +steepness of the Eagle Rocks." + +"I call that going some, 'noble rounded note'!" murmured Marsh, lifting +his eyebrows with a visible effort and letting his eyes fall half shut, +against the brilliance of the sunshine. + +Marise laughed, and persisted. "Just because its called a +steam-whistle, we won't hear its beauty and grandeur, till something +else has been invented to take its place, and then we'll look back +sentimentally and regret it." + +"Maybe _you_ will," conceded Marsh. + +The two elder looked on, idly amused at this give-and-take. + +"And I don't suppose," continued Marise, "to take another instance of +modern lack of imagination, that you have ever noticed, as an element of +picturesque power in modern life, the splendid puissance of the traffic +cop's presence in a city street." + +They all had a protesting laugh at this, startled for an instant from +their dreaminess. + +"Yes, and if I could think of more grandiloquent words to express him, +I'd use them," said Marise defiantly, launching out into yet more +outrageous flights of rhetoric. "I could stand for hours on a street +corner, admiring the completeness with which he is transfigured out of +the human limitations of his mere personality, how he feels, flaming +through his every vein and artery, the invincible power of THE LAW, +freely set over themselves by all those turbulent, unruly human beings, +surging around him in their fiery speed-genii. He raises his arm. It is +not a human arm, it is the decree of the entire race. And as far as it +can be seen, all those wilful fierce creatures bow themselves to it. The +current boils past him in one direction. He lets it go till he thinks +fit to stop it. He sounds his whistle, and raises his arm again in that +inimitable gesture of omnipotence. And again they bow themselves. Now +that the priest before the altar no longer sways humanity as he did, is +there anywhere else, any other such visible embodiment of might, +majesty, and power as . . ." + +"Gracious me, Marise!" warned her old cousin. "I know you're only +running on with your foolishness, but I think you're going pretty far +when you mix a policeman up with priests and altars and things. I don't +believe Mr. Bayweather would like that very well." + +"He wouldn't mind," demurred Marise. "He'd think it an interesting +historical parallel." + +"Mrs. Bayweather would have a thing or two to say." + +"Right you are. _Mrs._ Bayweather would certainly say something!" agreed +Marise. + +She stood up. "I'm hypnotized into perfect good-for-nothingness like the +rest of you by the loveliness of the afternoon and the niceness of +everybody. Here it is almost eating-time and I haven't even opened the +baskets. No, don't you move," she commanded the others, beginning to +stir from their nirvana to make dutiful offers of help. "I'll call the +children. And Neale will be here in a moment." + + * * * * * + +She went back to the house, down the long walk, under the grape-arbor, +still only faintly shaded with sprigs of pale green. She was calling, +"Children! _Children!_ Come and help with the supper." + +She vanished into the house. There was a moment or two of intense quiet, +in which the almost horizontal rays of the setting sun poured a flood of +palpable gold on the three motionless figures in the garden. + + * * * * * + +Then she emerged again, her husband beside her, carrying the largest of +the baskets, the children struggling with other baskets, a pail, an +ice-cream-freezer, while the dog wove circles about them, wrought to +exaltation by the complicated smell of the eatables. + +"Neale was just coming in the front gate," she explained, as he nodded +familiarly to the men and bent to kiss the old woman's cheek. "Cousin +Hetty, just _look_ at Elly in that night-cap of Great-aunt Pauline's. +Doesn't she look the image of that old daguerreotype of Grandmother? See +here, Mark, who said you could trail that sword out here? That belongs +in the attic." + +"Oh, let him, let him," said Cousin Hetty peaceably. + +"There's nothing much less breakable than a sword. He can't hurt it." + +"I've woren it lots of times before," said Mark. "Aunt Hetty always let +me to. Favver, won't you 'trap it tight to me, so's I won't 'traddle it +so much." + +"Mother," said Elly, coming up close to Marise, as she stood unpacking +the dishes, "I was looking inside that old diary, the one in the red +leather cover, your grandmother's, I guess, the diary she wrote when she +was a young lady. And she was having a perfectly dreadful time whether +she could believe the Doctrine of the Trinity. She seemed to feel so bad +about it. She wrote how she couldn't sleep nights, and cried, and +everything. It was the Holy Ghost she couldn't make any sense out of. +Mother, what in the world _is_ the Doctrine of the Trinity? + +"For mercy's sakes!" cried Cousin Hetty. "I never saw such a family! +Elly, what won't you be up to, next? I can't call that a proper thing +for a little girl to talk about, right out, so." + +"Mother, _you_ tell me," said Elly, looking up into her mother's face +with the expression of tranquil trust which was like a visible radiance. +Marise always felt scared, she told herself, when Elly looked at her +like that. She made a little helpless shrugged gesture of surrender with +her shoulders, setting down on the table a plate of cold sliced lamb. +"Elly, darling, I can't stop just this minute to tell you about it, and +anyhow I don't understand any more about it than Grandmother did. But I +don't care if I don't. The first quiet minute we have together, I'll +tell you enough so you can understand why _she_ cared." + +"All right, when I go to bed tonight I'll remind you to," Elly made the +engagement definite. She added, with a shout, "Oh, Mother, _chicken_ +sandwiches! Oh, I didn't know we were going to have _chicken_ +sandwiches. Mother, can't we begin now? I'm awfully hungry." + +"Hello," said Neale, looking back toward the house. "Here comes Eugenia, +arisen from her nap. Paul, run back into the house and bring out another +chair. Marise, have you explained who Eugenia is?" + +"Oh la, la, no!" exclaimed Marise. "I forgot they didn't know her. +Quick, you do it, Neale." + +"Old friend of my wife's, sort of half-cousin several-times removed, +schoolmates in France together, the kind of old family friend who comes +and goes in the house at will," said Neale rapidly. "Cultivated, +artistic, and so on." + +"Oh, _Neale_, how slightingly you put it!" cried Marise under her +breath. "She's made herself into one of the rarest and most finished +creations!" + +Neale went on rapidly, in a low tone as the newcomer stepped slowly down +the path, "She toils not, neither does she spin . . . doesn't have to. +Highbrow, very, and yet stylish, very! Most unusual combination." He +added as final information, "Spinster, by conviction," as he stepped +forward to greet her. + +The other two men stood up to be presented to the newcomer, who, making +everything to Marise's eyes seem rough and countrified, advanced towards +them, self-possessed, and indifferent to all those eyes turned on her. +In her gleaming, supple dress of satin-like ivory jersey, she looked +some tiny, finished, jewel-object, infinitely breakable, at which one +ought only to look if it were safely behind glass. + +"There is someone of Marsh's own world, the 'great world' he speaks of," +thought Marise. She was not aware of any wistfulness in her recognition +of this fact, but she was moved to stand closer to her husband, and once +as she moved about, setting the table, to lay her fingers for an instant +on his hand. + +"We're going to have ice-cream, Eugenia," announced Paul, leaning on the +arm of her chair after she and all the others were seated again. + +"That's good news," she said equably. She laid a small, beautiful hand +on the child's shoulder, and with a smooth, imperceptible movement, set +him a little further from her. Paul did not observe this manoeuver, but +his mother did, with an inward smile. "Paul, don't hang on Eugenia like +that," she called to him. + +"But she smells so sweet!" protested the little boy. + +Mr. Welles held out a sympathizing hand and drew the child to him. He +too had seen that gesture. + +"Come here, all you little folks," ordered Marise, now seriously +beginning to serve the meal, "and start waiting on the table." + +"Cold lamb!" cried Cousin Hetty with enthusiasm. "I'm so glad. Agnes +won't touch mutton or lamb. She says they taste so like a sheep. And so +we don't often have it." + +"Paul, can you be trusted to pour the hot chocolate?" asked his mother. +"No, Neale, don't get up. I want to see if the children can't do it +all." + + * * * * * + +From where she sat at the foot of the table, she directed the +operations. The children stepped about, serious, responsible, their rosy +faces translucent in the long, searching, level rays sent up by the sun, +low in The Notch. Dishes clicked lightly, knives and forks jingled, cups +were set back with little clinking noises on saucers. All these indoor +sounds were oddly diminished and unresonant under the open sky, just as +the chatting, laughing flow of the voices, even though it rose at times +to bursts of mirth which the children's shouts made noisy, never drowned +out the sweet, secret talk of the brook to itself. + +Marise was aware of all this, richly and happily aware of the +complexities of an impression whose total seemed to her, for the moment, +felicity itself. It pleased her, all, every bit of it, pleased and +amused her; the dear children, Paul worshiping at the shrine of +Eugenia's elegancies, Mark the absurd darling with that grotesque sword +between his legs, Elly devouring her favorite sandwich with impassioned +satisfaction and wondering about the Holy Ghost; Cousin Hetty, ageless, +pungent, and savory as one of her herbs; Mr. Welles, the old tired +darling come into his haven, loving Paul as he would his own grandson; +Eugenia orchid-like against their apple-blossom rusticity; Marsh . . . how +tremendously more _simpatico_ he had seemed this afternoon than ever +before, as though one might really like him, and not just find him +exciting and interesting; Neale, dear Neale with his calm eyes into +which it did everyone good to look. All of them at ease, friendly, +enjoying food, the visible world, and each other. Where, after all, were +those traditional, troubling, insoluble intricacies of human +relationships which had been tormenting her and darkening her sky? It +was all so good and simple if one could only remain good and simple +oneself. There was no lightning to fear in that lucent sunset air. + + * * * * * + +Presently, as the talk turned on flowers and the dates of their +blooming, Eugenia said to her casually, "Marisette, here we are the +first of June and past, and the roses here are less advanced than they +were at Tivoli the last of March. Do you remember the day when a lot of +us sat outdoors and ate a picnic dinner, just as we do now? It was the +day we climbed Monte Cavo." + +Marise explained, "Miss Mills is a friend who dates back even before my +husband's time, back to our student days in Rome." To Eugenia she said, +"You're giving us both away and showing how long ago it is, and how +you've forgotten about details. We never could have climbed up Monte +Cavo, the day we went to Tivoli. They don't go on the same excursion, at +all." + +"That's true," agreed Eugenia indifferently, "you're right. Monte Cavo +goes with the Rocca di Papa expedition." + +Before she could imagine a possible reason, Marise felt her hands go +cold and moist. The sky seemed to darken and lower above her. Eugenia +went on, "And I never went to Rocca di Papa with you, at all, I'm sure +of that. That was a trip you took after you had dropped me for Neale. In +fact, it was on that very expedition that you got formally engaged, +don't you remember? You and Neale walked over from Monte Cavo and only +just caught the last car down." + + * * * * * + +Ridiculous! Preposterous! Marise told herself that it was not possible +that her hands were trembling so. It was merely a physical reaction, +such as one had when startled by some trivial sudden event. But she +couldn't make them stop trembling. She couldn't make them stop. + +What nonsense to be so agitated. Nobody could remember the name from +that evening, weeks and weeks ago. And what if they did? What could they +make of it? + +It seemed to her that dusk had fallen in the garden. Where was that +lucent sunset air? + +She heard Eugenia's voice going on, and Neale chiming in with a laugh, +and did not understand what they said. Surely everybody must have +forgotten. + +She hazarded a quick glance at Mr. Welles' face and drew a long breath +of relief. He had forgotten, that was evident. She looked beyond him to +Marsh. He too would certainly have forgotten. + +He was waiting for her eyes. And when they met his, she felt the +lightning flash. He had not forgotten. + + +II + +Marsh suddenly found it unbearable. He wasn't used to keeping the curb +on himself like this, and he hadn't the least intention of learning how +to do it. A fierce, physical irritability overcame him, and he stopped +short in the hall, just because he could not stand the silly chatter +that was always flowing from these silly people about their foolish +affairs. If they only knew what he was leaving unsaid! + +He had not meant to make Marise halt, too, his movement having been a +mere unconsidered reflex, but of course she did stop, apparently +surprised by the brusqueness of his action, and faced him there in the +dusky hall-way. She was so close to him that he could see every detail +of her face and person, just as he could at night when he closed his +eyes; so close that for an instant he felt her breath on his face. He +ground his teeth, minded, that instant, to throw down the trumpery +little wall of convention. It couldn't stand, he knew with an +experienced certainty of his own power that it couldn't stand for an +instant against him. The day he chose to put his shoulder to it, down it +would go in a heap of rubble. + +But the wall was not all. Usually it was all. But with this woman it was +nothing, a mere accident. Beyond it she stood, valid, and looked at him +out of those long eyes of hers. _What was in her mind?_ She looked at +him now, quietly, just as usual, made some light casual remark, and +effortlessly, as though she had some malign and invincible charm, she +had passed from out his power again, and was walking with that straight, +sure tread of hers, down to the door. + +If he could have done it, he would have struck at her from behind. + +He could get no hold on her, could not take the first step. All during +those weeks and weeks, he had thrown out his net, and had caught enough +facts, Lord knows. But had he any certainty that he had put them +together right? He had not yet caught in her any one tone or look or +phrase that would give him the unmistakable clue. He had set down words +and words and words that would tell him what her life really was, if he +only knew the alphabet of her language. He might be making a fool of +himself with his almost certainty that she was conscious of having +outgrown, like a splendid tropical tree, the wretched little +kitchen-garden where fate had transplanted her. When he could stamp down +his heat of feeling and let his intelligence have a moment's play, he +was perfectly capable of seeing that he might be misinterpreting +everything he had observed. For instance, that evening over the +photograph-album with her betrayal of some strong feeling of distaste +for the place near Rome. It was evident, from her tone, her look, her +gesture, that the name of it brought up some acutely distasteful memory +to her, but that could mean anything, or nothing. It might be merely +some sordid accident, as that a drunken workman had said something +brutal to her there. Women of her sort, he knew, never forgot those +things. Or any one of a thousand such incidents. He would never know the +significance of that gesture of shrinking of hers. + +As he walked behind her, he looked hard at her back, with its +undulating, vase-like beauty, so close to him; and felt her immeasurably +distant. She opened the door now and went out into the sunlight, +stepping a little to one side as though to make room for him to come up +beside her. He found that he knew every turn of her head, every poise of +her shoulders and action of her hands, the whole rhythm of her body, as +though they were his own. And there she passed from him, far and remote. + +A sudden certainty of fore-ordained defeat came over him, as he had +never known before. He was amazed at the violence of his pain, +intolerable, intolerable! + + * * * * * + +She turned her head quickly and caught his eyes in this instant of +inexplicable suffering. + + * * * * * + +What miraculous thing happened then? It seemed to him that her face +wavered in golden rays, from the radiance of her eyes. For she did not +withdraw her gaze. She looked at him with an instant, profound sympathy +and pity, no longer herself, transfigured, divine by the depth of her +humanity. + +The sore bitterness went out from his heart. + + * * * * * + +A voice called. She turned away. He felt himself following her. He +looked about him, light-headed with relief from pain. The quiet, +flowering world shimmered rainbow-like. What a strange power one human +being could have with another that a look could be an event! + +He walked more slowly, feeling with a curious pleasure the insatiable +desire for possession ebbing from him. Why not let it ebb entirely? Why +not enjoy the ineffable sweetness of what he could have? That was what +would please her, what she would like, what she would give, freely. In +this moment of hush, he quite saw how it would be possible, although he +had never for a moment before in his life believed it. Yes, possible and +lovely. After all, he must stop sometime, and take the slower pace. Why +not now, when there was a certain and great prize to be won . . . ? + + * * * * * + +People talked around him. He talked and did not know his own words. +Marise spun those sparkling webs of nonsense of hers, and made him +laugh, but the next moment he could not have told what she had said. He +must somehow have been very tired to take such intense pleasure in being +at rest. + +Her husband came, that rough and energetic husband. The children came, +the children whose restless, selfish, noisy preying on their mother +usually annoyed him so, and still the charm was not broken. Marise, as +she always did when her husband and children were there, retreated into +a remote plane of futile busyness with details that servants should have +cared for; answering the children's silly questions, belonging to +everyone, her personal existence blotted out. But this time he felt +still, deep within him, the penetrating sweetness of her eyes as she had +looked at him. + +A tiresome, sophisticated friend of Marise's came, too, somehow +intruding another personality into the circle, already too full, and yet +he was but vaguely irritated by her. She only brought out by contrast +the thrilling quality of Marise's golden presence. He basked in that, as +in the sunshine, and thought of nothing else. + +Possibilities he had never dreamed of, stretched before him, +possibilities of almost impersonal and yet desirable existence. Perhaps +this was the turning-point of his life. He supposed there really was +one, sometime, for everybody. + + * * * * * + +". . . Rocca di Papa . . ." someone had said. Or had he dreamed it? He +awoke with an inward bound, like a man springing up from sleep at a +sudden noise. His first look was for Marise. She was pale. He had not +dreamed it. + +The voice went on . . . the newcomer's, the one they called Eugenia . . . +yes, she had known them in Italy. Marise had just said they had been +friends before her marriage. + +The voice went on. How he listened as though crouched before the keyhole +of a door! Only three or four sentences, quite casual and trivial in +content, pronounced in that self-consciously cosmopolitan accent. Then +the voice stopped. + +It had said enough for him. Now he knew. Now he had that clue. + +He had the sensation of rising to his full height, exultantly, every +faculty as alert as though he had never been drugged to sleep by those +weak notions of renunciation. The consciousness of power was like a +sweet taste in his mouth. The deep, fundamental, inalienable need for +possession stretched itself, titanic and mighty, refreshed, reposed, and +strengthened by the involuntary rest it had had. + + * * * * * + +He fixed his eyes on Marise, waiting for the first interchange of a +look. He could see that her hands were trembling; and smiled to himself. +She was looking at the old man. + +Now, in a moment she would look at him. + +There were her eyes. She had looked at him. Thunder rolled in his ears. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + +HEARD FROM THE STUDY + + +June 20. + +From his desk in the inner room where he finally buckled down to those +estimates about the popple-wood casters, Neale could follow, more or +less closely, as his attention varied, the evening activities of the +household. + +First there had been the clinking and laughter from the dining-room and +kitchen where Marise and the children cleared off the table and washed +the dishes. How sweet their voices sounded, all light and gay! Every +occasion for being with their mother was fun for the kids. How happy +Marise made them! And how they throve in that happiness like little +plants in the sunshine! + +When you really looked at what went on about you, how funny and silly +lots of traditional ideas did seem. That notion, solemnly accepted by +the would-be sophisticated moderns, for instance, that a woman of beauty +and intelligence was being wasted unless she was engaged in being the +"emotional inspiration" of some man's life: which meant in plain +English, stimulating his sexual desire to that fever-heat which they +called impassioned living. As if there were not a thousand other forms +of deep fulfilment in life. People who thought that, how narrow and +cramped they seemed, and blinded to the bigness and variety of life! But +then, of course, everybody hadn't had under his eyes a creature +genuinely rich and various, like Marise, and hadn't seen how all +children feasted on her charm like bees on honey, and how old people +adored her, and how, just by being herself, she enriched and civilized +every life that touched her, and made every place she lived in a home +for the human spirit. And Heaven knew she was, with all that, the real +emotional inspiration of a man's life, a man who loved her a thousand +times more than in his ignorant and passionate youth. + + * * * * * + +Come, this wasn't work. He might as well have stayed out with the family +and helped with the dishes. This was being like Eugenia Mills, who +always somehow had something to do upstairs when there was any work to +do downstairs. Eugenia was a woman who somehow managed to stand from +under life, anyhow, had been the most successful draft-dodger he knew. +No call had been urgent enough to get _her_ to the recruiting station to +shoulder her share of what everybody had to do. But what did she get out +of her successful shirking? She was in plain process of drying up and +blowing away. + +He turned to his desk and drew out the papers which had the figures and +estimates on that popple. He would see if the Warner woodlot had as much +popple and basswood on it as they thought. It would, of course, be +easiest to get it off that lot, if there were enough of it to fill the +order for casters. The Hemmingway lot and the Dornwood lot oughtn't to +be lumbered except in winter, with snow for the sleds. But you could +haul straight downhill from the Warner lot, even on wheels, using the +back lane in the Eagle Rocks woods. There was a period of close +attention to his papers, when he heard nothing at all of what went on in +the rooms next his study. His mind was working with the rapid, trained +exactitude which was a delight to him, with a sure, firm grasp on the +whole problem in all its complicated parts. + +Finally he nodded with satisfaction, pushed the papers away, and lighted +his pipe, contentedly. He had it by the tail. + +He leaned back in his chair, drawing on the newly lighted pipe and +ruminating again. He thought to himself that he would like to see any +other man in the valley who could make an estimate like that, and be +sure of it, who would know what facts to gather and where to get them, +on the cost of cutting and hauling in different seasons, on mill-work +and transportation and overhead expenses, and how to market and where, +and how to get money and how to get credit and how to manage these +cranky independent Yankees and the hot-tempered irresponsible Canucks. +It was all very well for advanced radicals to say that the common +workmen in a business were as good as the head of the concern. They +weren't and that was all there was to be said about it. Any one of them, +any single one of his employees, put in his place as manager, would run +the business into a hole as deep as hell inside six months. And if you +put the whole lot of them at it, it would only be six weeks instead of +six months before the bust-up. + +There again, what people kept saying about life, things clever people +said and that got accepted as the clever things _to_ say, how awfully +beside the mark they seem to you, when you found out actual facts by +coming up against them. What a difference some first-hand experience +with what you were talking about, did make with what you said. What +clever folks ought to say was not that the workmen were as good as the +head or the same sort of flesh and blood, because they weren't; but that +the head exploited his natural capacities out of all proportion, getting +such an outrageous share of the money they all made together, for doing +what was natural to him, and what he enjoyed doing. Take himself for +instance. If by some freak, he could make more money out of being one of +the hands, would he go down in the ranks, stand at a machine all day and +cut the same wooden shapes, hour after hour: or drive a team day after +day where somebody else told him to go? You bet your life he wouldn't! +He didn't need all the money he could squeeze out of everybody +concerned, to make him do his job as manager. His real pay was the +feeling of managing, of doing a job he was fitted for, and that was +worth doing. + +How fine it had always been of Marise to back him up in that view of +the business, not to want him to cheat the umpire, even if he could get +away with it, even though it would have meant enough sight more money +for them, even though the umpire didn't exist as yet, except in his own +conscience, in his own idea of what he was up to in his business. Never +once had Marise had a moment of that backward-looking hankering for more +money that turned so many women into pillars of salt and their husbands +into legalized sneak-thieves. + +He pulled out some of the letters from Canada about the Powers case, and +fingered them over a little. He had brought them home this evening, and +it wasn't the first time either, to try to get a good hour alone with +Marise to talk it over with her. He frowned as he reflected that he +seemed to have had mighty little chance for talking anything over with +Marise since his return. There always seemed to be somebody sticking +around; one of the two men next door, who didn't have anything to do +_but_ stick around, or Eugenia, who appeared to have settled down +entirely on them this time. Well, perhaps it was just as well to wait a +little longer and say nothing about it, till he had those last final +verifications in his hands. + +What in thunder did Eugenia come to visit them for, anyhow? Their way of +life must make her sick. Why did she bother? Oh, probably her old +affection for Marise. They had been girls together, of course, and +Marise had been good to her. Women thought more of those old-time +relations than men. Well, he could stand Eugenia if she could stand +them, he guessed. But she wasn't one who grew on him with the years. + +He had less and less patience with those fussy little ways, found less +and less amusing those frequent, small cat-like gestures of hers, +picking off an invisible thread from her sleeve, rolling it up to an +invisible ball between her white finger and thumb, and casting it +delicately away; or settling a ring, or brushing off invisible dust with +a flick of a polished finger-nail; all these manoeuvers executed with +such leisure and easy deliberation that they didn't make her seem +restless, and you knew she calculated that effect. A man who had had +years with a real, living woman like Marise, didn't know whether to +laugh or swear at such mannerisms and the self-consciousness that +underlay them. + +There she was coming down the stairs now, when she heard Marise at the +piano, with the children, and knew there was no more work to be done. +Pshaw! He had meant to go out and join the others, but now he would wait +a while, till he had finished his pipe. A pipe beside Eugenia's perfumed +cigarettes always seemed so gross. And he wanted to lounge at his ease, +stretch out in his arm-chair with his feet on another. Could you do +that, with Eugenia fashion-plating herself on the sofa? + +He leaned back smoking peacefully, listening to Marise's voice brimming +up all around the children's as they romped through "The raggle-taggle +gypsies, oh!" + +What a mastery of the piano Marise had, subduing it to the slender pipe +of those child-voices as long as they sang, and rolling out sumptuous +harmonies in the intervals of the song. Lucky kids! Lucky kids! to have +childhood memories like that. + +He heard Paul say, "Now let's sing 'Massa's in the cold, cold ground,'" +and Elly shriek out, "No, Mother, _no!_ It's so _terribly_ sad! I can't +stand it!" And Paul answer with that certainty of his always being in +the right, "Aw, Elly, it's not fair. Is it, Mother, fair to have Elly +keep us from singing one of the nicest songs we have, just because she's +so foolish?" + +His father frowned. Queer about Paul. He'd do anything for Elly if he +thought her in trouble, would stand up for her against the biggest bully +of the school-yard. But he couldn't keep himself from . . . it was perhaps +because Paul could not _understand_ that . . . now how could Marise meet +this little problem in family equity, he wondered? Her solutions of the +children's knots always tickled him. + +She was saying, "Let's see. Elly, it doesn't look to me as though you +had any right to keep Paul from singing a song he likes. And, Paul, it +doesn't seem as though you had any right to make Elly listen to a song +that makes her cry. Let's settle it this way. We can't move the piano, +but we can move Elly. Elly dear, suppose you go 'way out through the +kitchen and shut both doors and stand on the back porch. Toucle will +probably be there, looking out, the way she does evenings, so you won't +be alone. I'll send Mark out to get you when we're through. And because +it's not very much fun to stand out in the dark, you can stop and get +yourself a piece of cocoanut cake as you go through the pantry." + +Neale laughed silently to himself as he heard the doors open and shut +and Elly's light tread die away. How perfectly Marise understood her +little daughter! It wasn't only over the piano that Marise had a +mastery, but over everybody's nature. She played on them as surely, as +richly as on any instrument. That's what he called real art-in-life. Why +wasn't it creative art, as much as anything, her Blondin-like accuracy +of poise among all the conflicting elements of family-life, the warring +interests of the different temperaments, ages, sexes, natures? Why +wasn't it an artistic creation, the unbroken happiness and harmony she +drew out of those elements, as much as the picture the painter drew out +of the reds and blues and yellows on his palette? If it gave an actor a +high and disinterested pleasure when he had an inspiration, or heard +himself give out a true and freshly found intonation, or make exactly +the right gesture, whether anybody in the audience applauded him or not, +why wouldn't the mother of a family and maker of a home have the same +pleasure, and by heck! just as high and disinterested, when she had once +more turned the trick, had an inspiration, and found a course that all +her charges, young and old, could steer together? Well, there was one, +anyhow, of Marise's audience who often gave her a silent hand-clap of +admiration. + +The wailing, lugubrious notes of the negro lament rose now, Paul's voice +loud and clear and full of relish. "It takes a heavy stimulant to give +Paul his sensations," thought his father. "What would take the hide +right off of Elly, just gives him an agreeable tingle." His pipe went +out as he listened, and he reached for a match. The song stopped. +Someone had come in. He heard Paul's voice cry joyfully, "Oh goody, Mr. +Welles, come on up to the piano." + +Neale leaned forward with a slightly unpleasant stirring of his blood +and listened to see if the old man had come alone. No, of course he +hadn't. He never did. + +There was Eugenia's voice saying, "Good-evening, Mr. Marsh." She would +move over for him on the sofa and annex him with a look. Well, let her +have him. He was her kind more than theirs, the Lord knew. Probably he +was used to having that sort of woman annex him. + +Neale moved his head restlessly and shifted his position. His pipe and +his arm-chair had lost their savor. The room seemed hot to him and he +got up to open a window. Standing there by the open sash, looking out +into the blue, misty glory of an overclouded moonlight night, he decided +that he would not go in at all, and join them. He felt tired and out of +sorts, he found. And they were such infernal talkers, Eugenia and Marsh. +It wore you out to hear them, especially as you felt all the time that +their speculations on life and human nature were so _far_ off, that it +would be just wasting your breath to try to set them right. He'd stay +here in the study and smoke and maybe doze off a little, till they went +away. Marise had known he had business figuring to do, and she would +have a perfectly valid excuse to give them for his non-appearance. Not +that he had any illusions as to anybody there missing him at all. + +He heard Mark's little voice sound shrilly from the pantry, "Come on, +Elly. It's all right. I've even putten away the book that's got that +song." + +Some splendid, surging shouts from the piano and the voices began on +"The Battle Hymn of the Republic." Neale could hear Mr. Welles' shaky +old bass booming away this time. He was probably sitting down with Paul +on his knees. It was really nice of the old codger to take such a fancy +to Paul, and be able to see those sterling qualities of his, through +Paul's surface unloveliness that came mostly from his slowness of +imagination. + +The voices stopped; Elly said, "That song sounds as if it were proud of +itself." Her father's heart melted in the utter prostration of +tenderness he felt for his little daughter. How like Elly! What a quick +intelligence animated the sensitive, touching, appealing, defenseless +darling that Elly was! Marise must have been a little girl like that. +Think of her growing up in such an atmosphere of disunion and +flightiness as that weak mother of hers must have given her. Queer, how +Marise didn't seem to have a trace of that weakness, unless it was that +funny physical impressionableness of hers, that she could laugh at +herself, but that still wrought on her, so that if measles were going +the rounds, she could see symptoms of measles in everything the children +did or didn't do; or that well-known habit of hers, that even the +children laughed about with her, of feeling things crawling all over her +for hours after she had seen a caterpillar. Well, that was only the +other side of her extraordinary sensitiveness, that made her know how +everybody was feeling, and what to do to make him feel better. She had +often said that she would certainly die if she ever tried to study +medicine, because as fast as she read of a symptom she would have it, +herself. But she wouldn't die. She'd live and make a cracker-jack of a +doctor, if she'd ever tried it, enough sight better than some callous +brute of a boy with no imagination. + +"One more song before bed-time," announced Marise. "And we'll let Mark +choose. It's his turn." + +A long silence, in which Neale amusedly divined Mark torn between his +many favorites. Finally the high sweet little treble, "Well, let's make +it 'Down Among the Dead Men.'" + +At which Neale laughed silently again. What a circus the kids were! + +The clock struck nine as they finished this, and Neale heard the stir +and shifting of chairs. Paul said, "Mother, Mr. Welles and I have fixed +it up, that he's going to put us to bed tonight, if you'll let him." +Amused surprise from Marise: Mr. Welles' voice saying he really would +like it, never had seen any children in their nightgowns except in the +movies; Paul saying, "Gracious! We don't wear nightgowns like women. We +wear pajamas!"; Mark's voice crying, "We'll show you how we play +foot-fight on the rug. We have to do that barefoot, so each one can +tickle ourselves;" as usual, no sound from Elly probably still reveling +in the proudness of "The Battle Hymn of the Republic." + +A clatter of feet on the stairs, the chirping voices muffled by the +shutting of a door overhead, and Eugenia's voice, musical and carefully +modulated, saying, "Well, Marisette, you look perfectly worn out with +fatigue. You haven't looked a bit well lately, anyhow. And I'm not +surprised. The way those children take it out of you!" + +"Damn that woman!" thought Neale. That sterile life of hers had starved +out from her even the capacity to understand a really human existence +when she saw it. Not that she had _ever_ seemed to have any considerable +seed-bed of human possibilities to be starved, even in youth, if he +could judge from his memory, now very dim, of how she had seemed to him +in Rome, when he had first met her, along with Marise. He remembered +that he had said of her fantastically, to a fellow in the _pension_, +that she reminded him of a spool of silk thread. And now the silk thread +had all been wound off, and there was only the bare wooden spool left. + +"It's not surprising that Mrs. Crittenden gets tired," commented +Marsh's voice. "She does the work of four or five persons." + +"Yes," agreed Eugenia, "I don't know how she does it . . . cook, nurse, +teacher, housekeeper, welfare-worker, seamstress, gardener . . ." + +"Oh, let up, let up!" Neale heard Marise say, with an impatience that +pleased him. She must have been at the piano as she spoke, for at once +there rose, smiting to the heart, the solemn, glorious, hopeless chords +of the last part of the Pathetic Symphony. Heavens! How Marise could +play! + +When the last dull, dreary, beautiful note had vibrated into silence, +Eugenia murmured, "Doesn't that always make you want to crawl under the +sod and pull the daisies over you?" + +"Ashes, ashes, not daisies," corrected Marsh, dreamily. + +There was, thought Neale listening critically to their intonations, a +voluptuous, perverse pleasure in despair which he found very +distasteful. Despair was a real and honest and deadly emotion. Folks +with appetites sated by having everything they wanted, oughtn't to use +despair as a sort of condiment to perk up their jaded zest in life. +"Confounded play-actors!" he thought, and wondered what Marise's +reaction to them was. + +He foresaw that it was going to be too much for his patience to listen +to them. He would get too hot under the collar and be snappish, +afterwards. Luckily he was in the library. There were better voices to +listen to. He got up, ran his forefinger along a shelf, and took down a +volume of Trevelyan, "Garbaldi and the Thousand." The well-worn volume +opened of itself at a familiar passage, the description of the battle of +Calatafimi. His eye lighted in anticipation. There was a man's book, he +thought. But his pipe was out. He laid the book down to light it before +he began to read. In spite of himself he listened to hear what they were +saying now in the next room. Eugenia was talking and he didn't like what +she was saying about those recurrent dreams of Marise's, because he knew +it was making poor Marise squirm. She had such a queer, Elly-like +shyness about that notion of hers, Marise had. It evidently meant more +to her than she had ever been able to make him understand. He couldn't +see why she cared so much about it, hated to have it talked about +casually. But he wasn't Eugenia. If Marise didn't want it talked about +casually, by George he wasn't the one who would mention it. They'd +hardly ever spoken of them, those dreams, even to each other. People had +a right to moral privacy, if they wanted it, he supposed, even married +women. There was nothing so ruthless anyhow as an old childhood friend, +to whom you had made foolish youthful confidences and who brought them +out any time he felt like it. + +"You ought to have those dreams of yours psycho-analyzed, Marisette," +Eugenia was saying. To Marsh she went on in explanation, "Mrs. +Crittenden has always had a queer kind of dream. I remember her telling +me about them, years ago, when we were girls together, and nobody +guessed there was anything in dreams. She dreams she is in some +tremendous rapid motion, a leaf on a great river-current, or a bird +blown by a great wind, or foam driven along by storm-waves, isn't that +it, Marisonne?" + +Neale did not need the sound of Marise's voice to know how she hated +this. She said, rather shortly for her, as though she didn't want to say +a word about it, and yet couldn't leave it uncorrected, "Not exactly. I +don't dream I'm the leaf on the current. I dream I _am_ the current +myself, part of it. I'm the wind, not the bird blown by it; the wave +itself; it's too hard to explain." + +"Do you still have those dreams once in a while, Marisette, and do you +still love them as much?" + +"Oh yes, sometimes." + +"And have you ever had the same sensation in your waking moments? I +remember so well you used to say that was what you longed for, some +experience in real life that would make you have that glorious sense of +irresistible forward movement. We used to think," said Eugenia, "that +perhaps falling in love would give it to you." + +"No," said Marise. "I've never felt it, out of my dreams." + +Neale was sorry he had elected to stay in the study. If he were out +there now, he could change the conversation, come to her rescue. +Couldn't Eugenia see that she was bothering Marise! + +"What do you suppose Freud would make out of such dreams?" asked +Eugenia, evidently of Marsh. + +"Why, it sounds simple enough to me," said Marsh, and Neale was obliged +to hand it to him that the very sound of his voice had a living, real, +genuine accent that was a relief after Eugenia. He didn't talk +half-chewed and wholly undigested nonsense, the way Eugenia did. Neale +had heard enough of his ideas to know that he didn't agree with a word +the man said, but at least it was a vital and intelligent personality +talking. + +"Why, it sounds simple enough to me. Americans have fadded the thing +into imbecility, so that the very phrase has become such a bromide one +hates to pronounce it. But of course the commonplace that all dreams are +expressions of suppressed desires is true. And it's very apparent that +Mrs. Crittenden's desire is a very fine one for freedom and power and +momentum. She's evidently not a back-water personality. Though one would +hardly need psycho-analysis to guess that!" He changed the subject as +masterfully as Neale could have done. "See here, Mrs. Crittenden, that +Tschaikowsky whetted my appetite for more. Don't you feel like playing +again?" + +The idea came over Neale, and in spite of his uneasy irritation, it +tickled his fancy, that possibly Marsh found Eugenia just as deadly as +he did. + +Marise jumped at the chance to turn the talk, for in an instant the +piano began to chant again, not Tschaikowsky, Neale noted, but some of +the new people whom Marise was working over lately. He couldn't +understand a note of them, nor keep his mind on them, nor even try to +remember their names. He had been able to get just as far as Debussy and +no further, he thought whimsically, before his brain-channels hardened +in incipient middle-age. + +He plunged into Trevelyan and the heart-quickening ups and downs of +battle. + +Some time after this, he was pulled back from those critical and +glorious hours by the consciousness, gradually forcing itself on him on +two discomforts; his pipe had gone out and Eugenia was at it again. He +scratched a match and listened in spite of himself to that smooth liquid +voice. She was still harping on psycho-analysis. Wasn't she just the +kind of woman for whom that would have an irresistible fascination! He +gathered that Marise was objecting to it, just as sweepingly as Eugenia +was approving. How women did hate half-tones and reasonable +qualifications! + +"I'm a gardener," Marise was saying, "and I know a thing or two about +natural processes. The thing to do with a manure pile is not to paw it +over and over, but to put it safely away in the dark, underground, and +never bother your head about it again except to watch the beauty and +vitality of the flowers and grains that spring from the earth it has +fertilized." + +Neale as he held the lifted match over his pipe, shook his head. That +was all very well, put picturesquely as Marise always put things; but +you couldn't knock an idea on the head just with an apt metaphor. There +was a great deal more to be said about it, even if fool half-baked +faddists like Eugenia did make it ridiculous. In the first place it was +nothing so new. Everybody who had ever encountered a crisis in his life +and conquered it, had . . . why, he himself . . . + +He felt his heart beat faster, and before he knew what was coming, he +felt a great, heart-quickening gust of fresh salt air blow over him, and +felt himself far from the book-tainted stagnant air of that indoor +room. He forgot to light his pipe and sat motionless, holding the +burning match till it flared up at the end and scorched his fingers. +Then he dropped it with a startled oath, and looked quickly around him. + +In that instant he had lived over again the moment in Nova Scotia when +he had gone down to the harbor just as the battered little tramp steamer +was pulling out, bound for China. + +Good God! What an astonishing onslaught that had been! How from some +great, fierce, unguessed appetite, the longing for wandering, lawless +freedom had burst up! Marise, the children, their safe, snug +middle-class life, how they had seemed only so many drag-anchors to cut +himself loose from and make out to the open sea! If the steamer had been +still close enough to the dock so that he could have jumped aboard, how +he would have leaped! He might have been one of those men who +disappeared mysteriously, from out a prosperous and happy life, and are +never heard of again. But it hadn't been close enough. The green oily +water widened between them; and he had gone back with a burning heart to +that deadly little country hotel. + +Well, had he buried it and forced himself to think no more about it? No. +Not on your life he hadn't. He'd stood up to himself. He'd asked himself +what the hell was the matter, and he'd gone after it, as any grown man +would. It hadn't been fun. He remembered that the sweat had run down his +face as though he'd been handling planks in the lumber-yard in +midsummer. + +And what had he found? He'd found that he'd never got over the jolt it +had given him, there on that aimless youthful trip through Italy, with +China and the Eastern seas before him, to fall in love and have all +those plans for wandering cut off by the need for a safe, stable life. + +Then he'd gone on. He'd asked himself, if that's so, _then_ what? He +hadn't pulled any of the moralizing stern-duty stuff; he knew Marise +would rather die than have him doing for her something he hated, out of +stern duty. It was an insult, anyhow, unless it was a positively +helpless cripple in question, to do things for people out of duty only. +And to mix what folks called "duty" up with love, that was the devil. So +he hadn't. + +That was the sort of thing Marise had meant, so long ago, when they were +first engaged, that was the sort of thing she had asked him never to do. +He'd promised he never would, and this wasn't the first time the promise +had held him straight to what was, after all, the only decent course +with a woman like Marise, as strong as she was fine. Anything else would +be treating her like a child, or a dependent, as he'd hate to have her +treat him, or anybody treat him. + +So this time he'd asked himself right out, what he really wanted and +needed in life, and he'd been ready, honestly ready, to take any answer +he got, and dree his weird accordingly, as the best thing for everybody +concerned, as the only honest thing, as the only thing that would put +any bed-rock under him, as what Marise would want him to do. If it meant +tramp-steamers, why it had to be tramp-steamers. Something could be +managed for Marise and the children. + +This was what he had asked. And what answer had he got? Why, of course, +he hankered for the double-jointed, lawless freedom that the +tramp-steamer stood for. He guessed everybody wanted that, more or less. +But he wanted Marise and the children a damn sight more. And not only +Marise and the children. He hadn't let himself lay it all on their +backs, and play the martyr's role of the forcibly domesticated wild +male. No, he wanted the life he had, outside the family, his own line of +work; he wanted the sureness of it, the coherence of it, the permanence +of it, the clear conscience he had about what he was doing in the world, +the knowledge that he was creating something, helping men to use the +natural resources of the world without exploiting either the natural +resources or the men; he wanted the sense of deserved power over other +human beings. That was what he really wanted most of all. You could +call it smug and safe and bourgeois if you liked. But the plain fact +remained that it had more of what really counted for him than any other +life he could see possible. And when he looked at it, hard, with his +eyes open, why the tramp-steamer to China sailed out of school-boy +theatrical clouds and showed herself for the shabby, sordid little +substitute for a real life she would have been to him. + +He'd have liked to have that too, of course. You'd _like_ to have +everything! But you can't. And it is only immature boys who whimper +because you can't have your cake and eat it too. That was all there was +to that. + +What he had dug for was to find his deepest and most permanent desires, +and when he had found them, he'd come home with a happy heart. + +It even seemed to him that he had been happier and quieter than before. +Well, maybe Marise's metaphor had something in it, for all it was so +flowery and high-falutin. Maybe she would say that what he had done was +exactly what she'd described, to dig it under the ground and let it +fertilize and enrich his life. + +Oh Lord! how a figure of speech always wound you up in knots if you +tried to use it to say anything definite! + +He relighted his pipe, this time with a steady hand, and a cool eye; and +turned to Trevelyan and Garibaldi again. He'd take that other side of +himself out in books, he guessed. + +He had now arrived at the crucial moment of the battle, and lifted his +head and his heart in anticipation of the way Garibaldi met that moment. +He read, "To experienced eyes the battle seemed lost. Bixio said to +Garibaldi, 'General, I fear we ought to retreat.' Garibaldi looked up as +though a serpent had stung him. '_Here we make Italy or die!_' he said." + +"That's the talk!" cried Neale, to himself. The brave words resounded in +the air about him, and drowned out the voices from the next room. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +ALONG THE EAGLE ROCK BROOK + + +July 1. + +Paul was very much pleased that Mr. Welles agreed with him so perfectly +about the hour and place for lunch. But then Mr. Welles was awfully nice +about agreeing. He said, now, "Yes, I believe this would be the best +place. Here by the pool, on that big rock, as you say. We'll be drier +there. Yesterday's rain has made everything in the woods pretty wet. +That's a good idea of yours, to build our fire on the rock, with water +all around. The fire couldn't possibly spread." Paul looked proudly at +the rain-soaked trees and wet soggy leaves which his forethought had +saved from destruction and strode across the brook in his rubber boots, +with the first installment of dry pine branches. + +"Aren't you tired?" he said protectingly to his companion. "Whyn't you +sit down over there and undo the lunch-basket? I'll make camp. Father +showed me how to make a campfire with only one match." + +"All right," said Mr. Welles. "I do feel a little leg-weary. I'm not so +used to these mountain scrambles as you are." + +"I'll clean the fish, too," said Paul; "maybe you don't like to. Elly +can't abide it." He did not say that he did not like it very well +himself, having always to get over the sick feeling it gave him. + +"I never did it in my life," confessed Mr. Welles. "You see I always +lived in towns till now." + +Paul felt very sorry for Mr. Welles, and shook his head pityingly as he +went off for more firewood. + +When he had collected a lot, he began to lay the sticks. He did it just +as Father had showed him, but it seemed lots harder to get them right. +And it took a lot more than one match to get it started. He didn't have +a bit of breath left in him, by the time he finally got it going. And +my, weren't his hands black! But he felt very much set up, all the same, +that he had done it. In his heart Paul knew that there was nothing +anybody could do which he could not. + +They hung the slimpsy slices of bacon from forked sticks, Paul showing +Mr. Welles how to thread his on, and began to cook them around the edges +of the fire, while the two little trout frizzled in the frying-pan. "I'm +so glad we got that last one," commented Paul. "One wouldn't have been +very much." + +"Yes, it's much better to have one apiece," agreed Mr. Welles. + +When the bacon was done (only burned a little at the edges, and still +soft in the thicker places in the center of the slice), and the fish the +right brown, and 'most shrunk up to nothing, they each of them put a +trout and a piece of bacon on his slice of bread and butter, and +gracious! didn't it taste good. + +"You must have done this before," said Mr. Welles, respectfully; "you +seem to know a good deal about camping." + +"Oh, I'm a good camper, all right," agreed Paul. "Mother and I have gone +off in the woods, lots of times. When I was littler, I used to get +spells when I was bad. I do still, even now, once in a while." + +Mr. Welles did not smile, but continued gravely eating his bread and +bacon, his eyes on the little boy. + +"I don't know what's the matter. I feel all snarled up inside. And then +the first thing you know I've done something awful. Mother can tell when +it first gets started in me, the least little teenty bit. _How_ can she +tell? And then she takes me off camping. She pretends it's because she's +feeling snarled up, herself. But it's not. She never is. Why not?" + +He considered this in silence, chewing slowly on a vast mouthful of +bread. "Anyhow, we leave the little children with Toucle, if she's +there," (he stopped here an instant to inspect Mr. Welles to make sure +he was not laughing because he had called Elly and Mark the "little +children." But Mr. Welles was not laughing at him. He was listening, +_really_ listening, the way grown-ups almost never did, to hear what you +had to say. He did like Mr. Welles. He went on,) "or if Toucle's off +somewheres in the woods herself, we leave them down at the Powers' to +play with Addie and Ralph, and we light out for the woods, Mother and I. +The snarleder up I feel, the further we go. We don't fish or anything. +Just leg it, till I feel better. Then we make a fire and eat." + +He swallowed visibly a huge lump of unchewed bread, and said, uncorking +a thermos bottle, "I asked Mother to put up some hot coffee." + +Mr. Welles seemed surprised. "Why, do you drink coffee?" + +"Oh no, none of us kids ever take it. But I thought you'd like some. +Grown-up folks mostly do, when they eat out-of-doors." + +Mr. Welles took the cup of steaming coffee, ready sugared and creamed, +without even saying thank you, but in a minute, as they began their +second round of sandwiches, filled this time with cold ham from home, he +said, "You've got quite a way of looking out for folks, haven't you? + +"I like to," said Paul. + +"_I_ always liked to," said Mr. Welles. + +"I guess you've done quite a lot of it," conjectured the little boy. + +"Quite a lot," said the old man, thoughtfully. + +Paul never liked to be left behind and now spoke out, "Well, I expect +I'll do a good deal, too." + +"Most likely you will," agreed the old man. + +He spoke a little absently, and after a minute said, "Paul, talking +about looking out for folks makes me think of something that's bothering +me like everything lately. I can't make up my mind about whether I +ought to go on, looking out for folks, if I know folks that need it. I +keep hearing from somebody who lives down South, that the colored folks +aren't getting a real square deal. I keep wondering if maybe I oughtn't +to go and live there and help her look out for them." + +Paul was so astonished at this that he opened his mouth wide, without +speaking. When he could get his breath, he shouted, "Why, Mr. Welles, go +away from Ashley to live!" He stared hard at the old man, thinking he +must have got it twisted. But Mr. Welles did not set him straight, only +stared down at the ground with a pale, bothered-looking face and sort of +twitched his mouth to one side. + +The little boy moved over closer to him, and said, looking up at him +with all his might, "Aw, Mr. Welles, I _wish't_ you wouldn't! I _like_ +your being here. There's lot of things I've got planned we could do +together." + +It seemed to him that the old man looked older and more tired at this. +He closed his eyes and did not answer. Paul felt better. Mr. Welles +couldn't have been in earnest. + +How still it was in the woods that day. Not the least little flutter +from any leaf. The sunlight looked as green, as green, coming down +through the trees that way, like the light in church when the sun came +in through the stained-glass windows. + +The only thing that budged at all was a bird . . . was it a flicker? . . . +he couldn't make out. It kept hopping around in that big beech tree +across the brook. Probably it was worried about its nest and didn't like +to have people so near. And yet they sat as still, he and Mr. Welles, as +still as a tree, or the shiny water in the pool. + +Mr. Welles opened his eyes and took the little boy's rough, calloused +hand in his. "See here, Paul, maybe you can help me make up my mind." + +Paul squared his shoulders. + +"It's this way. I'm pretty nearly used up, not good for much any more. +And the Electrical Company wanted to fix everything the nicest way for +me to live. And they have. I hadn't any idea anything could be so nice +as living next door to you folks in such a place as Crittenden's. And +then making friends with you. I'd always wanted a little boy, but I +thought I was so old, no little boy would bother with me." + +He squeezed the child's fingers and looked down on him lovingly. For a +moment Paul's heart swelled up so he couldn't speak. Then he said, in a +husky voice, "I _like_ to." He took a large bite from his sandwich and +repeated roughly, his mouth full, "I _like_ to." + +Neither said anything more for a moment. The flicker . . . yes, it was a +flicker . . . in the big beech kept changing her position, flying down +from a top-branch to a lower one, and then back again. Paul made out the +hole in the old trunk of the tree where she'd probably put her nest, and +wondered why she didn't go back to it. + +"Have you got to the Civil War, in your history yet, Paul?" + +"Gee, yes, 'way past it. Up to the Philadelphia Exposition." + +Mr. Welles said nothing for a minute and Paul could see by his +expression that he was trying to think of some simple baby way to say +what he wanted to. Gracious! didn't he know Paul was in the seventh +grade? "_I_ can understand all right," he said roughly. + +Mr. Welles said, "Well, all right. If you can, you'll do more than I +can. You know how the colored people got their freedom then. But +something very bad had been going on there in slavery, for ever so long. +And bad things that go on for a long time, can't be straightened out in +a hurry. And so far, it's been too much for everybody, to get this +straightened out. The colored people . . . they're made to suffer all the +time for being born the way they are. And that's not right . . . in +America . . ." + +"Why don't they stand up for themselves?" asked Paul scornfully. He'd +like to see anybody who would make him suffer for being born the way he +was. + +Mr. Welles hesitated again. "It looks to me this way. People can fight +for some things . . . their property, and their vote and their work. And I +guess the colored people have got to fight for those, themselves. But +there are some other things . . . some of the nicest . . . why, if you +fight for them, you tear them all to pieces, trying to get them." + +Paul did not have the least idea what this meant. + +"If what you want is to have people respect what you are worth, why, if +you fight them to make them, then you spoil what you're worth. Anyhow, +even if you don't spoil it, fighting about it doesn't put you in any +state of mind to go on being your best. That's a pretty hard job for +anybody." + +Paul found this very dull. His attention wandered back to that queer +flicker, so excited about something. + +The old man tried to get at him again. "Look here, Paul, Americans that +happen to be colored people ought to have every bit of the same chance +to amount to their best that any Americans have, oughtn't they?" + +Paul saw this. But he didn't see what Mr. Welles could do about it, and +said so. + +"Well, I couldn't do a great deal," said the old man sadly, "but more +than if I stayed here. It looks as though they needed, as much as +anything else, people to just have the same feeling towards them that +you have for anybody who's trying to make the best of himself. And I +could do that." + +Paul got the impression at last that Mr. Welles was in earnest about +this. It made him feel anxious. "Oh _dear_!" he said, kicking the toe of +his rubber boot against the rock. He couldn't think of anything to say, +except that he hated the idea of Mr. Welles going. + +But just then he was startled by a sharp cry of distress from the bird, +who flew out wildly from the beech, poised herself in the air, beating +her wings and calling in a loud scream. The old man, unused to forests +and their inhabitants, noticed this but vaguely, and was surprised by +Paul's instant response. "There must be a snake after her eggs," he said +excitedly. "I'll go over and chase him off." + +He started across the pool, gave a cry, and stood still, petrified. +Before their eyes, without a breath of wind, the hugh beech solemnly +bowed itself and with a great roar of branches, whipping and crushing +the trees about, it fell, its full length thundering on the ground, a +great mat of shaggy roots uptorn, leaving an open wound in the stony +mountain soil. Then, in a minute, it was all as still as before. + +Paul was scared almost to death. He scrambled back to the rock, his +knees shaking, his stomach sick, and clung to Mr. Welles with all his +might. "What made it fall? There's no wind! What made it fall?" he +cried, burying his face in the old man's coat. "It might just as easy +have fallen this way, on us, and killed us! What made it fall?" + +Mr. Welles patted Paul's shoulder, and said, "There, there," till Paul's +teeth stopped chattering and he began to be a little ashamed of showing +how it had startled him. He was also a little put out that Mr. Welles +had remained so unmoved. "You don't know how dangerous a big tree _is_, +when it falls!" he said, accusingly, to defend himself. "If you'd lived +here more, and heard some of the stories . . . ! Nate Hewitt had his back +broken with a tree falling on him. But he was cutting that one down, and +it fell too soon. Nobody had touched this one! And there isn't any wind. +What _made_ it fall? Most every winter, some man in the lumber camp on +the mountain gets killed or smashed up, and lots of horses too." + +He felt much better now, and he did want to find out whatever had made +that tree fall. He sat up, and looked back at it, just a mess of broken +branches and upset leaves, where a minute before there had been a tall +living tree! "I'm going over to see what made it fall," he said. + +He splashed across the pool and poked around with a stick in the hole +in the ground, and almost right away he saw what the reason was. He ran +back to tell Mr. Welles. "I see now. The brook had kept sidling over +that way, and washed the earth from under the rocks. It just didn't have +enough ground left to hold on to." + +He felt all right now he knew some simple reason for what had looked so +crazy. He looked up confidently at the old man, and was struck into awed +silence by the expression of Mr. Welles' face. + +"Paul," said Mr. Welles, and his voice wasn't steady, "I guess what I +ought to try to be is one more drop of water in the brook." + +Paul stared hard. He did not understand this either, but he understood +the expression in that tired, old face. Mr. Welles went on, "That wrong +feeling about colored people, not wanting them to be respected as much +as any American, is . . . that's a tree that's got to come down. I'm too +old to take an axe to it. And, anyhow, if you cut that sort of thing +down with an axe, the roots generally live and start all over again. If +we can just wash the ground out from under it, with enough people +thinking differently, maybe it'll fall, roots and all, of its own +weight. If I go and live there and just am one more person who respects +them when they deserve it, it'll help _that_ much, maybe, don't you +think?" + +Paul had understood more what Mr. Welles' face and voice said to him +than the words. He kept on looking into the old man's eyes. Something +deep inside Paul said "yes" to what Mr. Welles' eyes were asking him. + +"How about it, Paul?" asked the old man. + +The child gave a start, climbed up beside him, and took hold of his +hand. "How about it? How about it?" asked Mr. Welles in a very low tone. + +The little boy nodded. "Maybe," he said briefly. His lips shook. +Presently he sniffed and drew his sleeve across his nose. He held the +old hand tightly. + +"Oh dear!" he said again, in a small, miserable voice. + +The old man made no answer. + +The two sat motionless, leaning against each other. A ray of sun found +the newly opened spot in the roof of the woods, and it seemed to Paul it +pointed a long steady finger down on the fallen beech. + +At first Paul's throat ached, and his eyes smarted. He felt heavy and +sore, as though he hadn't eaten the right thing for lunch. + +But by and by this went away. A quiet came all over him, so that he was +better than happy. He laid his head against Mr. Welles' shoulder and +looked up into the worn, pale old face, which was now also very quiet +and still as though he too were better than happy. + +He held Paul close to him. + +Paul had a great many mixed-up thoughts. But there was one that was +clear. He said to himself solemnly, "I guess I know who I want to be +like when I grow up." + + * * * * * + +By and by, he stirred and said, "Well, I guess I better start to pack +up. Don't you bother. I'll pack the things away. Mother showed me how to +clean the frying-pan with sand and moss." + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +BESIDE THE ONION-BED + + +July 10. + +Marise pulled nervously and rapidly at the weeds among the onions, and +wiped away with her sleeve the drops that ran down her hot, red face. +She was not rebellious at the dusty, tiresome task, nor aware of the +merciless heat of the early-summer sun. She was not indeed thinking at +all of what she was doing, except that the physical effort of stooping +and reaching and pulling was a relief to her, made slightly less +oppressive the thunder-heavy moral atmosphere she breathed. She was +trying to think, but the different impressions came rushing into her +mind with such vehement haste that they dashed against each other +brutally, to her entire confusion. + +When she tried to think out an answer to this perfectly preposterous +idea of old Mr. Welles, why should a thousand other horrifying ideas +which she had been keeping at bay pour in through the door, once opened +to probing thought? What possible connection could there be between such +a fantastic crazy notion as his, and those other heaving, looming +possibilities which rolled themselves higher and murkier the longer she +refused to look at them? She snatched at the weeds, twitching them up, +flinging them down, reaching, straining, the sun molten on her back, the +sweat stinging on her face. It was a silly impression of course, but it +seemed to her that if she hurried fast enough with the weeds, those +thoughts and doubts could not catch up with her. + +She had put them off, and put them off while Neale was away, because +they scared her, and she didn't want to look at them without Neale. But +he had been back for weeks now and still she put them off. All those +tarnishing sayings, those careless, casual negations of what she had +taken for axioms; that challenge to her whole life dropped from time to +time as though it were an accepted commonplace with all intelligent +beings. . . . + +Was her love for the children only an inverted form of sensual egotism, +an enervating slavery for them, really only a snatched-up substitute for +the personal life which was ebbing away from her? Was her attitude +towards her beloved music a lazy, self-indulgent one, to keep it to +herself and the valley here? Was that growing indifference of hers to +dress and trips to the city, and seeing Eugenia's smart crowd there, a +sign of mental dry-rot? Was it a betrayal of what was alive in her own +personality to go on adapting herself to the inevitable changes in her +relations with Neale, compromising, rather than . . ." + +"Aren't you awfully hot to go on doing that?" asked Neale, coming up +behind her, from the road. She was startled because she had not heard +him approach on the soft, cultivated ground of the garden. And as she +turned her wet, crimson face up to his, he was startled himself. "Why, +what's the matter, dear?" he asked anxiously. + +She sank back to a sitting position, drawing a long breath, mopping her +forehead with her sleeve, as unconscious of her looks before Neale as +though she had still been alone. She motioned him down beside her. "Oh, +Neale, I'm so glad! How'd you happen to be so early? Maybe if we stay +right out here, where the children won't know where we are, we can have +a few minutes quite to ourselves. Toucle is going to get tea tonight. +Neale, sit down a minute. I want to tell you something. I'm awfully +upset. I went over to help Mr. Welles transplant his Brussels sprouts, +and we got to talking. Neale, what do you suppose has been in his mind +all this time we've been thinking him so happy and contented here?" + +"Doesn't he like Crittenden's? Find it dull?" + +"No, no, not that, a bit. He _loves_ it. It's heart-breaking to see how +much he loves it!" She stopped, her voice shaking a little, and waited +till she could get it under control. Her husband took her stained, dusty +hand in his. She gave his fingers a little pressure, absently, not +noting what she did, and seeing the corner of his handkerchief showing +in the pocket of his shirt, she pulled it out with a nervous jerk, and +wiped her face all over with it. + +He waited in silence. + +"Listen, Neale, I know it will sound perfectly crazy to you, at first. +But you might as well believe it, for he is serious. It seems he's been +getting lots more letters from that niece or cousin of his, down in +Georgia. She tells him about things, how the Negroes are treated, all +the Jim Crow business carried into every single detail of every single +minute of every single day. It seems they're not badly treated as long +as they'll stay day-laborers or servants, but . . . oh well, there's no +need to go on with telling you . . . _you_ know. We all know well enough +what the American attitude is. Only I didn't think it could be so bad, +or so everlastingly kept up every minute, as this cousin tells him. I +suppose she ought to know. She's lived there for forty years. She keeps +citing instances she's seen." Marise broke out with a fierce, blaming +sharpness, "I don't see what _business_ she had, writing him that way. I +think it was beastly of her. Why couldn't she let him alone!" + +She felt her husband waiting patiently for her to quiet down and go on +more coherently, and knew that his patience came from a long +acquaintance with her mental habits, a certainty that her outbursts of +feeling generally did quiet down if one waited: and across her genuine +absorption in the story she was telling there flitted, bat-like, a +distaste far being known so well as all that! There was something +indiscreet and belittling in it, she thought, with an inward fastidious +recoil. But this had gone, entirely, in a moment, and she was rushing +on, "And, Neale, what _do_ you think? She has worked on him, and he has +worked on himself till he's got himself in a morbid state. He thinks +perhaps he ought to leave Ashley that he loves so much and go down to +live where this horrid cousin lives. . . ." + +Her husband's astonishment at this was as great as she could have +desired. None of Neale's usual, unsurprised acceptance of everything +that happened as being in the nature of things, which occasionally so +rubbed her the wrong way, and seemed to her so wilfully phlegmatic. He +was sincerely amazed and astounded; that was plain from his exclamation, +his tone, his face. Of course he wasn't as outraged as she, but that +wasn't to be expected, since he hadn't seen so much of that dear old +life-worn man, nor grown so protectingly fond of him. She revelled in +Neale's astonishment as bearing out her own feeling. "Isn't it crazy, +Neale! Don't you think it crazy! Is there the slightest justification +for it? You feel, just as I do, don't you, that it's a perfectly +unbalanced, fanatical, _fool_ish thing to think of doing, his going down +into that hopeless mess?" + +But her husband had had a moment's time, while she exclaimed, to get +back to his usual unhurried post in life. "It's certainly about as +unexpected as anything I ever heard of," he admitted. "I should have to +know a lot more about it, before I could be sure what to think." + +An old impatience, at an old variance between their ways of thought, +came out with an edge in Marise's tone as she said hotly, "Oh, _Neale_, +don't take that line of yours! You know all there is to know, now! What +else could you find out? You know how he's given all his life to looking +out for his family, ending up with years of that bed-ridden old aunt the +others wished on to him, just because he was too soft-hearted to get out +from under. You know how anxious the Company was to do something to make +up to him for all the years of service he gave them. And you know how +happy he has been here, how he's loved it all, and fathered every root +and seed in his garden, and how he and Paul have struck up such a sweet +affection, and how he could be happier and happier." She struck her +hands together. "Oh, Neale, I can't have him do such a foolish, useless +thing, and spoil his life! It's not as if he'd be of any use down in +Georgia. You know how the Southern white people detest Northerners +coming down and interfering with the Negroes. Maybe they're wrong. But +they're the people who live there. What could _he_ do against them? What +under the sun could one tired-out old man accomplish in a situation that +every American knows to be simply impossible?" She looked hard at her +husband's thoughtful face and threw herself against him with a petulant +gesture. "Now, Neale, don't go and justify him! Don't say you think he's +right." + +He put his arm about her shoulders, hot and wet under their gingham +covering, and she leaned against him, the gesture as unconsidered and +unconscious for the one as the other. "No, I'm not going to try to +justify him. I suppose I think he's very foolish. But I must say it +shows a pretty fine spirit. I take off my hat to his intention." + +"Oh yes, his intention . . ." conceded Marise. "He's an old saint, of +course. Only he mustn't be allowed to ruin his life and break +everybody's heart, even if he is a saint." + +"That's the way saints usually run their business, isn't it?" asked +Neale. "And I'd like to know how anybody's going to keep him from doing +it, if he decides he ought to." + +"Oh yes, we can," urged Marise, sitting up with energy. "We can, every +one of us, throw ourselves against it, argue with him, tell him that it +seems to us not only foolish, and exaggerated, and morbid, but conceited +as if he thought what _he_ did would count so very much. We can make him +feel that it would be sort of cheating the Company, after what they've +done for him; we can just mass all our personalities against it, use +moral suasion, get excited, work on his feelings . . . she has done that, +that cousin!" + +"I wouldn't want to do that," said Neale quietly. "You can, if you think +best." + +She recognized a familiar emergence of granite in his voice and aspect +and cried out on it passionately, "Now, _Neale_!" + +He knew perfectly well what this meant, without further words from her. +They looked at each other, an unspoken battle going on with extreme +rapidity between them, over ground intimately familiar. In the middle of +this, she broke violently into words, quite sure that he would know at +which point she took it up. "You carry that idea to perfectly impossible +lengths, Neale. Don't you ever admit that we ought to try to make other +people act the way we think best, even when we _know_ we're right and +they're wrong?" + +"Yes," admitted her husband, "I should think we were bound to. If we +ever _were_ sure we were right and they wrong." + +She gave the impression of vibrating with impatience and cried out, +"That's pettifogging. Of course there are times when we are sure. +Suppose you saw a little child about to take hold of the red-hot end of +a poker?" + +"A child is different," he opposed her. "All grown-ups are responsible +for all children. I suppose I'd keep him from taking hold of it. And yet +I'm not dead sure I'd be right. If I thought he was only just going to +touch it, to see if it really would burn him as people had told him, I +guess I'd let him." + +"You always get around things," she said blamingly, "but there _are_ +cases when you could be sure. Suppose you saw Aunt Hetty just about to +take poison, or Frank Warner getting Nelly Powers to run away with him?" + +He was startled by this, and asked quickly with a change of tone, +"Whatever made you think of that? Are Frank and Nelly . . . ?" + +"Oh, it just came into my head. No, I haven't heard anybody has said +anything, noticed anything. But I had a sort of notion that 'Gene +doesn't like Frank hanging around the house so much." + +"Well . . ." commented her husband, with a lively accent of surprise. "I +hadn't dreamed of such a thing. And it throws a light on something I +happened to see this afternoon, on my way home. I came round the back +way, the ravine road below the Eagle Rocks. I wanted to see about some +popple we're thinking of buying from the Warners, on the shoulder beyond +the Rocks. It didn't occur to me, of course, that anybody else would be +up there, but just at the peak of the shoulder I saw 'Gene Powers, lying +down beside a big beech-tree. He didn't hear me, walking on the +pine-needles. And for a minute I stood there, and honestly didn't know +what to do." + +"How do you mean . . . 'lying down'?" asked Marise, not visualizing the +scene. "As though he were sick?" + +"No, not a bit that way. Not on his back, but on his face, looking over +the edge of the ridge. All strung up like a bow, his head down between +his shoulders and shot forwards like a cat stalking something. _I_ tell +you, he made me think of a hunter when he thinks he sees a deer. I +thought probably he had. I've seen a buck and some does up there lately. +Then he saw me and jumped up very quickly and came down past me. I was +going to say, just for the sake of saying something, 'Laying your plans +for next deer-week?' But as he went by and nodded, he looked at me with +such an odd expression that I thought I'd better not. The idea came to +me that maybe 'Gene does poach and occasionally take a deer out of +season. Meat is so high it wouldn't be surprising. They have a pretty +hard time scraping along. I don't know as I'd blame him if he did shoot +a deer once in a while. + +"Well, after I'd been on beyond and made my estimate on the popple, I +came back that way. And as I passed where he'd been lying, I thought, +just for curiosity, I'd go up and see if I could see what he'd been +looking at so hard. I got up to the big beech where he'd been, and +looked over. And I got the surprise of my life. He couldn't have been +looking at deer, for on the other side the cliff drops down sheer, and +you look right off into air, across the valley. I was so surprised I +stood there, taken aback. The afternoon train went up the valley while I +stood there, staring. It looked so tiny. You're really very high on +those Rocks. I noticed you could see your Cousin Hetty's house from +there, and the mill and the Powers house. That looked like a child's +plaything, so little, under the big pine. And just as I looked at that, +I saw a man come out from the house, get on a horse, and ride away." + +"Why, that must have been Frank," said Marise. "He rides that roan mare +of his as much as he drives her." + +"Yes, that's what came into my mind when you spoke his name just now in +connection with Nelly. I hadn't thought anything of it, before." + +There was a moment's silence as they looked at each other. + +"Oh, _Neale_!" said Marise, on a deep note. "How awful! You don't +suppose there is anything in his jealousy. . . . Nelly is as inscrutable in +her way as 'Gene." + +"Heavens! how should I know? But my guess is that 'Gene is making a fool +of himself for nothing. Nelly doesn't strike me as being the sort of +woman to . . ." + +"But Frank is awfully good-looking and dashing, and lots younger than +'Gene. And Nelly is young too and perfectly stunning to look at. And +she's not one of our native valley girls, you know. It may seem very +dull and cooped-up here, so far from town, and shops. She may envy her +sisters, still living back in West Adams with city life around them." + +"Oh, it's possible enough, I suppose," admitted Neale. "But she seems +perfectly contented, and thinks the world of the children." + +Marise's face clouded. The phrase had recalled her dark preoccupations +of a moment ago. "Lots of people nowadays would say she seems to be fond +of the children because she is using them to fill up a lack in her +life," she said somberly; "that 'Gene no longer satisfied her, and that +she fed on the children because she was starving emotionally." Her +husband making no comment on this, she went on, "Neale, don't you think +that people are saying horrid, distressing things nowadays? About +marriage I mean, and all relations between men and women and between +parents and children?" Her heart was beating faster as she finished this +question. The subject was broached at last. Where would it lead them? +Where would it lead them? She shut her eyes at the thought. + +"There's a good deal to be said about all that, that's pretty horrid and +perfectly true," remarked Neale casually. He tilted his hat further over +his eyes and leaned back, propping himself on one elbow. + +"_Neale_!" she protested, shocked and repelled. She had hoped for +something very different from Neale. But she thought, in a momentary +exasperation with him, she might have known she would not get it. He +always took everything so abstractedly, so impersonally. + +"I don't see any use in pretending there's not," he advanced with a +reasonable, considering air. "I don't see that intimate human +relationships are in any _more_ of a mess than other human relations. +International ones, for instance, just now. But they certainly are in +considerable of a mess, in a great many cases. It is evident that lots +of times they're managed all wrong." + +Marise was so acutely disappointed that she felt a quavering ache in her +throat, and kept silence for a moment. So this was what she had looked +forward to, as a help. What was Neale there _for_, if not for her to +lean against, to protect her, to be a defending wall about her? He was +so strong and so clearheaded, he could be such a wall if he chose. How +stern and hard he was, the core of him! + +"Neale," she said after a moment, "I wonder if you even _know_ what +things are being said about what we've always believed in . . . motherhood +for instance, and marriage?" + +She had been unable to keep the quaver out of her voice, and at the +sound of it, he sat up instantly, astonished, solicitous, tender. "Why, +darling, what's the matter?" he said again, moving closer to her, +bending over her. + +"How _can_ you think such things without their making you perfectly +miserable, without making you want to go straight and cut your throat?" +she cried out on his callousness. + +He put his arm about her again, not absently this time, and drew her +close. She thought angrily, "He thinks it's just a fit of nerves I can +be soothed out of like a child," and pulled away from him. + +He looked at her, his attentive, intelligent look, and let his arm drop. +And yet, although he was serious now, she was sure that he saw only that +the subject agitated her, and did not see any possibility that it might +touch them both, personally. + +"I have to think whatever I'm convinced is true, whether it makes me +miserable or not, don't I?" he said gently. "And it does make me +miserable, of course. Who can help being miserable at the spectacle of +such rich possibilities as human life is full of, mismanaged and spoiled +and lost?" + +"But, Neale, do you realize that people are thinking, books are being +written to prove that parents' love for their children is only +self-love, hypocritically disguised, and sometimes even sexual love +camouflaged; and that anybody is better for the children to be with than +their mother; and that married people, after the first flare-up of +passion is over, hate each other instead of loving?" + +"I daresay there's a certain amount of truth in that, occasionally. It +would certainly explain some of the inexplicable things we all see +happen in family life," he remarked. + +Marise started and cried out piercingly, "Neale, how can you say such +things to _me_!" + +He looked at her keenly again, keenly and penetratingly, and said, "I'm +not one of those who think it inherent in the nature of women to take +abstract propositions personally always. But I do think they will have +to make a big effort to get themselves out of a mighty old acquired +habit of thinking every general observation is directed at them +personally." + +She flashed out indignantly at him, "How can you help taking it +personally when it shakes the very foundations of our life?" + +He was astonished enough at this to suit even her. His face showed the +most genuine amazed incapacity to understand her. "Shakes the . . . why, +Marise dear, what are you talking about? You don't have to believe about +_yourself_ all the generalizing guesses that people are writing down in +books, do you, if it contradicts your own experience? Just because you +read that lots of American men had flat-foot and were refused at the +recruiting station for that, you don't have to think your own feet flat, +do you? If you do think so, all you have to do is to start out and walk +on them, to know for sure they're all right. Heavens and earth! People +of our age, who have really lived, don't need somebody in a book to tell +them what's happening to them. Don't you _know_ whether you really love +Elly and Mark and Paul? If you don't, I should think a few minutes' +thought and recollection of the last ten years would tell you, all +right. Don't you _know_ whether we hate each other, you and I?" + +Marise drew a long breath of relief. This was the sort of talk she +wanted. She clutched at the strong hand which seemed at last held out to +her. She did so want to be talked out of it all. "Oh good! then, Neale, +you don't believe any of that sort of talk? You were only saying so for +argument." + +He withdrew the hand. "Yes, I do believe a good deal of as a general +proposition. What I'm saying, what I'm always saying, dear, and trying +my best to live, is that everybody must decide for himself when a +general proposition applies to him, what to believe about his own life +and its values. Nobody else can tell him." + +She approached along another line. "But, Neale, that's all very well for +you, because you have so much withstandingness in you. But for me, there +are things so sacred, so intimate, so much a part of me, that only to +have some rough hand laid on them, to have them pulled out and pawed +over and thought about . . . it frightens me so, sets me in such a quiver! +And they don't seem the same again. _Aren't_ there things in life so +high and delicate that they can't stand questioning?" + +He considered this a long time, visibly putting all his intelligence on +it. "I can't say, for you," he finally brought out. "You're so much +finer and more sensitive than I. But I've never in all these years seen +that your fineness and your sensitiveness make you any less strong in +the last analysis. You suffer more, respond more to all the implications +of things; but I don't see that there is any reason to think there's any +inherent weakness in you that need make you afraid to look at facts." + +He presented this testimony to her, seriously, gravely. It took her +breath, coming from him. She could only look at him in speechless +gratitude and swallow hard. Finally she said, falteringly, "You're too +good, Neale, to say that. I don't deserve it. I'm awfully weak, many +times." + +"I wouldn't say it, if it weren't so," he answered, "and I didn't say +you weren't weak sometimes. I said you were strong when all was said and +done." + +Even in her emotion, she had an instant's inward smile at the Neale-like +quality of this. She went on, "But don't you think there is such a thing +as spoiling beautiful elements in life, with handling them, questioning +them, for natures that aren't naturally belligerent and ready to fight +for what they want to keep? For instance, when somebody says that +children in a marriage are like drift-wood left high on the rocks of a +dwindled stream, tokens of a flood-time of passion now gone by. . . ." She +did not tell him who had said this. Nor did he ask. But she thought by +his expression that he knew it had been Vincent Marsh. + +He said heartily, "I should just call that a nasty-minded remark from +somebody who didn't know what he was talking about. And let it go at +that." + +"There, you see," she told him, "that rouses your instinct to resist, to +fight back. But it doesn't mine. It just makes me sick." + +"Marise, I'm afraid that you _have_ to fight for what you want to keep +in this world. I don't see any way out of it. And I don't believe that +anybody else can do your fighting for you. You ask if it's not possible +to have beautiful, intimate things spoiled by questioning, criticisms, +doubts. Yes, I do think it is, for young people, who haven't learned +anything of life at first hand. I think they ought to be protected till +they have been able to accumulate some actual experience of life. That's +the only weapon for self-defense anybody can have, what he has learned +of life, himself. Young people are apt to believe what older people tell +them about life, because they don't know anything about it, yet, +themselves, and I think you ought to be careful what is questioned in +their presence. But I don't see that mature people ought to be protected +unless you want to keep them childish, as women used to be kept. Nothing +is your own, if you haven't made it so, and kept it so." + +"But, Neale, it's so sickeningly _hard_! Why do it? Why, when everything +seems all right, pry into the deep and hidden roots of things? I don't +_want_ to think about the possibility of some dreadful dry-rot happening +to married people's feelings towards each other, as they get older and +get used to each other. It's soiling to my imagination. What's the use?" + +She had so hoped he would help her to sweep them all back to the cellar +labeled "morbid" and lock them down in the dark again. Any other man +would, she thought, amazed at him, _any_ other husband! She focussed all +her personality passionately to force him to answer as she wished. + +He fell into another thoughtful silence, glanced up at her once sharply +and looked down again. She always felt afraid of him when he looked like +that. No, not afraid of him, but of the relentless thing he was going to +say. Presently he said it. "What's the use? Why, the very fact you seem +afraid of it . . . I can't imagine why . . . shows there would be some use. +To turn your back on anything you're afraid of, that's fatal, always. It +springs on you from behind." + +She cried out to him in a sudden anguish that was beyond her control, +"But _suppose you face it and still it springs_!" + +Her aspect, her accent, her shaken voice gave him a great start. He +faced her. He looked at her as though he saw her for the first time that +day. And he grew very pale as he looked. Something wordless passed +between them. Now he knew at last what she was afraid of. + +But he did not flinch. He said desperately, in a harsh voice, "You have +to take what comes to you in life," and was grimly silent. + +Then with a gesture as though to put away something incredible, +approaching him, he went on more quietly, "But my experience is that it +doesn't dare spring if you walk right up to it. Generally you find +you're less afraid of everything in the world, after that." + + * * * * * + +She had been frightened, stabbed through and through by the look they +had interchanged, by the wordless something which had passed between +them. But now she wondered suddenly, passionately, amazedly, if he had +really understood all the dagger-like possibilities of their talk. + +"Neale," she challenged him, "don't you put _any_ limits on this? Isn't +there _any_where you'd stop out of sheer respect? Nothing too hallowed +by . . ." + +"Nothing. Nothing," he answered her, his face pale, his eyes deep and +enduring. "It's lying down, not to answer the challenge when it comes. +How do you know what you have to deal with if you won't look to see? +You may find out that something you have been trusting is growing out of +a poisonous root. That does happen. What's the use of pretending that it +couldn't to you, as to anybody else? And what's the use of having lived +honestly, if you haven't grown brave enough to do whatever needs to be +done? If you are scared by the idea that your motherhood may be only +inverted sensuality, or if you think there is any possibility that the +children would be better off in other hands, or if you think . . . if you +think there is any other terrifying possibility in our life here, for +God's sake look into your own heart and see for yourself! It all sounds +like nonsense to me, but . . ." + +She snatched at the straw, she who longed so for help. "Oh, Neale, if +_you_ think so, I know . . ." + +"I won't _have_ you taking my word for it!" he told her roughly. "_I_ +can't tell what's back of what you do. And you oughtn't to take my word +for it if I tried to. Nobody on earth can make your decision for you, +but you yourself." The drops stood out on his forehead as he spoke, and +ran down his pale face. + +She quivered and was silent for a moment. Then, "Neale, where shall I +get the strength to do that?" she asked. + +He looked full in her face. "I don't know anywhere to go for strength +but out of one's naked human heart," he said. + +She shrank from the rigor of this with a qualm of actual fear. "I think +I must have something else," she told him wildly. + +"I don't know," he returned. "I don't know at all about that. I'm no +mystic. I can't help you there, dear. But I know, as well as I know +anything on earth, that anything that's worth having in anybody's life, +his parent-hood, his marriage, his love, his ambition, can stand any +honest challenge it can be put to. If it can't, it's not valid and ought +to be changed or discarded." His gaze on her was immeasurably steady. + +She longed unspeakably for something else from him, some warming, +comforting assurance of help, some heartening, stimulating encouragement +along that stark, bleak way. + + * * * * * + +Somehow they were standing up now, both pale, looking profoundly into +each other's eyes. Something almost palpable, of which not a word had +been spoken aloud, came and stood there between them, and through it +they still looked at each other. They had left words far behind now, in +the fierce velocity of their thoughts. + +And yet with the almost physical unity of their years of life together, +each knew the other's thoughts. + +She flung herself against him as though she had cried out to him. He put +his arms strongly, tenderly about her, as though he had answered. + +With no words she had cried out, silently, desperately to him, "Hold me! +Hold me!" + +And with no words, he had answered, silently, desperately, "No one can +hold you but yourself." + + * * * * * + +A shouting babble of voices rose in the distance. The children crying to +each other came out of the house-door and raced down the flag-stone +walk. "There they are! In the garden! By the onion-bed! Father! Mother! +We've been looking for you everywhere. Toucle says if you'll let her, +she'll boil down some maple syrup for us to wax on ice for dessert." + +They poured into the garden, children, cat and fox-terrier, noisy, +insistent, clamorous. Mark, always frankly greedy of his mother's +attention, pushed in jealously between his parents, clinging to his +mother's knees. He looked up in her face and laughed out, his merry +peal, "Oh, Mother, what a dirty face! You've been suspiring and then +you've wiped your forehead with your dirty hand, the way you say I +mustn't. How funny you look! And you've got a great, long tear in your +sleeve, too." + +Behind them, tiny, smooth and glistening, Eugenia Mills strolled to the +edge of the garden, as far as the flag-stones went, and stood waiting, +palpably incapable of taking her delicate bronze slippers into the dust. + +"You've missed a kitchen call from that lively, earthy old Mrs. Powers +and her handsome daughter-in-law," she announced casually. "Toucle says +they brought some eggs. What a stunning creature that Nelly is! There's +temperament for you! Can't you just feel the smouldering, primitive fire +hidden under that scornful silence of hers?" + +"Mother, may we tell Toucle to put the syrup on to boil?" begged Elly. +Her hair was tangled and tousled, with bits of bark sticking in it, and +dried mud was caked on her hands and bare legs. Marise thought of the +repugnance she must have aroused in Eugenia. + +"Mother," said Paul, "Mr. Welles is going to give me a fishing-rod, he +says. A _real_ one. Boughten." + +"Oh, I want one too!" cried Mark, jumping up and down. "I want one too." + +"You're too little. Mother, _isn't_ Mark too little? And anyhow, he +always breaks everything. You do, Mark, you know you do. I take _care_ +of my things!" + + * * * * * + +Someone in the confusion stepped on the fox-terrier's toes and he set up +a shrill, aggrieved yelping. The children pawed at her with dirty hands. + +"Good-evening, Mr. Marsh," said Eugenia, looking over her shoulder at +the dark-haired figure in flannels approaching from the other house. She +turned and strolled across the grass to meet him, as white and gleaming +as he. + + * * * * * + +A sick qualm of self-contempt shook Marise. For, high and clear above +everything else, there had come into her mind a quick discomfort at the +contrast between her appearance and that of Eugenia. + + + + +CHAPTER XV + +HOME LIFE + + +July 20. + +The heat was appalling even early in the morning, right after breakfast. +There were always three or four such terrific days, even up here in the +mountains, to remind you that you lived in America and had to take your +part of the ferocious extremes of the American climate. + +And of course this had to be the time when Toucle went off for one of +her wandering disappearances. Marise could tell that by the aspect of +the old woman as she entered the kitchen that morning, her reticule bag +bulging out with whatever mysterious provisions Toucle took with her. +You never missed anything from the kitchen. + +Marise felt herself in such a nervously heightened state of +sensitiveness to everything and everybody in those days, that it did not +surprise her to find that for the first time she received something more +than a quaint and amusing impression from the old aborigine. She had +never noticed it before, but sometimes there was something about +Toucle's strange, battered, leathery old face . . . what was it? The idea +came to her a new one, that Toucle was also a person, not merely a +curious and enigmatic phenomenon. + +Toucle was preparing to depart in the silent, unceremonious, +absent-minded way she did everything, as though she were the only person +in the world. She opened the screen door, stepped out into the torrid +glare of the sunshine and, a stooped, shabby, feeble old figure, trudged +down the path. + +"Where does she go?" thought Marise, and "What was that expression on +her face I could not name?" + +Impulsively she went out quickly herself, and followed after the old +woman. + +"Toucle! Toucle!" she called, and wondered if her voice in these days +sounded to everyone as nervous and uncertain as it did to her. + +The old woman turned and waited till the younger had overtaken her. They +were under the dense shade of an old maple, beside the road, as they +stood looking at each other. + +As she had followed, Marise regretted her impulse, and had wondered what +in the world she could find to say, but now that she saw again the +expression in the other's face, she cried out longingly, "Toucle, where +do you go that makes you look peaceful?" + +The old woman glanced at her, a faint surprise appearing in her deeply +lined face. Then she looked at her, without surprise, seriously as +though to see what she might read in the younger woman's eyes. She stood +for a long moment, thinking. Finally she sat down on the grass under the +maple-tree, and motioned Marise to sit beside her. She meditated for a +long time, and then said, hesitatingly, "I don't know as a white person +could understand. White people . . . nobody ever asked me before." + +She sat silent, her broad, dusty feet in their elastic-sided, worn, +run-over shoes straight before her, the thick, horny eyelids dropped +over her eyes, her scarred old face carved into innumerable deep lines. +Marise wondered if she had forgotten that anyone else was there. She +turned her own eyes away, finally, and looking at the mountains saw that +black thunderclouds were rolling up over the Eagle Rocks. Then the old +woman said, her eyes still dropped, "I tell you how my uncle told me, +seventy-five years ago. He said people are like fish in an underground +brook, in a black cave. He said there is a place, away far off from +where they live, where there is a crack in the rock. If they went 'way +off they could get a glimpse of what daylight is. And about once in so +often they need to swim there and look out at the daylight. If they +don't, they lose their eyesight from always being in the dark. He said +that a lot of Indians don't care whether they lose their eyesight or +not, so long's they can go on eating and swimming around. But good +Indians do. He said that as far as he could make out, none of the white +people care. He said maybe they've lost their eyes altogether." + +Without a move of her sagging, unlovely old body, she turned her deep +black eyes on the flushed, quivering, beautiful woman beside her. +"That's where I go," she answered. "I go 'way off to be by myself, and +get a glimpse of what daylight is." + +She got up to her feet, shifted her reticule from one hand to the other, +and without a backward look trudged slowly down the dusty road, a +stooped, shabby, feeble old figure. + +Marise saw her turn into a wood-road that led up towards the mountain, +and disappear. Her own heart was burning as she looked. Nobody would +help her in her need. Toucle went away to find peace, and left her in +the black cave. Neale stood. . . . + +A child's shriek of pain and loud wailing calls for "Mother! Mother! +_Mother!_" sent her back running breathlessly to the house. Mark had +fallen out of the swing and the sharp corner of the board had struck +him, he said, "in the eye! in the eye!" He was shrieking and holding +both hands frantically over his left eye. This time it might be serious, +might have injured the eye-ball. Those swing-boards were deadly. Marise +snatched up the screaming child and carried him into the kitchen, +terrible perspectives of blindness hag-riding her imagination; saying to +herself with one breath, "It's probably nothing," and in the next seeing +Mark groping his way about the world with a cane, all his life long. + +She opened the first-aid box on the kitchen-shelf, pulled out a roll of +bandage and a length of gauze, sat down with Mark in her lap near the +faucet, and wet the gauze in cold water. Then she tried in vain to +induce him to take down his hands so that she could see where the blow +had struck. + +But the terrified, hysterical child was incapable of hearing what she +said, incapable of doing anything but scream louder and louder when she +tried to pull down those desperately tight little hands held with +frantic tenseness over the hurt eye. Marise could feel all his little +body, quivering and taut. His shrieks were like those of someone +undergoing the most violent torture. + +She herself responded nervously and automatically to his condition, felt +herself begin to tighten up, and knew that she was equally ready to +shake him furiously, or to burst into anguished tears of sympathy for +his pain. + +Wait now . . . wait . . . what was the thing to do for Mark? What would +untie those knots of fright and shock? For Paul it would have been talk +of the bicycle he was to have for his birthday; for Elly a fairy-story +or a piece of candy! For Mark . . . + +High above the tumult of Mark's shrieks and her own spasmodic reactions +to them, she sent her intelligence circling quietly . . . and in an +instant . . . oh yes, that was the thing. "Listen, Mark," she said in his +ear, stopping her effort to take down his hands, "Mother's learned a new +song, a _new_ one, awfully funny. And ever so long too, the way you like +them." She put her arms about him and began, hearing herself with +difficulty through his cries. + + "On yonder hill there stands a damsel, + Who she is, I do not know." + +("How preposterous we must sound, if Eugenia is listening," she thought +to herself, as she sang, "out-yelling each other this way!") + + "I'll go and court her for her beauty. + She must answer 'yes' or 'no.'" + +As usual Mark fell helpless before the combination of music and a story. +His cries diminished in volume. She said in his ear, "And then the Lady +sings," and she tuned her voice to a young-ladyish, high sweetness and +sang, + + "My father was a Spanish Captain, + Went to sea a month ago," + +Mark made a great effort and choked down his cries to heaving sobs as he +tried to listen, + + "First he kissed me, then he left me; + Bade me always answer 'no.'" + +She told the little boy, now looking up at her out of the one eye not +covered by his hands, "Then the gentleman says to her," she made her +voice loud and hearty and bluff, + + "Oh, Madam, in your face is beauty, + On your lips red roses grow. + Will you take me for your lover? + Madam, answer 'yes' or 'no.'" + +She explained in an aside to Mark, "But her father had told her she must +always answer just the one thing, 'no,' so she had to say," she turned +up in the mincing, ladylike key again, and sang, + + "Oh no, John, no, John, no." + +Mark drew a long quivering breath through parted lips and sat silent, +his one eye fixed on his mother, who now sang in the loud, lusty voice, + + "Oh, Madam, since you are so cruel, + And that you do scorn me so, + If I may not be your lover, + Madam, will you let me go?" + +And in the high, prim voice, she answered herself, + + "Oh no, John, no, John, _no!_" + +A faint smile hovered near Mark's flushed face. He leaned towards his +mother as she sang, and took down his hands so that he could see her +better. Marise noted instantly, with a silent exclamation of relief that +the red angry mark was quite outside the eye-socket, harmless on the +bone at one side. Much ado about nothing as usual with the children. Why +_did_ she get so frightened each time? Another one of Mark's hairbreadth +escapes. + +She reached for the cold wet compress and went on, singing loudly and +boldly, with a facetious wag of her head, (how tired she was of all this +manoeuvering!), + + "Then I will stay with you forever + If you will not be unkind." + +She applied the cold compress on the hurt spot and put out her hand for +the bandage-roll, singing with an ostentatiously humorous accent and +thinking with exasperation how all this was delaying her in the thousand +things to do in the house, + + "Madam, I have vowed to love you; + Would you have me change my mind?" + +She wound the bandage around and around the little boy's head, so that +it held the compress in place, singing in the high, sweet voice, + + "Oh no, John, no, John, NO." + +She went on with a heavy, mock solemnity, in the loud voice, + + "Oh, hark, I hear the church-bells ringing; + Will you come and be my wife?" + +She pinned the bandage in place at the back of Mark's head, + + "Or, dear Madam, have you settled + To live single all your life?" + +She gathered the child up to her, his head on her shoulder, his face +turned to her, his bare, dusty, wiry little legs wriggling and soiling +her white skirt; and sang, rollickingly, + + "Oh no, John, no, John, NO!" + +"There, that's all," she said in her natural voice, looking down at +Mark. She said to herself rebelliously, "I've expended enough +personality and energy on this performance to play a Beethoven sonata at +a concert," and found she was quoting something Vincent Marsh had said +about her life, the day before. + +There was a moment while the joke slowly penetrated to Mark's +six-year-old brain. And then he laughed out, delightedly, "Oh, Mother, +that's a beaut! Sing it again. Sing it again! Now I know what's coming, +I'll like it such a lots betterer." + +Marise cried out in indignant protest, "Mark! When I've sat here for ten +minutes singing to you, and all the work to do, and the sun getting like +red-hot fire every minute." + +"What must you got to do?" asked Mark, challengingly. + +"Well, the very first thing is to get dinner ready and in the fireless +cooker, so we can turn out the oil-stove and cool off this terrible +kitchen." + +Mark looked up at her and smiled. He had recently lost a front tooth and +this added a quaintness to the splendor of his irresistible smile. "You +could sing as you get the dinner ready," he said insinuatingly, "and +I'll help you." + +Marise smothered an impulse to shout to the child, "No, no, go away! Go +away! I can't have you bothering around. I've got to be by myself, or I +don't know what will happen!" She thought of Toucle, off in the green +and silent woods, in a blessed solitude. She thought of Eugenia up in +her shaded room, stretched on the chaise-longue in a thin silk +room-gown, she thought of Neale and his stern eyes . . . she looked down +on the dusty, tanned, tousle-headed little boy, with the bandage around +his head, his one eye looking up at her pleadingly, his dirty little +hand clutching at the fold of her skirt; and drearily and unwillingly +she summoned herself to self-control. "All right, Mark, that's true. I +could sing while I peel the potatoes. You could wash them for me. That +would help." + +They installed themselves for this work. The acrid smell of +potato-parings rose in the furnace-like heat of the kitchen, along with +the singing voice, asking and answering itself. Mark listened with all +his might, laughing and wriggling with appreciation. When his mother had +finished and was putting the potatoes into the boiling water, he said +exultantly, "He got around _her_, all right, I should say what!" + +Paul burst in now, saying, "Mother, Mother!" He stopped short and asked, +"What you got on your head, Mark?" + +The little boy looked surprised, put his hand up, felt the bandage, and +said with an off-hand air, "Oh, I bunked my head on the corner of the +swing-board." + +"I know," said Paul, "I've done it lots of times." He went on, "Mother, +my pig has lice. You can just _see_ them crawling around under his hair. +And I got out the oil Father said to use, but I can't do it. It says on +the can to rub it on with a stiff little brush. I don't see how ever in +the world you're going to get your pig to stand still while you do it. +When I try to, he just squeals, and runs away." + +His mother said with decision, from where she stooped before the open +ice-box door, "Paul, if there is anything in the world I know nothing +about, it is pigs. I haven't the slightest idea what to do." She shut +the heavy door with a bang more energetic than was necessary to latch +it, and came back towards the stove with a raw, red piece of uncooked +meat on a plate. + +"Oh, how nasty meat looks, raw," said Mark, with an accent of disgust. + +"You eat it with a good appetite when I've cooked it," remarked his +mother, somewhat grimly, putting it in a hot pan over the fire. An odor +of searing fibers and smoke and frying onions rose up in the hot, still +air of the kitchen. + +"If I could have guessed we'd have such weather, I'd never have ordered +a pot-roast," thought Marise, vexed. + +"Please, Mother, _please_," begged Paul. + +"Please what?" asked his mother, who had forgotten the pig. + +"Henry!" said Paul. "If you could see how he scratches and scratches and +how the behind of his ears is all scabs he's so bitten." + +"Wouldn't Eugenia and Vincent Marsh love this conversation?" thought +Marise, turning the meat in the pan and starting back from the spatters +of hot fat. + +"Mother, don't you see, I agreed to take care of him, with Father, and +so I _have_ to. He's just like my child. You wouldn't let one of _us_ +have lice all over, and scabs on our . . ." + +"Oh stop, Paul, for Heaven's sake!" said his mother. + +Through the smoke and smell and heat, the sensation of her underclothing +sticking hotly to her limbs, the constant dogging fear and excitement +that beset her, and the causeless twanging of her nerves, there traveled +to her brain, along a channel worn smooth by the habit of her thought +about the children, the question, "What is it that makes Paul care so +much about this?" And the answer, almost lost in the reverberation of +all those other questions and answers in her head, was, "It comes from +what is best in Paul, his feeling of personal responsibility for the +welfare of others. That mustn't be hindered." Aloud, almost +automatically, she said, in a neutral tone, "Paul, I don't think I can +do a single thing for you and Henry, but I'll go with you and look at +him and see if I can think of anything. Just wait till I get this and +the potatoes in the fireless cooker." + +Paul made a visible effort, almost as though he were swallowing +something too large for his throat, and said ungraciously, "I suppose I +ought to help you in here, then." + +"I suppose so," said his mother roughly, in an exact imitation of his +manner. + +Paul looked at her quickly, laughing a little, sheepishly. He waited a +moment, during which time Mark announced that he was going out to the +sand-pile, and then said, in a pleasant tone, "What can I do?" + +His mother nodded at him with a smile, refrained from the spoken word of +approbation which she knew he would hate, and took thought as to what he +might do that would afflict him least. "You can go and sweep off the +front porch, and straighten out the cushions and chairs, and water the +porch-box geraniums." + +He disappeared, whistling loudly, "Massa's in the cold, cold ground." +Marise hoped automatically that Elly was not in earshot to hear this. + +She felt herself tired to the point of exhaustion by the necessity +always to be divining somebody's inner processes, putting herself in +somebody's else skin and doing the thing that would reach him in the +right way. She would like, an instant, just an instant, to be in her own +skin, she thought, penetrated with a sense of the unstable equilibrium +of personal relations. To keep the peace in a household of young and old +highly differentiated personalities was a feat of the Blondin variety; +the least inattention, the least failure in judgment, and opportunities +were lost forever. Her sense of the impermanence of the harmony between +them all had grown upon her of late, like an obsession. It seemed to her +that her face must wear the strained, propitiatory smile she had so +despised in her youth on the faces of older woman, mothers of families. +Now she knew from what it came . . . balancing perpetually on a tight-rope +from which . . . + +Oh, her very soul felt crumpled with all this pressure from the outside, +never-ending! + +The worst was not the always recurring physical demands, the dressing +and undressing the children, preparing their food and keeping them +clean. The crushing part was the moral strain; to carry their lives +always with you, incalculably different from each other and from your +own. And not only their present lives, but the insoluble question of how +their present lives were affecting their future. Never for a moment from +the time they are born, to be free from the thought, "Where are they? +What are they doing? Is that the best thing for them?" till every +individual thought of your own was shattered, till your intelligence was +atrophied, till your sensibilities to finer things were dulled and +blunted. + +Paul came back. "About ready for Henry?" he asked. "I've finished the +porch." + +She put the two tightly closed kettles inside the fireless cooker and +shut down the lid. "Yes, ready for Henry," she said. + +She washed her hot, moist face in cold water, drank a glass, put on a +broad-brimmed garden hat, and set out for the field back of the barn. +The kitchen had been hot, but it seemed cool compared to the heat into +which they stepped from the door. It startled Marise so that she drew +back for an instant. It seemed to her like walking through molten metal. +"Mercy! what heat!" she murmured. + +"Yes, ain't it great?" said Paul, looking off, down the field, "just +what the corn needs." + +"You should say 'isn't,' not 'ain't,'" corrected his mother. + +"But it'll be cooler soon," said Paul. "There's a big thunderstorm +coming up. See, around the corner of the mountain. See how black it is +now, over the Eagle Rocks" He took her hand in his bramble-scarred +little fingers, and led her along, talking proudly of his own virtue. +"I've moved Henry's pen today, fresh, so's to get him on new grass, and +I put it under the shade of this butternut tree." + +They were beside the pen now, looking over the fence at the grotesque +animal, twitching his gross and horribly flexible snout, as he peered up +at them out of his small, intelligent eyes, sunk in fat, and almost +hidden by the fleshy, hairy triangles of his ear-flaps. + +"Don't you think Henry is a _very_ handsome pig?" asked Paul. + +"I think you take very good care of him," she answered. "Now what is the +matter about the oil you can't put on? Doesn't he like it?" + +"He hasn't felt it yet. He won't even let me try. Look!" The child +climbed over the fence and made a quick grab at the animal, which gave +an alarmed, startled grunt, wheeled with astonishing nimbleness, and +darted away in a short-legged gallop. + +"Look there, that's the way he always does!" said Paul in an aggrieved +tone. + +Marise considered the pig for a moment. He had turned again and was once +more staring at her, his quivering, fleshy snout in the air, a +singularly alert expression of attention animating his heavy-jowled +countenance. + +"Are there any things he specially likes?" she asked Paul. + +"He likes to eat, of course, being a pig," said Paul, "and he loves you +to scratch his back with a stick." + +"Oh, then it's easy. Come outside the pen. Now listen. You go back to +the barn and get whatever it is you feed him. Then you put that in the +trough, and let him begin to eat, quietly. Then take your oil and your +brush, and moving very slowly so that you don't startle him, lean over +the fence and begin to brush it on his back where he likes to be rubbed. +If he likes the feel of it, he'll probably stand still. I'll wait here, +till you see how it comes out." + +She moved away a few paces, and sank down on the grass under the tree, +as though the heat had flung her there. The grass crisped drily under +her, as though it too were parched. + +She closed her eyes and felt the sun beating palpably on the lids . . . +or was it that hot inward pulse still throbbing . . . ? Why wouldn't Neale +do it for her? Why wouldn't he put out that strength of his and crush +out this strange agitation of hers, _forbid_ it to her? Then there was +nothing in her but intense discomfort, as though that were a universe of +its own. A low, distant growl of thunder shook the air with a muffled, +muted roar. + +After a time, a little voice back of her announced in a low, cautious +tone, "Mother, it _works!_ Henry loves it!" + +She turned her head and saw the little boy vigorously rubbing the ears +and flanks of the pig, which stood perfectly still, its eyes half shut, +rapt in a beatitude of satisfaction. + +Marise turned her head away and slid down lower on the grass, so that +she lay with her face on her arm. She was shaking from head to foot as +though with sobs. But she was not crying. She was laughing hysterically. +"Even for the pig!" she was saying to herself. "A symbol of my life!" + +She lay there a long time after this nervous fit of laughter had +stopped, till she heard Paul saying, "There, I've put it on every inch +of him." He added with a special intonation, "And now I guess maybe I'd +better go in swimming." + +At this Marise sat up quickly, with an instant experienced divination of +what she would see. + +In answer to her appalled look on him, he murmured apologetically, "I +didn't know I was getting so _much_ on me. It sort of spattered." + + * * * * * + +It was, of course, as she led the deplorable object towards the house +that they encountered Eugenia under a green-lined white parasol, on the +way back from the garden, carrying an armful of sweet-peas. + +"I thought I'd fill the vases with fresh flowers before the rain came," +she murmured, visibly sheering off from Paul. + +"Eugenia ought not to carry sweet-peas," thought Marise. "It ought +always to be orchids." + +In the bath-room as she and Paul took off his oil-soaked clothes, Mark's +little voice called to her, "Mother! Mo-o-other!" + +"Yes, what is it?" she answered, suspending operations for a moment to +hear. + +"Mother, if I had to kill all the ants in the world," called Mark, "I'd +a great deal rather they were all gathered up together in a heap than +running around every-which-way, wouldn't you?" + +"For goodness' _sakes,_ what a silly baby thing to say!" commented Paul +with energy. + +Marise called heartily to Mark, "Yes indeed I would, dear." + +Paul asked curiously, "Mother, how can you answer him like that, such a +_fool_ thing!" + +Marise felt another wave of hysterical laughter mounting, at the idea of +the difficulty in perceiving the difference in degree of flatness +between Mark's remarks and those of Paul. + +But it suddenly occurred to her that this was the time for Elly's hour +at the piano, and she heard no sound. She hastily laid out the clean +clothes for Paul, saw him started on the scrub in the bath-tub, and ran +downstairs to see if she could find Elly, before the storm broke, +turning over in her mind Elly's favorite nooks. + + * * * * * + +The air was as heavy as noxious gas in the breathless pause before the +arrival of the rain. + +In the darkened, shaded hall stood a man's figure, the face turned up +towards her, the look on it meant for her, her only, not the useful +house-mother, but that living core of her own self, buried, hidden, put +off, choked and starved as she had felt it to be, all that morning. That +self rose up now, passionately grateful to be recognized, and looked +back at him. + +Thunder rolled among the distant hills. + +She felt her pulse whirling with an excitement that made her lean +against the wall, as he took a great stride towards her, crying out, +"Oh, make an end . . . make an end of this. . . ." + +The door behind him opened, and Elly ran in, red-faced and dusty. +"Mother, Mother, Reddy has come off her nest. And there are twelve +hatched out of the fourteen eggs! Mother, they are such darlings! I wish +you'd come and see. Mother, if I practise _good_, won't you come +afterwards and look at them?" + +"You should say 'practise well,' not 'good,'" said Marise, her accent +openly ironical. + +The wind, precursor of the storm falling suddenly on the valley, shook +the trees till they roared. + +Over the child's head she exchanged with Vincent Marsh a long reckless +look, the meaning of which she made no effort to understand, the abandon +of which she made no effort to restrain. + +With a dry, clattering, immediate rattle, without distance or dignity, +the thunder broke threateningly over the house. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + + +MASSAGE-CREAM; THEME AND VARIATIONS + +July 20. + +The hardest thing for Eugenia about these terribly hard days of suspense +was to keep her self-control in her own room. Of course for her as for +any civilized being, it was always possible to keep herself in hand with +people looking on. But for years she had not had to struggle so when +alone, for poise and self-mastery. Her room at the Crittendens', which +had been hers so long, and which Marise had let her furnish with her own +things, was no longer the haven of refuge it had been from the bitter, +raw crudity of the Vermont life. She tried to fill the empty hours of +Neale's daily absences from the house with some of the fastidious, +delicate occupations of which she had so many, but they seemed brittle +in her hot hands, and broke when she tried to lean on them. A dozen +times a day she interrupted herself to glance with apprehension at her +reflection in the mirror, the Florentine mirror with the frame of brown +wood carved, with the light, restrained touch of a good period, into +those tasteful slender columns. And every time she looked, she was +horrified and alarmed to see deep lines of thought, of hope, of +impatience, of emotion, criss-crossing fatally on her face. + +Then she would sit down before her curving dressing-table, gather the +folds of her Persian room-dress about her, lift up her soul and go +through those mental and physical relaxing exercises which the wonderful +lecturer of last winter had explained. She let her head and shoulders +and neck droop like a wilted flower-stem, while she took into her mind +the greater beauty of a wilted flower over the crass rigidity of a +growing one; she breathed deeply and slowly and rhythmically, and +summoned to her mind far-off and rarely, difficultly, beautiful things; +the tranquil resignation of Chinese roofs, tempered with the merry human +note of their tilted corners; Arabian traceries; cunningly wrought, +depraved wood-carvings in the corners of Gothic cathedrals; the gay and +amusing pink rotundities of a Boucher ceiling. When she felt her face +calm and unlined again, she put on a little massage cream, to make +doubly sure, and rubbed it along where the lines of emotion had been. + +But half an hour afterwards, as she lay stretched in the chaise-longue +by the window, reading Claudel, or Strindberg, or Remy de Gourmont, she +would suddenly find that she was not thinking of what was on the page, +that she saw there only Marise's troubled eyes while she and Marsh +talked about the inevitable and essential indifference of children to +their parents and the healthiness of this instinct; about the +foolishness of the parents' notion that they would be formative elements +in the children's lives; or on the other hand, if the parents did +succeed in forcing themselves into the children's lives, the danger of +sexual mother-complexes. Eugenia found that instead of thrilling +voluptuously, as she knew she ought, to the precious pain and +bewilderment of one of the thwarted characters of James Joyce, she was, +with a disconcerting and painful eagerness of her own, bringing up to +mind the daunted silence Marise kept when they mentioned the fact that +of course everybody nowadays knew that children are much better off in a +big, numerous, robust group than in the nervous, tight isolation of +family life; and that a really trained educator could look out for them +much better than any mother, because he could let them alone as a mother +never could. + +She found that such evocations of facts poignantly vital to her +personally, were devastatingly more troubling to her facial calm than +any most sickening picture in d'Annunzio's portrayal of small-town +humanity in which she was trying to take the proper, shocked interest. +Despite all her effort to remain tranquil she would guess by the stir of +her pulses that probably she had lost control of herself again, and +going to the mirror would catch her face all strained and tense in a +breathless suspense. + +But if there was one thing which life had taught her, it was persevering +patience. She drew from the enameled bonbonniere one of the curious, +hard sweet-meats from Southern China; lifted to her face the spicy-sweet +spikes of the swamp-orchid in her Venetian glass vase; turned her eyes +on the reproduction of the Gauguin _Ja Orana Maria_, and began to draw +long, rhythmic breaths, calling on all her senses to come to her rescue. +She let her arms and her head and her shoulders go limp again, and fixed +her attention on rare and beautiful things of beauty . . . abandoning +herself to the pictures called up by a volume of translated Japanese +poems she had recently read . . . temples in groves . . . bells in the +mist . . . rain on willow-trees . . . snow falling without wind. . . . +How delicate and suggestive those poems were! How much finer, more subtle +than anything in the Aryan languages! + +She came to herself cautiously, glanced at her face in the mirror, and +reached for the carved ivory pot of massage cream. + + * * * * * + +She decided then she would sew a little, instead of reading. The frill +of lace in her net dress needed to be changed . . . such a bore having to +leave your maid behind. She moved to the small, black-lacquered table +where her work-box stood and leaned on it for a moment, watching the dim +reflection of her pointed white fingers in the glistening surface of the +wood. They did not look like Marise's brown, uncared-for hands. She +opened the inlaid box and took from it the thimble which she had bought +in Siena, the little antique masterpiece of North Italian gold-work. +What a fulfilment of oneself it was to make life beautiful by +beautifying all its implements. What a revelation it might be to Neale, +how a woman could make everything she touched exquisite, to Neale who +had only known Marise, subdued helplessly to the roughness of the rough +things about her, Marise who had capitulated to America and surrendered +to the ugliness of American life. + + * * * * * + +But none of that, none of that! She was near the danger line again. She +felt the flesh on her face begin to grow tense, and with her beautiful, +delicate fore-fingers she smoothed her eyebrows into relaxed calm again. + +She must keep herself occupied, incessantly; that was the only thing +possible. She had been about to have recourse to the old, old +tranquillizer of women, the setting of fine stitches. She would fix her +mind on that . . . a frill of lace for the net dress . . . which lace? She +lifted the cover from the long, satin-covered box and fingered over the +laces in it, forcing herself to feel the suitable reaction to their +differing physiognomies, to admire the robustness of the +Carrick-Macross, the boldness of design of the Argentan, the complicated +fineness of the English Point. She decided, as harmonizing best with the +temperament of the net dress, on Malines, a strip of this perfect, +first-Napoleon Malines. What an aristocratic lace it was, with its +cobwebby _fond-de-neige_ background and its fourpetaled flowers in the +scrolls. Americans were barbarians indeed that Malines was so little +known; in fact hardly recognized at all. Most Americans would probably +take this priceless creation in her hand for something bought at a +ten-cent store, because of its simplicity and classic reticence of +design. They always wanted, as they would say themselves, something more +to show for their money. Their only idea of "real lace," as they +vulgarly called it (as if anything could be lace that wasn't real), was +that showy, awful Brussels, manufactured for exportation, which was sold +in those terrible tourists' shops in Belgium, with the sprawling +patterns made out of coarse braid and appliqued on, not an organic part +of the life of the design. + +She stopped her work for a moment to look more closely at the filmy lace +in her hand, to note if the mesh of the reseau were circular or +hexagonal. She fancied that she was the only American woman of her +acquaintance who knew the difference, who had the least culture in the +matter of lace . . . except Marise, of course, and it was positively worse +for Marise to have been initiated and then turn back to commonness, than +for those other well-meaning, Philistine American women who were at +least innocently ignorant. Having known the exquisite lore of lace, how +could Marise have let it and all the rest of the lore of civilization +drop for these coarse occupations of hers, now? How could she have let +life coarsen her, as it had, how could she have fallen into such common +ways, with her sun-browned hair, and her roughened hands, and her +inexactly adjusted dresses, and the fatal middle-aged lines beginning to +show from the corner of the ear down into the neck, and not an effort +made to stop them. But as to wrinkles, of course a woman as unrestrained +as Marise was bound to get them early. She had never learned the ABC of +woman's wisdom, the steady cult of self-care, self-beautifying, +self-refining. How long would it be before Neale . . . + +No! None of that! She must get back to impersonal thoughts. What was it +she had selected as subject for consideration? It had been lace. What +about lace? Lace . . . ? Her mind balked, openly rebellious. She could not +make it think of lace again. She was in a panic, and cast about her for +some strong defense . . . oh! just the thing . . . the new hat. + +She would try on the new hat which had just come from New York. She had +been waiting for a leisurely moment, really to be able to put her +attention on that. + +She opened the gaily printed round pasteboard box, and took out the +creation. She put it on with care, low over her eyebrows, adjusting it +carefully by feel, before she looked at herself to get the first +impression. Then, hand-glass in hand, she began to study it seriously +from various angles. When she was convinced that from every view-point +her profile had the unlovely and inharmonious silhouette fashionable +that summer, she drew a long breath of relief, and took it off gently, +looking at it with pleasure. Nothing gives one such self-confidence, she +reflected, as the certainty of having the right sort of hat. How much +better "chic" was than beauty! + +With the hat still in her hand, her very eyes on it, she saw there +before her, as plainly as though in a crystal ball, Marise's attitude as +she had stood with Marsh that evening before at the far end of the +garden. Her body drawn towards his, the poise of her head, all of her +listening intently while he talked . . . one could see how he was +dominating her. A man with such a personality as his, regularly hypnotic +when he chose, and practised in handling women, he would be able to do +anything he liked with an impressionable creature like Marise, who as a +girl was always under the influence of something or other. It was +evident that he could put any idea he liked into Marise's head just by +looking at her hard enough. She had seen him do it . . . helped him do it, +for that matter! + +And so Neale must have seen. Anybody could! And Neale was not raising a +hand, nor so much as lifting an eyebrow, just letting things take their +course. + +_What could that mean except that he would welcome_ . . . + +Oh Heavens! her pulse was hammering again. She sprang up and ran to the +mirror. Yes, the mirror showed a face that scared her; haggard and +pinched with a fierce desire. + +There were not only lines now, there was a hollow in the cheek . . . or +was that a shadow? It made her look a thousand years old. Massage would +do that no good! And she had no faith in any of those "flesh-foods." +Perhaps she was underweight. The hideous strain and suspense of the last +weeks had told on her. Perhaps she would better omit those morning +exercises for a time, in this intense heat. Perhaps she would better +take cream with her oatmeal again. Or perhaps cream of wheat would be +better than oatmeal. How ghastly that made her look! But perhaps it was +only a shadow. She could not summon courage enough to move and see. +Finally she took up her hand-mirror, framed in creamy ivory, with a +carved jade bead hanging from it by a green silk cord. She went to the +window to get a better light on her face. She examined it, holding her +breath; and drew a long, long sigh of respite and relief. It _had_ been +only a shadow! + +But what a fright it had given her! Her heart was quivering yet. What +unending vigilance it took to protect yourself from deep emotions. When +it wasn't one, it was another, that sprang on you unawares. + +Another one _was_ there, ready to spring also, the suddenly conceived +possibility, like an idea thrust into her mind from the outside, that +there might be some active part she could play in what was going on in +this house. People did sometimes. If some chance for this offered . . . +you never could tell when . . . a word might be . . . perhaps something to +turn Marise from Neale long enough to . . . + +She cast this idea off with shame for its crudeness. What vulgar raw +things would come into your head when you let your mind roam idly . . . +like cheap melodrama . . . + +She would try the Vedanta deep-breathing exercises this time to quiet +herself; and after them, breathing in and out through one nostril, and +thinking of the Infinite, as the Yogi had told her. + +She lay down flat on the bed for this, kicking off her quilted satin +_mules_, and wriggling her toes loose in their lace-like silk stockings. +She would lie on her back, look up at the ceiling, and fix her mind on +the movement up and down of her navel in breathing, as the Vedanta +priest recommended to quiet the spirit. Perhaps she could even say, + +"Om . . . om . . . om . . ." + +as they did. + + * * * * * + +No, no she couldn't. She still had vestiges of that stupid, gross +Anglo-Saxon self-consciousness clinging to her. But she would outgrow +them, yet. + +She lay there quiet and breathed slowly, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. +And into her mind there slowly slid a cypress-shaded walk with Rome far +below on one side, and a sun-ripened, golden, old wall on the other. She +stood there with Marise, both so young, so young! And down the path +towards them came a tall figure, with a bold clear face, a tender +full-lipped mouth, and eyes that both smiled and were steady. + +Helplessly she watched him come, groaning in spirit at what she knew +would happen; but she could not escape till the ache in her throat +swelled and broke, as she saw that his eyes were for Marise and his +words, and all of his very self for which she . . . + +So many years . . . so many years . . . with so much else in the +world . . . not to have been able to cure that one ache . . . and she did +not want to suffer . . . she wanted to be at rest, and have what she +needed. The tears rose brimming to her eyes, and ran down on each side of +her face to the pillow. Poor Eugenia! Poor Eugenia! + + * * * * * + +She was almost broken this time, but not entirely. There was some fight +left in her. She got up from the bed, clenched her hands tightly, and +stood in the middle of the floor, gathering herself together. + +Down with it! Down! Down! Just now, at this time, when such an utterly +unexpected dawn of a possible escape . . . to give way again. + +She thought suddenly, "Suppose I give up the New-Thought way, always +distracting your attention to something else, always suppressing your +desire, resisting the pull you want to yield to. Suppose I try the Freud +way, bringing the desire up boldly, letting yourself go, unresisting." +It was worth trying. + +She sat down in a chair, her elbows on the dressing-table, and let +herself go, gorgeously, wholly, epically, as she had been longing to +ever since she had first intercepted that magnetic interchange of looks +between Marsh and Marise, the day after her arrival, the day of the +picnic-supper in that stupid old woman's garden. That was when she had +first known that something was up. + + * * * * * + +Why, how easy it was to let yourself go! They were right, the Freudians, +it was the natural thing to do, you did yourself a violence when you +refused to. It was like sailing off above the clouds on familiar wings, +although it was the first time she had tried them. . . . Marise would fall +wholly under Marsh's spell, would run away and be divorced. Neale would +never raise a hand against her doing this. Eugenia saw from his aloof +attitude that it was nothing to him one way or the other. Any man who +cared for his wife would fight for her, of course. + +And it was so manifestly the best thing for Marise too, to have a very +wealthy man looking out for her, that there could be no disturbing +reflexes of regret or remorse for anybody to disturb the perfection of +this fore-ordained adjustment to the Infinite. Then with the children +away at school for all the year, except a week or two with their father +. . . fine, modern, perfect schools, the kind where the children were +always out of doors, Florida in winter and New England hills in summer. +Those schools were horribly expensive . . . what was all her money for? +. . . but they had the best class of wealthy children, carefully selected +for their social position, and the teachers were so well paid that of +course they did their jobs better than parents. + +Then Neale, freed from slavery to those insufferable children, released +from the ignoble, grinding narrowness of this petty manufacturing +business, free to roam the world as she knew he had always longed to +do . . . what a life they could have . . . India with Neale . . . +China . . . Paris . . . they would avoid Rome perhaps because of +unwelcome memories . . . Norway in summer-time. Think of seeing Neale +fishing a Norway salmon brook . . . she and Neale on a steamer +together . . . together . . . + +She caught sight of her face in the mirror . . . that radiant, smiling, +triumphant, _young_ face, hers! + +Yes, the Freud way was the best. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + + +THE SOUL OF NELLY POWERS + +July 20. + +The big pine was good for one thing, anyhow, if it did keep the house as +dark as a cellar with the black shade it made. The side-porch was nice +and cool even on a hot summer day, just right for making butter. If it +wasn't for the horrid pitch-piny smell the tree wouldn't be so bad. The +churning was getting along fine too. The dasher was beginning to go the +blob-blob way that showed in a minute or two the butter would be there. +It had been a real good idea to get up early and get the work out of the +way so that the churning could be done before it got so hot. A +thunder-storm was coming, too, probably. You could feel it in the air. +There, perhaps the butter had come, now. Nelly pushed the dasher down +slowly and drew it back with care, turning her ear to listen expertly to +the sound it made. No, not yet, there wasn't that watery splash yet that +came after it had separated. + +She went on with the regular rhythmic motion, her eyes fixed dreamily on +the round hole in the cover of the churn, through which the +dasher-handle went up and down and which was now rimmed with thick +yellow cream. She loved to churn, Nelly thought. She loved to have milk +to look out for, anyhow, from the time it came in from the barn, warm +and foamy and sweet-smelling, till the time when she had taken off the +thick, sour cream, like shammy-skin, and then poured the loppered milk +spatteringly into the pigs' trough. She liked seeing how the pigs loved +it, sucking it up, their eyes half shut because it tasted so good. There +wasn't anything that was better than giving people or animals what they +liked to eat. It made her feel good all over to throw corn to the hens +and see how they scrabbled for it. She just loved to get a bag of stick +candy at the store, when she went to town, and see how Addie and Ralph +and little 'Gene jumped up and down when they saw it. + +And then it was so nice to be fore-handed and get the churning out of +the way before noon. She would have time this afternoon after the dishes +were done, to sit right down with that sprigged calico dress for little +Addie. She could get the seams all run up on the machine before +supper-time, and have the hand-work, buttonholes and finishing, for +pick-up work for odd minutes. She just loved to sit and sew, in a room +all nice and picked up, and know the house-work was done. + +That would be a _real_ pretty dress, she thought, with the pink sprigs +and the pink feather-stitching in mercerized cotton she was going to put +on it. Addie would look sweet in it. And if it was washed careful and +dried in the shade it wouldn't fade so much. It was a good bright pink +to start with. Only Addie ought to have a new hat to wear with it. A +white straw with pink flowers on it. But that would cost a couple of +dollars, anyhow, everything was so dear now. Oh well, 'Gene would let +her buy it. 'Gene would let her do most anything. + +She thought with pity of her sisters, mill-hands in West Adams still, or +married to mill-hands, men who got drunk on the sly and didn't work +regular, and wanted a full half of all they made for themselves. 'Gene +and his mother were always scolding about the money they could have had +if they'd kept that wood-land on the mountain. They'd ought to ha' been +really poor the way she had been, so's you didn't know where the next +meal was coming from, or how the rent was going to be paid. She had been +awfully lucky to get 'Gene, who let her decide how much money ought to +be spent on the children's clothes and hers, and never said a thing, or +scolded or bothered. He was kind of _funny_, 'Gene was, always so sober +and solemn, and it was a _sort_ of bother to have him so crazy about her +still. That had been all right when they were engaged, and first +married. She had liked it all right then, although it always seemed sort +of foolish to her. But men _were_ that way! Only now, when there were +three children and another one coming, and the house to be kept nice, +and the work done up right, and the farmwork and everything going so +good, and so much on her mind, why, it seemed as though they'd ought to +have other things to think about beside kissings and huggings. Not that +'Gene didn't do his share of the work. He was a fine farmer, as good as +anybody in the valley. But he never could settle down, and be +comfortable and quiet with her, like it was natural for old married +folks to do. If she went by him, close, so her arm touched him, why +then, if nobody was there he'd grab at her and kiss her and rumple her +hair, and set her all back in her work. With all she had to do and think +of, and she did her work as good as anybody if she did say it who +shouldn't, she had her day planned before she turned her feet out of bed +in the morning. And she liked to have things go the way she planned +them. She _liked_ 'Gene all right, only she had her work to get done. + +She churned meditatively, looking off towards the mountain where the +Eagle Rocks heaved themselves up stiff and straight and high. 'Gene's +mother came to the door, asked if the butter was coming all right, +looked at her, and said, "My! Nelly, you get better looking every day +you live," and went back to her bread-baking. + +Nelly went on with her reflections about 'Gene. It was more than just +that he bothered her and put her back with her work. She really didn't +think it was just exactly nice and refined to be so crazy about anybody +as that. Well, there was a streak in the Powerses that wasn't refined. +'Gene's mother! gracious! When she got going, laughing and carrying-on, +what wouldn't she say, right out before anybody! And dancing still like +a young girl! And that hateful old Mrs. Hewitt, just after they'd moved +back to Ashley, didn't she have to go and tell her about 'Gene's being +born too soon after his father and mother were married? 'Gene took it +from his mother she supposed; he wa'an't to blame, really. But she hoped +Addie and Ralph would be _like_ her folks. Not but what the Powerses +were good-hearted enough. 'Gene was a good man, if he was queer, and an +awful good papa to Addie and Ralph and little 'Gene. None of her sisters +had got a man half so good. That sprigged dress would look good with +feather-stitching around the hem, too. Why hadn't she thought of that +before? She hadn't got enough mercerized thread in the house, she didn't +believe, to do it all; and it was such a nuisance to run out of the +thread you had to have, and nobody going to the village for goodness +knows when, with the farmwork behind the way it was, on account of the +rains. + +She shifted her position and happened to bring one of her feet into +view. Without disturbing a single beat of the regular rhythm of the +dasher, she tilted her head to look at it with approbation. If there was +one thing she was particular about it was her shoes. She took such +comfort in having them nice. They could say what they pleased, folks +could, but high heels _suited_ her feet. Maybe some folks, that had +great broad feet like that old Indian Toucle, felt better in those +awful, sloppy old gunboats they called "Common-sense shoes," but _she_ +didn't! It would make her sick to wear them! How they did look! Was +there anything so pretty, anyhow, as a fine-leather shoe with a nice +pointed toe, and a pretty, curved-in heel? It made you feel refined, and +as good as anybody, even if you had on a calico dress with it. That was +another nice thing about 'Gene, how he'd stand up for her about wearing +the kind of shoes she wanted. Let anybody start to pick on her about it, +if 'twas his own mother, he'd shut 'em up short, and say Nelly could +wear what she liked he guessed. Even when the doctor had said so strict +that she hadn't ought to wear them in the time before the babies came, +'Gene never said a word, when he saw her doing it. + +There, the butter was just almost there. She could hear the buttermilk +begin to swash! She turned her head to call to her mother-in-law to +bring a pitcher for the buttermilk, when a sound of galloping hoofs +echoed from the road. Nelly frowned, released her hold on the dasher, +listened an instant, and ran into the house. She went right upstairs to +her room as provoked as she could be. Well, she would make the bed and +do the room-work anyhow, so's not to waste _all_ that time. She'd be +that much ahead, anyhow. And as soon as Frank had finished chinning with +Mother Powers, and had gone, she'd go back and finish her churning. She +felt mad all through at the thought of that cream left at just the wrong +minute, just as it was separating. Suppose Frank hung round and _hung_ +around, the way he did often, and the sun got higher and the cream got +too warm, and she'd have to put in ice, and go down cellar with it, and +fuss over it all the rest of the day? She was furious and thumped the +pillows hard, with her doubled-up fist. But if she went down, Frank'd +hang around worse, and talk so foolish she'd want to slap him. He wa'n't +more'n half-witted, sometimes, she thought. What was the _matter_ with +men, anyhow? They didn't seem to have as much sense as so many calves! +You'd think Frank would think up something better to do than to bother +the life out of busy folks, sprawling around all over creation the way +he did. But she never had any luck! Before Frank it had been that old +Mrs. Hewitt, nosing around to see what she could pick fault with in a +person's housekeeping, looking under the sink if you left her alone in +the kitchen for a minute, and opening your dresser drawers right before +your face and eyes. Well, Frank was getting to be most as much of a +nuisance. He didn't peek and snoop the way Mrs. Hewitt did, but he +_bothered_; and he was getting so impudent, too! He had the big-head +because he was the best dancer in the valley, that was what was the +matter with him, and he knew she liked to dance with him. Well, she did. +But she would like to dance with anybody who danced good. If 'Gene +didn't clump so with his feet, she'd love to dance with him. And Frank +needn't think he was so much either. That city man who was staying with +the old man next to the Crittendens was just as good a dancer as Frank, +just exactly as light on his feet. She didn't like him a bit. She +thought he was just plain fresh, the way he told Frank to go on dancing +with her. What was it to him! But she'd dance with him just the same, if +she got the chance. How she just loved to dance! Something seemed to get +into her, when the music struck up. She hardly knew what she was doing, +felt as though she was floating around on that thick, soft moss you +walked on when you went blue-berrying on the Burning above the Eagle +Rocks . . . all springly. . . . If you could only dance by yourself, +without having to bother with partners, that was what would be nice. + +She stepped to the door to listen, and heard 'Gene's mother cackling +away like an old hen. How she would carry on, with anybody that came +along! She hadn't never settled down, not a bit really, for all she had +been married and was a widow and was old. It wa'n't nice to be so lively +as that, at her age. But she _wasn't_ nice, Mother Powers wasn't, for +all she was good to Addie and Ralph and little 'Gene. Nelly liked nice +people, she thought, as she went back to shake the rag rugs out of the +window; refined ladies like Mrs. Bayweather, the minister's wife. That +was the way _she_ wanted to be, and have little Addie grow up. She +lingered at the window a moment looking up at the thick dark branches of +the big pine. How horrid it was to have that great tree so close to the +house! It shaded the bedroom so that there was a musty smell no matter +how much it was aired. And the needles dropped down so messy too, and +spoiled the grass. + +Frank's voice came up the stairs, bold, laughing, "Nelly, Nelly, come +down here a minute. I want to ask you something!" + +"I can't," she called back. Didn't he have the nerve! + +"Why can't you?" the skeptical question came from halfway up the stairs. +"I saw you on the side-porch, just as I came up." + +Nelly cast about for an excuse. Of course you had to have some _reason_ +for saying you couldn't see a neighbor who came in. She had an +inspiration. "I'm washing my hair," she called back, taking out the +hair-pins hastily, as she spoke. The great coils came tumbling down on +her shoulders. She soused them in the water pitcher, and went to the +door, opening it a crack, tipping her head forward so that the water +streamed on the floor. "Can't you ask Mother Powers for whatever it is?" +she said impatiently. She wished as she spoke that she could ever speak +right out sharp and scratchy the way other people did. She was too easy, +that was the trouble. + +"Well," said Frank, astonished, "you be, for a fact." + +He went back down the stairs, and Nelly shut the door. She was hot all +over with impatience about that butter. When it wasn't one thing to keep +her from her work, it was another. Her hair all wet now. And such a job +to dry it! + +She heard voices in the kitchen, and the screen-door open. Thank +goodness, Frank was going away! Oh my! Maybe he was going to the +village! He could bring some of the pink mercerized cotton on his way +back. He might as well be of _some_ use in the world. She thrust her +head out of the window. "Frank, Frank, wait a minute!" she called. She +ran back to her work-basket, cut a length from a spool of thread, wound +it around a bit of paper, and went again to the window. "Say, Frank, get +me two spools of cotton to match that, will you, at Warner and Hardy's." + +He rode his horse past the big pine, under her window, and stood up in +the stirrups, looking up boldly at her, her hair in thick wet curls +about her face. "I'd do anything for you!" he said jokingly, catching +at the paper she threw down to him. + +She slammed the window down hard. How provoking he was! But anyhow she +would have enough thread to feather-stitch that hem. She'd got that much +out of him. The thought made up to her for some of the annoyance of the +morning. She put a towel around her shoulders under her wet hair, and +waited till he was actually out of sight around the bend of the road. It +seemed to her that she saw something stir in the long grass in the +meadow there. Could the woodchucks be getting so close to the house as +that? She'd have to tie Towser up by her lettuce, nights, if they were. + +Gracious, there it was thundering, off behind the Rocks! She'd have to +hustle, if she got the butter done before the storm came. When Frank had +really disappeared, she ran downstairs, and rushed out to her churn. She +felt of it anxiously, her face clearing to note that it seemed no warmer +than when she had left it. Maybe it was all right still. She began to +plunge the dasher up and down. Well, it had gone back some, she could +tell by the feel, but not so much, she guessed, but what she could make +it come all right. + +As she churned, she thought again of Frank Warner. This was the limit! +He got so on her nerves, she declared to herself she didn't care if he +_never_ danced with her again. She wished she had more spunk, like some +girls, and could just send him packing. But she never could think of any +sharp things to say to folks, in time. She was too easy, she knew that, +always had been. Look how long she had put up with Mrs. Hewitt's +snooping around. And then in the end she had got cold feet and had had +to sick 'Gene on to her, to tell her they didn't want her sitting around +all the time and sponging off them at meal-times. + +But somehow she didn't want to ask 'Gene to speak to Frank that way. She +was afraid somehow it would get 'Gene excited. Mostly he was so still, +and then all of a sudden he'd flare up and she never could see a thing +to make him then more than any time. The best thing to do with Gene was +to keep him quiet, just as much as she could, not do anything to get him +started. That was why she never went close up to him or put her arms +around his neck of her own accord. She'd _like_ to pet him and make over +him, the way she did over the children, but it always seemed to get him +so stirred up and everything. Men were funny, anyhow! She often had +thought how nice it would be if 'Gene could only be another woman. They +could have such good times together. + +Why, here was 'Gene himself come in from cultivating corn right in the +middle of the morning. Maybe he wanted a drink. He came up on the porch, +without looking at her and went into the house. How heavy he walked. But +then he always did. That was the trouble with his dancing. You had to +step light, to be a good dancer. + +There was a crack of thunder again, nearer than the first one. She heard +him ask his mother, "Frank Warner been here?" + +And Mother Powers say, "Yes, he come in to ask if we could loan him our +compass. He's going to go up tomorrow in the Eagle Rock woods to run out +the line between the Warner and the Benson woodlots. The Warners have +sold the popple on theirs to the Crittenden mill, and Frank says the +blazes are all barked over, they're so old." + +Oh goody! thought Nelly, there the butter was, come all at once. The +buttermilk was splashing like water. Yes, even there around the hole you +could see the little yellow specks. Well, she needn't have got so +provoked, after all. That was fine. Now she could get at that sprigged +dress for Addie, after all, this afternoon. + +'Gene came out on the porch again. She looked at him and smiled. She +felt very happy and relieved that the butter had come so that she could +finish working it over before noon. + +'Gene glowered at her smiling face and at her hair curling and shining +all down her back. How cross he looked! Oh bother! Excited too. Well, +what could the matter be, _now_? She should think any man would be +satisfied to come in, right in the middle of the morning like that, +without any warning, and find his house as spick and span as a pin, and +the butter churned and half the day's work out of the way. She'd like to +know what more he wanted? Who else could do any better? Oh bother! How +queer men were! + +Yes, it would really be lots nicer if there were only women and children +in the world. Gracious! how that lightning made her jump! The storm had +got there quicker'n she'd thought. But the butter had come, so it was +all right. + + + + +PART III + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + + +BEFORE THE DAWN + +July 21. + +Neale had lain so long with his eyes on the place where the window ought +to be, that finally he was half persuaded he could see it, a faintly +paler square against the black of the room. Very soon dawn would come in +that window, and another day would begin. + +At the thought the muscles of his forearms contracted, drawing his +fingers into rigidly clenched fists, and for a moment he did not +breathe. + +Then he conquered it again; threw off the worst of the pain that had +sprung upon him when he had wakened suddenly, hours before, with the +fear at last there before him, visible in the darkness. + +What was this like? Where before had he endured this eternity of +waiting? Yes, it was in France, the night when they waited for the +attack to break, every man haggard with the tension, from dark till just +before dawn. + +He lay still, feeling Marise's breathing faintly stirring the bed. + +There in France it had been a strain almost beyond human power to keep +from rushing out of the trenches with bayonets fixed, to meet the +threatened danger, to beat it back, to conquer it, or to die and escape +the suspense. Now there was the same strain. He had the weapons in his +hands, weapons of passion, and indignation and entreaty and reproach, +against which Marise would not stand for a moment. + +But there in France that would have meant possibly an insignificant +local success and the greater victory all along the line imperiled. And +here that was true again. There hadn't been anything to do then but +wait. There was nothing to do now but wait. + +Yes, but it was harder to wait now! There in France they had at least +known that finally the suspense would end in the fury of combat. They +would have the chance to resist, to conquer, to impose their will. And +now there was no active part for him. He must wait on, and hold back his +hand from the attack which would give him the appearance of victory, and +which would mean everlasting defeat for him, for Marise, the death and +ruin of what they had tried to be for each other, to build up out of +their life together. + +What did he mean by that? Wasn't he fooling himself with words, with +priggish phrases? It was so easy to do that. And he was so mortally +fatigued with this struggle in the dark. He had been thinking about it +so deeply, so desperately, ever since he had faced it there, squarely, +those endless black hours ago. He might have lost his way. + +Now, once more, slowly, step by step, once more over the terrible road +that led him here. Perhaps there was another way he had overlooked. +Perhaps this time it would lead him to something less intolerable. Quiet +now, steady, all that he had of courage and honesty and knowledge of +Marise, and of life, and of himself, put to work. + +His brain began again to plod up the treadmill it had labored on for so +many black hours. He set himself to get it clear in his own mind, +forcing those fierce, burning thoughts of his into words, as if he had +been speaking aloud. "Now, now here I am. What must I do? What ought I +to do? There must be some answer if I can only think clearly, feel +aright. _What is it that I want?_" + +The answer burst from him, as though in a cry of torture from his brain, +his body, his passion, his soul, "_I want Marise!_" + +And at this expression of overmastering desire, memory flooded his mind +with a stream of unforgotten pictures of their life together; Marise +facing him at the breakfast table; Marise walking with him in the autumn +woods; Marise with Paul a baby in her arms; Marise, almost unknown then, +the flame-like divinity of her soul only guessed-at, looking into his +eyes as the Campagna faded into darkness below them. "What was it she +asked me then? Whether I knew the way across the dark plain? I was a +confident young fool then. I was sure I could find the way, _with her_. +I've been thinking all these years that we were finding it, step by step +. . . till now. And now, what is it I am afraid of? I'm afraid she finds +herself cramped, wants a fuller existence, regrets . . . no, that's +dodging. There's no use lying to myself. I'm afraid that Marise is in +love with Vincent Marsh. Good God! no! It can't be that . . . not Marise! +This is all nonsense. This is something left over from sleep and a bad +dream. I must wake up. I must wake up and find it not true." + +He lay perfectly still, his fists clenched tight, perspiration standing +out on his rigid body. Then sternly he forced his mind to go forward +again, step by step. + +"I suppose it's possible. Other women have. There's a lot in her that +must be starved here. I may not be enough for her. She was so young +then. She has grown so greatly. What right have I to try to hold her if +she is tired of it all, needs something else?" + +He hesitated, shrinking back as from fire, from the answer he knew he +must give. At last he forced it out, "I haven't any right. I don't want +her to stay if she wants to go. I want Marise. But even more I want her +to be happy." + +The thought, with all its implications, terrified him like a +death-sentence, but he repeated it grimly, pressing it home fiercely, "I +want her to be happy." + +He realized where this thought would lead him, and in a panic wildly +fought against going on. He had tried to hold himself resolute and +steady, but he was nothing now save a flame of resentment. "Happy! She +won't be happy that way! She can't love that man! She's being carried +away by that damnable sensibility of hers. It would be the most hideous, +insane mistake. What am I thinking of . . . all these _words_! What I must +do is to keep her from ruining her life." + +On the heels of this outcry, there glided in insinuatingly a soft-spoken +crowd of tempting, seductive possibilities. Marise was so sensitive, so +impressionable, so easily moved, so defenseless when her emotions were +aroused. Hadn't he the right, the duty, he who knew her better than +anyone else, to protect her against herself? Wasn't he deceiving himself +by fantastic notions? It would be so easy to act the ardent, passionate +young lover again . . . but when had he ever "acted" anything for Marise! +No matter, no matter, this was life or death; what was a lie when life +and death hung in the balance? He could play on her devotion to the +children, throw all the weight of his personality, work on her emotions. +That was what people did to gain their point. Everybody did it. And he +could win if he did. He could hold her. + + * * * * * + +Like the solemn tolling of a great bell there rang, through all this +hurried, despairing clutching at the endurable and lesser, a call to the +great and intolerable. The immensity of his love for Marise loomed up, +far greater than he; and before that sacred thing he hung his head, and +felt his heart breaking. + +"No, that won't do. Not when it is Marise who is in question. The best, +the very best I can conceive is what I must give to Marise. A cage could +not hold her, not anything but her body, and to force her decision would +be to make a cage. No, I mustn't use the children either. They are hers +as much as mine. If all is not right between us, what would it avail +them to be with us? They must take what life brings them, like the rest +of us. If the years Marise and I have passed together, if what we have +been to each other, and are to each other, if that is not enough, then +nothing is enough. That would be a trick to play on her . . . to use my +knowledge of her vulnerable points to win. That is not what I want. What +_do_ I want? I want Marise to be happy." + +He had advanced a step since the last time he had told himself this, for +now he said it with a dreadful calm, his heart aching but not faltering. + +But he could go no further. There were limits to what he could endure. +He fell into a trance-like state of passivity, his body and mind +exhausted. + +As he lay thus, fallen and prostrate, there soared up out of a part of +him that was neither mind nor body, but was nevertheless himself, +something swift and beautiful and living, something great enough at last +to measure its greatness with the immensity of his love for Marise. + +What was it? + +It was this . . . for a moment he had it all clear, as though he had died +and it were something told him in another world . . . he did not want +Marise for himself; he did not even want her to be happy; he wanted her +to be herself, to be all that Marise could ever grow to be, he wanted +her to attain her full stature so far as any human being could do this +in this life. + +And to do that she must be free. + +For an instant he looked full at this, his heart flooded with glory. And +then the light went out. + +He was there in the blackness again, unhappy beyond any suffering he had +thought he could bear. + +He lay still, feeling Marise beside him, the slow, quiet rhythm of her +breathing. Was she awake or sleeping? What would happen if he should +allow the fear and suffering which racked him to become articulate? If +he should cry out to her, she would not turn away. He knew Marise. She +would never turn away from fear and suffering. "But I can't do that. I +won't work on her sympathy. I've promised to be true to what's deepest +and truest in us both. I have been, by God! and I will be. If our +married life has been worth anything, it's because we've both been free +and honest . . . true with one another. This is her ordeal. She must act +for herself. Better die than use my strength to force her against her +own nature. If I decide . . . no matter how sure I am I'm right . . . it +won't be her decision. Nothing would be decided. I must go on just as +before . . ." he groaned, "that will take all the strength I have." + +It was clear to him now; the only endurable future for them, such as +they were to each other, would come from Marise's acting with her own +strength on her own decision. By all that was sacred, he would never by +word or act hamper that decision. He would be himself, honestly. Marise +ought to know what that self was. + +He had thought that this resolve would bring to him another of these +terrible racking instants of anguish, but instead there came almost a +calm upon him, as though the pain had passed and left him in peace, or +as though a quiet light had shone out in the darkness. Perhaps the dawn +had come. No, the square of the window was still only faintly felt in +the blacker mass of the silent room. + +Then he knew why the pain had left him. It had been driven away by the +certainty that there was a worse fear than any he knew, or ever would +know. No matter what risk or catastrophe lay before them, Marise would +never look at him out her clear eyes and act a thing that was not true. +Marise would always be Marise. Why then, whatever came he could bear it. + +Life might be cruel and pitiless, but it was not base, when it had among +its gifts such a certainty as that, rock-like under his feet, bearing +him up in his pain. + +He moved to her in the bed, felt for her hand and put it gently to his +lips. + +Then, holding it in his, on his breast, he turned his eyes towards the +window, waiting for the dawn. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +MR. WELLES LIGHTS THE FUSE + + +July 2. + +That early morning talk with Mr. Welles had left Marise trembling with +helpless sorrow and exasperation. She sat on the bench where he had left +her, and felt the nervous tears stinging her eyes. When she looked up +and saw Vincent Marsh was standing there, extremely pale, as visibly +shaken as she, as visibly little in control of himself, she burst out, +"So you too know. He has just told me that he is really going. The very +date is set. His cousin has a room in her boarding house engaged for +him. He's going to work as a clerk to pay for the extra expenses of the +life there. _Oh!_" She struck her hand on the back of the bench. + +Vincent Marsh sat down beside her, his eyes on hers. He said in a +curious, low voice, rough and husky, "I wish you would do something for +me. I wish you would think with all your might, deeply, just why you are +so opposed to his doing what evidently seems to him a very saintly and +heroic action; and then tell me why it is." + +Marise felt this as a challenge. He was always challenging everything. +This time she was more than ready. "I don't need any time to think of +reasons!" she cried. "It's obvious to anyone with any sense for the +reality of human values, who isn't fooled by threadbare old words. It's +one of those wasteful, futile, exasperating tricks people play on +themselves in the name of 'duty.' He's throwing away something real and +true, something that could add to the richness of human life, he's +throwing away the happiness that comes of living as suits his nature, +and so creating a harmony that enriches everybody who touches him. And +what's he doing it for? To satisfy a morbid need for self-sacrifice. +He's going to do harm, in all probability, mix up a situation already +complicated beyond solution, and why is he? So that he can indulge +himself in the perverse pleasure of the rasp of a hair-shirt. He doesn't +really use his intelligence to think, to keep a true sense of +proportions; he takes an outworn and false old ideal of self-sacrifice, +and uses it not to do anybody any real good, but to put a martyr's crown +on his head." + +She became conscious that her words were having a singular effect upon +Vincent. A dark flush had come over all his face. His gaze on her was +extraordinary in its intentness, in its eagerness, in its fierceness. +She stopped suddenly, as though he had broken in on what she was saying. + +He did not stir from his place, but to her he seemed to tower taller. +Into his dark, intent face came an exultant look of power and authority +which fell on her like a hot wind. With a loud knocking of her heart she +knew. Before he spoke, she knew what he would say. And he saw that. + +He opened those burning lips and said in the same low voice, rough with +its intensity, "You see what you have done. You have spoken for me. You +have said at last what I have been silently and desperately calling out +to you. You know what has happened. You have said it, it is obvious to +anyone with any sense of human values. Make an end! Make an end! Come +away from a position where only an outworn old ideal holds you to +futility and waste. Come away where you will really live and know the +fullness of life. Come away from that false notion of duty which makes +you do for the children what you know is not best for them, only because +it is the traditional thing to do, only because it gives you a martyr's +crown to wear. I don't say anything now, as I would to any other woman +in the world, as I would have said to you weeks ago before I knew all +that you are . . . I don't say anything about the imbecility of keeping +such a woman as you are here in this narrow, drab hole, this sordid +prison . . . you born, if ever a human being was, to rich and warm and +harmonious living! It is your birthright. Let me give it to you. All +that, even that, a whole world of beauty and fullness waiting for you to +create it to glorious being, all that is nothing compared to what has +come to pass between us, you and me; compared to that other world of +impassioned living existence that is waiting for you. Come away from the +man who is nothing more to you than the house you live in . . . nothing +but a habit." + +She started at this, moving out of the stony immobility in which she +gazed at him, listened to him. She did not know that she had moved, was +incapable of willing to do so. It had been a mere reflex start as though +she had been struck. But at the sight of it, the flame in his eyes +leaped up. "No, no, no!" he cried with an insistent triumph, "he is +nothing more to you than a habit. And you are nothing more to him. You +were right, on that evening when you shrank away from the sight of the +place in Italy where in your ignorant youth you made the mistake of +trying to join your life to his. There is not a breath you draw, not a +turn of your head or body . . . I know them all . . . that does not prove +that he is nothing to you now. I have seen you take a handkerchief from +his pocket as you would take it from a bureau-drawer. I have seen him +set you on one side, to pass through a door, as he would set a chair on +one side. You don't even see him any more when you look at him, and he +doesn't see you. Whatever there may have been between you, if there was +ever anything real, it is dead now, dead and buried . . . and you the most +living woman who ever wore flesh and blood! And I am a living man! You +know, I don't need to say it, you know what happens when our looks meet. +Our looks only! Life flares up like a torch in both of us. You know if I +but brush against your skirt, how I cannot speak! You know how when our +hands touch, every drop of blood in our two bodies burns! You are a +grown woman. You know life as well as I do. You know what this means. +You are no longer even a part of his life. You are all of mine. Look at +me now." + +He flung out his hands, shaking uncontrollably. "Do you see how I show +this, say this anywhere, tell this to you here, now, where anyone could +hear me? I am not ashamed of it. It is not a thing to hide. It is a +thing to glory in. It is the only honestly living thing in all our +miserable human life, the passion of a man and a woman for each other. +It is the only thing that moves us out of our cowardly lethargy of +dead-and-alive egotism. The thing that is really base and false is to +pretend that what is dead is still alive. Your marriage is dead. Your +children do not need you as you pretend. Let yourself go in this flood +that is sweeping us along. I had never thought to know it. I could fall +down and worship you because you have shown it to me. But I will show it +to you, that and the significance of what you will be when you are no +longer smothered and starved. In all this scrawling ant-heap of +humanity, there are only a handful of human beings who ever really live. +And we will be among them. All the rest are nothing, less than nothing, +to be stamped down if they impede you. They have no other destiny. But +we have! Everything comes down to that in the end. That is the only +truth. That . . . and you and I!" + +In the distance, someone called Marise's name. He thought she made a +move, and said, leaning towards her, the heat of his body burning +through to her arm where he touched her, "No, no, none of those trivial, +foolish interruptions that tie you hand and foot, can tie us any longer. +They have no real strength. They can't stand for an instant against +something alive. All that rattles in your ears, that keeps you from +knowing what you really are . . ." + +Someone was hurrying down the walk towards them, hidden by the hedge. +Marise could not have turned her head if her life had hung on the +action. + +Vincent looked straight at her, straight and deep and strong into her +eyes, and for an instant his burning lips were pressed on hers. The +contact was terrible, momentous. + +When he went on speaking, without haste, unafraid although the hurrying +steps were almost there, she could scarcely hear his voice, although it +was urgent and puissant as the impact of his eyes. "You can't get away +from this now. It is here. It has been said. It lives between us, and +you are not strong enough, no power on earth is strong enough, to put it +down." + + * * * * * + +And then the outer world broke in on them, swept between them with an +outcry. Someone was there, someone who drew short sobbing breaths, who +caught at her and clung to her. It was Cousin Hetty's old Agnes . . . why +in the world was she here? . . . and she was saying in a loud voice as +though she had no control of it, "Oh, oh! Come quick! Come quick!" + +Marise stood up, carrying the old woman with her. She was entirely +certain now that she was in a nightmare, from which she would presently +awake, wet with cold sweat. + +"Come! Come!" cried the old woman, beating her hands on Marise's arm. +"Perhaps it ain't too late. Perhaps you can do something." + +"What has happened?" asked Marise, making her voice sharp and imperative +to pierce the other's agitation. + +"I don't know. I don't know," sobbed Agnes. "She didn't come down for +breakfast. I went up to see . . . oh, go quick! Go quick!" + +She went down, half on the bench, half on the ground. + +Marise and Marsh stood for an instant, petrified. + +There was only the smallest part of Marise's consciousness which was +alive to this. Most of it lay numbed and bewildered, still hearing, like +a roll of thunder, the voice of Vincent Marsh. + +Then she turned. "Look out for her, will you," she said briefly. "No, +don't come with me. I'll go by the back road. It's the quickest, but +it's too narrow for a car. You drive to Ashley and bring the doctor in +your car." + +She ran down the path and around the house to the road, not feeling the +blinding heat of the sun. She ran along the dusty road, a few steps from +the house before the turn into the narrow lane. She felt nothing at all +but a great need for haste. + +As she ran, putting all her strength into her running, there were +moments when she forgot why she was hurrying, where she was going, what +had happened; but she did not slacken her pace. She was on the narrow +back road now, in the dense shade of the pines below the Eagle Rocks. In +five minutes she would be at Cousin Hetty's. That was where she was +going. + +She was running more slowly now over the rough, uneven, stony road, and +she was aware, more than of anything else, of a pain in her chest where +she could not draw a long breath. It seemed to her that she must be now +wholly in the bad dream, for she had the nightmare sensation of running +with all her strength and not advancing at all. The somber, thick-set +pines seemed to be implacably in the same place, no matter how she tried +to pass them, to leave them behind, to hurry on. Everything else in the +silent, breathless, midsummer forest was rooted immovably deep in the +earth. She alone was killing herself with haste, and yet futilely . . . +not able to get forward, not able to . . . + + * * * * * + +And then, fit to turn her brain, the forest drew aside and showed her +another nightmare figure, a man, far away to her right, running down the +steep incline that sloped up to the Rocks. A man running as she had been +wishing she could run, a powerful, roughly dressed man, rapt in a +passion of headlong flight, that cast him down the rough slope, over the +rocks, through the brambles, as though his flight were part of an +endless fall. + +Marise stopped stock-still, shocked out of every sensation but the +age-old woman's instinct of fear and concealment. + +The man plunged forward, not seeing her where she stood on the road +across which he now burst, flinging himself out of the pines on one side +and into the thicket of undergrowth on the other. + +Far from him as she was, Marise could hear, through the forest hush, the +terrible sound of his breathing as he ran, as he stumbled, as he +struggled to his feet, fighting crazily with the thick undergrowth. +Those loud hoarse gasps . . . it was as though he were being choked to +death by a hand on his throat. + +He was gone, down the slope towards the valley road. The leaves closed +together behind him. The forest was impenetrably silent again. Marise +knew who he was, then, recognized him for 'Gene Powers beyond any doubt. + +She felt a strange mixture of pity and scorn and envy. To be so +primitive as that . . . to think, even for an instant's madness, that you +could run away on your own two poor human feet from whatever life +brought to you! + + * * * * * + +She herself was hurrying forward again. What was she going to? What had +she left behind? The passage of the other runner had not taken a single +moment's time. She was now at the path which led to Cousin Hetty's +side-door. + +She darted along this, and found herself in the yard before the door, +open as Agnes had left it when she rushed out for help. + +A tea-kettle on the kitchen-stove sang in a low murmur. The clock ticked +loudly, wagging its pendulum back and forth. The cat, stretched at full +length on the floor in a yellow square of sunlight, lifted a drowsy head +and looked at her. There was a smell of freshly made coffee in the air. +As she stood there for an instant till the whirling in her head should +stop, a stick of wood in the fire broke and fell together. + +Marise went through into the dining-room where the table laid for +breakfast stood in a quiet expectancy. The old house, well-kept and +well-loved, wore a tranquil expression of permanence and security. + +But out in the dusky hail, the white stairs stood palely motioning up. +There Marise felt a singular heavy coolness in the stagnant air. She +went up the stairs, leaning on the balustrade, and found herself facing +an open door. + +Beyond it, in a shuttered and shaded room, stood a still white bed. And +on the bed, still and white and distant, lay something dead. It was not +Cousin Hetty. That austere, cold face, proud and stern, was not Cousin +Hetty's. It was her grandmother's, her father's, her uncle's face, whom +Cousin Hetty had never at all resembled. It was the family shell which +Cousin Hetty had for a time inhabited. + +Marise came forward and crossed the threshold. Immediately she was aware +of a palpable change in the atmosphere. The room was densely filled with +silence, which folded her about coldly. She sank down on a chair. She +sat motionless, looking at what lay there so quiet, at the unimaginable +emptiness and remoteness of that human countenance. + +This was the end. She had come to the end of her running and her haste +and her effort to help. All the paltry agitations and sorrows, the +strains and defeats and poor joys, they were all hurrying forward to +meet this end. + +All the scruples, and sacrifices, and tearing asunder of human desires +to make them fit words that were called ideals, all amounted to this +same nothingness in the end. + +What was Cousin Hetty's life now, with its tiny inhibitions, its little +passivities? The same nothingness it would have been, had she grasped +boldly at life's realities and taken whatever she wanted. + +And all Cousin Hetty's mother's sacrifices for her, her mother's hopes +for her, the slow transfusion of her mother's life to hers; that was all +dead now, had been of no avail against this nothingness. Some day Elly +would lie like that, and all that she had done for Elly, or could do for +her, would be only a pinch of ashes. If she, if Cousin Hetty, if Cousin +Hetty's mother, if Elly, if all of them, took hotly whatever the hours +had to give, they could not more certainly be brought to nothingness and +oblivion in the end. . . . + +Those dreams of her . . . being one with a great current, sweeping forward +. . . what pitiful delusions! . . . There was nothing that swept forward. +There were only futile storms of froth and excitement that whirled you +about to no end, one after another. One died down and left you becalmed +and stagnant, and another rose. And that would die down in its turn. +Until at the end, shipwreck, and a sinking to this darkly silent abyss. + + + + +CHAPTER XX + +A PRIMAEVAL HERITAGE + + +July 21. Evening. + +Cousin Hetty lay coldly dead; and Marise felt herself blown upon by an +icy breath that froze her numb. The doctor had come and gone, queerly, +and bustlingly alive and full of talk and explanations; Agnes had come +back and, silently weeping, had walked endlessly and aimlessly around +the house, with a broom in her idle hand; one after another of the +neighbors had come and gone, queerly alive as usual, they too, for all +their hushed and awkward manners; Neale had come, seeming to feel that +cold breath as little as the others. + +And now Neale was gone, after everything had been decided, all the +incredibly multitudinous details that must be decided. The funeral was +set for the day after tomorrow, and until then, everything in +everybody's life was to stop stock-still, as a matter of course. Because +Agnes was in terror of being left alone for an instant, Marise would not +even leave the house until after the funeral, and one of the thousand +petty unescapable details she and Neale had talked of in the hushed +voice which the house imposed on all in it, was the decision as to which +dress and hat were to be sent to her from the wardrobe at home. + +She was to stay there with Agnes, she, who was all the family old Cousin +Hetty had left, for the last watch over what lay up there on the bed in +her bedroom. Neale would look out for the children (there was no one +else for the moment, Toucle was gone, Eugenia quite useless), would +telegraph the few old friends who would care to know the news, would +see Mr. Bayweather about the funeral, would telephone the man in West +Ashley who dug graves, would do what was to be done outside; and she +would do what was to be done inside, as now, when she sat on the stairs +waiting in case the undertaker needed something. + +She was glad that the undertaker was only quiet, white-bearded old Mr. +Hadley, who for so many, many years had given his silent services to the +dead of Ashley that he had come to seem not quite a living figure +himself, hushed and stilled by his association with everlasting +stillness. Marise, cold and numbed with that icy breath upon her, knew +now why the old undertaker was always silent and absent. A strange life +he must have had. She had never thought of it till she had seen him come +into that house, where she and Agnes waited for him, uncertain, abashed, +not knowing what to do. Into how many such houses he must have gone, +with that same quiet look of unsurprised acceptance of what everybody +knew was coming sometime and nobody ever expected to come at all. How +extraordinary that it had never occurred to her that Cousin Hetty, old +as she was, would some day die. You never really believed that anybody +in your own life was ever going to die, or change; any more than you +really believed that you yourself were ever going to grow old, or +change; or that the children were ever really going to grow up. That +threadbare old phrase about the death of old people, "it always comes as +a shock," that was true of all the inevitable things that happened in +life which you saw happen to everyone else, and never believed would +happen to you. + +This was the last tie with the past gone, the last person disappeared +for whom she was still the little girl she felt herself now, the little +girl who had lost her way and wanted someone to put her back in the +path. She had a moment of very simple, sweet sorrow, sitting there alone +in the hall, warm tears streaming down her cheeks and falling on her +hands. Cousin Hetty gone, dear old Cousin Hetty, with her bright living +eyes, and her love for all that was young. How much she owed her . . . +those troubled years of her youth when Cousin Hetty and the old house +were unfailing shelter. What shelter had she now? + +The pendulum of her mind swung back . . . of course this was silly +traditional repeating of superstitious old words. There was no shelter; +there could be none in this life. No one could show her the path, +because there _was_ no path; and anyone who pretended to show it was +only a charlatan who traded on moments of weakness like this. + +Mr. Hadley opened the door quietly and asked in that seldom-heard voice +of his for a couple of soft, clean towels. Where did Cousin Hetty keep +her towels? In the chest of drawers at the end of the hall. An odor of +cloves came up spicily into the air as Marise opened the drawer. How +like Cousin Hetty to have that instead of the faded, sentimental +lavender. She had perhaps put those towels away there last night, with +her busy, shaking old hands, so still now. All dead, the quaintness, the +vitality, the zest in life, the new love for little Elly, all dead now, +as though it had never been, availing nothing. There was nothing that +did not die. + +She handed in the towels and sat down again on the stairs leaning her +head against the wall. What time could it be? Was it still daylight? . . . +No, there was a lamp lighted down there. What could she have been doing +all day, she and Agnes and the doctor and Mr. Hadley? She wondered if +the children were all right, and if Neale would remember, when he washed +Mark's face, that there was a bruise on his temple where the swing-board +had struck him. Was that only yesterday morning! Was it possible that it +was only last night that she had lain awake in the darkness, trying to +think, trying to know what she was feeling, burning with excitement, as +one by one those boldly forward-thrusting movements came back to her +from the time when he had cried out so angrily, "_They_ can't love her. +They're not capable of it!" to the time when they had exchanged that +long reckless gaze over Elly's head! And now there was the triumphant +glory of security which had been in his kiss . . . why, that was this +morning, only a few hours ago! Even through her cold numbed lassitude +she shrank again before the flare-up of that excitement, and burned in +it. She tried to put this behind her at once, to wait, like all the +rest, till this truce should be over, and she should once more be back +in that melee of agitation the thought of which turned her sick with +confusion. She was not strong enough for life, if this was what it +brought, these fierce, clawing passions that did not wait for your +bidding to go or come, but left you as though you were dead and then +pounced on you like tigers. She had not iron in her either to live +ruthlessly, or to stamp out that upward leap of flame which meant the +renewal of priceless youth and passion. Between these alternatives, she +_could_ make no decision, she could not, it would tear her in pieces to +do it. + +The pendulum swung back again, and all this went out, leaving her +mortally tired. Agnes came to the foot of the stairs, a little, +withered, stricken old figure, her apron at her eyes. From behind it she +murmured humbly, between swallowing hard, that she had made some tea and +there was bread and butter ready, and should she boil an egg? + +A good and healing pity came into Marise's heart. Poor old Agnes, it was +the end of the world for her, of course. And how touching, how tragic, +how unjust, the fate of dependents, to turn from one source of commands +to another. She ran downstairs on tip-toe and put her arm around the old +woman's shoulder. "I haven't said anything yet, Agnes," she told her, +"because this has come on us so suddenly. But of course Mr. Crittenden +and I will always look out for you. Cousin Hetty . . . you were her best +friend." + +The old woman laid her head down on the other's shoulder and wept aloud. +"I miss her so. I miss her so," she said over and over. + +"The thing to do for her," thought Marise, as she patted the thin +heaving shoulders, "is to give her something to work at." Aloud she +said, "Agnes, we must get the front room downstairs ready. Mr. Hadley +wants to have Cousin Hetty brought down there. Before we eat we might as +well get the larger pieces of furniture moved out." + +Agnes stood up, docilely submitting herself to the command, stopped +crying, and went with Marise into the dim old room, in which nothing had +been changed since the day, twenty years ago, when the furniture had +been put back in place after Cousin Hetty's old mother had lain there, +for the last time. + +The two women began to work, and almost at once Agnes was herself again, +stepping about briskly, restored by the familiarity of being once more +under the direction of another. They pulled out the long haircloth sofa, +moved the spindle-legged old chairs into the dining-room, and carried +out one by one the drawers from the high-boy in the corner. From one of +these drawers a yellowed paper fell out. Marise picked it up and glanced +at it. It was a letter dated 1851, the blank page of which had been used +for a game of Consequences. The foolish incoherencies lay there in the +faded ink just as they had been read out, bringing with them the +laughter of those people, so long dead now, who had written them down in +that pointed, old-fashioned handwriting. Marise stood looking at it +while Agnes swept the other room. Cousin Hetty had been ten years old in +1851, just as old as Paul was now. Her mother had probably left +something she wanted to do, to sit down and laugh with her little +daughter over this trivial game. A ghostly echo of that long-silent +laughter fell faintly and coldly on her ear. So soon gone. Was it worth +while to do it at all? Such an effort, such a fatigue lay before those +children one tried to keep laughing, and then . . . + +Someone came in behind her, without knocking or ringing. People had been +coming and going unannounced in that house all the day as though death +had made it their own home. Agnes came to the door, Marise looked up +and saw Nelly Powers standing in the door-way, the second time she had +been there. "I come over again," she said, "to bring you some hot +biscuit and honey. I knew you wouldn't feel to do much cooking." She +added, "I put the biscuits in the oven as I come through, so they'd keep +warm." + +"Oh, thank you, Nelly, that's very kind and thoughtful," said Marise. As +she spoke and looked at the splendid, enigmatic woman standing there, +the richness of her vitality vibrating about her, she saw again the +nightmare vision of 'Gene and heard the terrible breathing that had +resounded in the Eagle Rock woods. She was overwhelmed, as so often +before in her life, by an amazement at the astounding difference between +the aspect of things and what they really were. She had never entirely +outgrown the wildness of surprise which this always brought to her. She +and Nelly, looking at each other so calmly, and speaking of hot +biscuits! + +She listened as though it were an ironically incongruous speech in a +play to Agnes' conscientious country attempt to make conversation with +the caller, "Hot today, ain't it? Yesterday's storm didn't seem to do +much good." And to Nelly's answer on the same note, "Yes, but it's good +for the corn to have it hot. 'Gene's been out cultivating his, all day +long." + +"Ah, not all day! Not all day!" Marise kept the thought to herself. She +had a vision of the man goaded beyond endurance, leaving his horses +plodding in the row, while he fled blindly, to escape the unescapable. + +An old resentment, centuries and ages older than she was, a primaeval +heritage from the past, flamed up unexpectedly in her heart. _There_ was +a man, she thought, who had kept the capacity really to love his wife; +passionately to suffer; whose cold intelligence had not chilled down to +. . ." + +"Well, I guess I must be going now," said Nelly in the speech of the +valley. She went away through the side-door, opening and shutting it +with meticulous care, so that it would not make a sound. . . . As though a +sound could reach Cousin Hetty now! + +"I don't like her biscuits," said Agnes. "She always puts too much sody +in." She added, in what was evidently the expression of an old dislike, +"And don't she look a fool, a great hulking critter like her, wearing +such shoes, teeterin' along on them heels." + +"Oh well," said Marise, vaguely, "it's her idea of how to look pretty." + +"They must cost an awful sight too," Agnes went on, scoldingly, "laced +halfway up her leg that way. And the Powerses as poor as Job's turkey. +The money she puts into them shoes'd do 'em enough sight more good if +'twas saved up and put into a manure spreader, I call it." + +She had taken the biscuits out of the oven and was holding them +suspiciously to her nose, when someone came in at the front door and +walked down the hall with the hushed, self-conscious, lugubrious tip-toe +step of the day. It was Mr. Bayweather, his round old face rather pale. +"I'm shocked, unutterably shocked by this news," he said, and indeed he +looked badly shaken and scared. It came to Marise that Cousin Hetty had +been of about his age. He shook her hand and looked about for a chair. +"I came to see about which hymns you would like sung," he said. "Do you +know if Miss Hetty had any favorites?" He broke off to say, "Mrs. +Bayweather wished me to be sure to excuse her to you for not coming with +me tonight to see if there was anything she could do. But she was +stopped by old Mrs. Warner, just as we were leaving the house. Frank, it +seems, went off early this morning to survey some lines in the woods +somewhere on the mountain, and was to be back to lunch. He didn't come +then and hasn't showed up at all yet. Mrs. Warner wanted my wife to +telephone up to North Ashley to see if he had perhaps gone there to +spend the night with his aunt. The line was busy of course, and Mrs. +Bayweather was still trying to get them on the wire when I had to come +away. If she had no special favorites, I think that 'Lead, Kindly Light, +Amid th' Encircling Gloom' is always suitable, don't you?" + +Something seemed to explode inside Marise's mind, and like a resultant +black cloud of smoke a huge and ominous possibility loomed up, so +darkly, so unexpectedly, that she had no breath to answer the +clergyman's question. Those lines Frank Warner had gone to survey ran +through the Eagle Rock woods! + + * * * * * + +"Or would you think an Easter one, like 'The Strife Is O'er, the Battle +Won,' more appropriate?" suggested Mr. Bayweather to her silence. + + * * * * * + +Agnes started. "Who's that come bursting into the kitchen?" she cried, +turning towards the door. + +It seemed to Marise, afterwards, that she had known at that moment who +had come and what the tidings were. + +Agnes started towards the door to open it. But it was flung open +abruptly from the outside. Toucle stood there, her hat gone from her +head, her rusty black clothes torn and disarranged. + +Marise knew what she was about to announce. + +She cried out to them, "Frank Warner has fallen off the Eagle Rocks. I +found him there, at the bottom, half an hour ago, dead." + + * * * * * + +The savage old flame, centuries and ages older than she, flared for an +instant high and smoky in Marise's heart. "_There_ is a man who knows +how to fight for his wife and keep her!" she thought fiercely. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +THE COUNSEL OF THE STARS + + +July 21. Night. + +It had been arranged that for the two nights before the funeral Agnes +was to sleep in the front bedroom, on one side of Cousin Hetty's room, +and Marise in the small hall bedroom on the other side, the same room +and the same bed in which she had slept as a little girl. Nothing had +been changed there, since those days. The same heavy white pitcher and +basin stood in the old wash-stand with the sunken top and hinged cover; +the same oval white soap-dish, the same ornamental spatter-work frame in +dark walnut hung over the narrow walnut bedstead. + +As she undressed in the space between the bed and the wash-stand, the +past came up before her in a sudden splashing wave of recollection which +for a moment engulfed her. It had all been a dream, all that had +happened since then, and she was again eight years old, with nothing in +the world but bad dreams to fear, and Cousin Hetty there at hand as a +refuge even against bad dreams. How many times she had wakened, +terrified, her heart beating hammer-strokes against her ribs, and +trotted shivering, in her night-gown, into Cousin Hetty's room. + +"Cousin Hetty! Cousin Hetty!" + +"What? What's that? Oh, you, Marise. What's the matter? Notions again?" + +"Oh, Cousin Hetty, it was an _awful_ dream this time. Can't I get into +bed with you?" + +"Why yes, come along, you silly child." + +The fumbling approach to the bed, the sheets held open, the kind old +hand outstretched, and then the haven . . . her head on the same pillow +with that of the brave old woman who was afraid of nothing, who drew her +up close and safe and with comforting assurance instantly fell asleep +again. And then the delicious, slow fading of the terrors before the +obliterating hand of sleep, the delicious slow sinking into +forgetfulness of everything. + + * * * * * + +Standing there, clad in the splendor of her physical maturity, Marise +shivered uncontrollably again, and quaked and feared. It was all a bad +dream, all of it, and now as then Cousin Hetty lay safe and quiet, +wrapped in sleep which was the only escape. Marise turned sick with +longing to go again, now, to seek out Cousin Hetty and to lie down by +her to share that safe and cold and dreamless quiet. + +She flung back over her shoulder the long shining dark braid which her +fingers had been automatically twisting, and stood for a moment +motionless. She was suffering acutely, but the pain came from a source +so deep, so confused, so inarticulate, that she could not name it, could +not bring to bear on it any of the resources of her intelligence and +will. She could only bend under it as under a crushing burden, and +suffer as an animal endures pain, dumbly, stupidly. + +After a time a small knock sounded, and Agnes's voice asked through the +door if Miss Marise thought the door to . . . to . . . if the "other" door +ought to be open or shut. It was shut now. What did people do as a +general thing? + +Marise opened her own door and looked down on the old figure in the +straight, yellowed night-gown, the knotted, big-veined hand shielding +the candle from the wandering summer breeze which blew an occasional +silent, fragrant breath in from the open windows. + +"I don't know what people do as a rule," she answered, and then asked, +"How did Miss Hetty like best to have it, herself?" + +"Oh, open, always." + +"We'd better open it, then." + +The old servant swayed before the closed door, the candlestick shaking +in her hand. She looked up at Marise timidly. "You do it," she said +under her breath. + +Marise felt a faint pitying scorn, stepped past Agnes, lifted the latch, +and opened the door wide into the blackness of the other room. + +The dense silence seemed to come out, coldly and softly. For Marise it +had the sweetness of a longed-for anaesthetic, it had the very odor of +the dreamless quiet into which she longed to sink. But Agnes shrank +away, drew hastily closer to Marise, and whispered in a sudden panic, +"Oh, don't it scare you? Aren't you afraid to be here all alone, just +you and me? We'd ought to have had a man stay too." + +Marise tried to answer simply and kindly, "No, I'm not afraid. It is +only all that is left of dear Cousin Hetty." But the impatience and +contemptuous surprise which she kept out of her words and voice were +felt none the less by the old woman. She drooped submissively as under a +reproach. "I know it's foolish," she murmured, "I know it's foolish." + +She began again to weep, the tears filling her faded eyes and running +quietly down her wrinkled old cheeks. "You don't know how gone I feel +without her!" she mourned. "I'd always had her to tell me what to do. +Thirty-five years now, every day, she's been here to tell me what to do. +I can't make it seem true, that it's her lying in there. Seems as though +every minute she'd come in, stepping quick, the way she did. And I +fairly open my mouth to ask her, 'Now Miss Hetty, what shall I do next?' +and then it all comes over me." + +Marise's impatience and scorn were flooded by an immense sympathy. What +a pitiable thing a dependent is! Poor old Agnes! She leaned down to the +humble, docile old face, and put her cheek against it. "I'll do my best +to take Cousin Hetty's place for you," she said gently, and then, "Now +you'd better go back to bed. There's a hard day ahead of us." + +Agnes responded with relief to the tone of authority. She said with a +reassured accent, "Well, it's all right if _you're_ not afraid," turned +and shuffled down the hall, comforted and obedient. + +Marise saw her go into her room, heard the creak of the bed as she lay +down on it, and then the old voice, "Miss Marise, will it be all right +if I leave my candle burning, just this once?" + +"Yes, yes, Agnes, that'll be all right," she answered. "Go to sleep +now." As she went back into her own room, she thought passingly to +herself, "Strange that anyone can live so long and grow up so little." + +She herself opened her bed, lay down on it resolutely, and blew out her +candle. + +Instantly the room seemed suffocatingly full of a thousand flying, +disconnected pictures. The talk with Agnes had changed her mood. The +dull, leaden weight of that numbing burden of inarticulate pain was +broken into innumerable fragments. For a time, before she could collect +herself to self-control, her thoughts whirled and roared in her head +like a machine disconnected from its work, racing furiously till it +threatens to shake itself to pieces. Everything seemed to come at once. + +Frank Warner was dead. What would that mean to Nelly Powers? + +Had there been enough bread left in the house till someone could drive +the Ford to Ashley and buy some more? + +Ought she to wear mourning for Cousin Hetty? + +What had happened on the Eagle Rocks? Had Frank and 'Gene quarreled, or +had 'Gene crept up behind Frank as he sighted along the compass? + +How would they get Cousin Hetty's friends from the station at Ashley, +out to the house, such feeble old people as they were? It would be +better to have the services all at the church. + +Had anything been decided about hymns? Someone had said something about +it, but what had she . . . oh, of course that had been the moment when +Toucle had come in, and Mr. Bayweather had rushed away to tell Frank's +mother. Frank's mother. His mother! Suppose that were to happen to Mark, +or Paul? No, not such thoughts. They mustn't be let in at all, or you +went mad. + +Was it true that Elly cared nothing about her, that children didn't, for +grown-ups, that she was nothing in Elly's life? + +She was glad that Toucle had come back. There would be someone to help +Neale with the children. . . . + +_Neale_ . . . the name brought her up abruptly. Her mind, hurrying, +breathless, panting, was stopped by the name, as by a great rock in the +path. There was an instant of blankness, as she faced it, as though it +were a name she did not know. When she said that name, everything +stopped going around in her head. She moved restlessly in her bed. + +And then, as though she had gone around the rock, the rapid, pattering, +painful rush of those incoherent ideas began again. Queer that nobody +there, Mr. Bayweather, Agnes, Toucle, none of them seemed to realize +that Frank had not fallen, that 'Gene had . . . but of course she +remembered they hadn't any idea of a possible connection between Frank +and the Powers, and she had been the only one to see 'Gene in that +terrible flight from the Rocks. Nelly had thought he had been +cultivating corn all day. Of course nobody would think of anything but +an accident. Nobody would ever know. + +Yes, it was true; it was true that she would touch Neale and never know +it, never feel it . . . how closely that had been observed, that she could +take a handkerchief from his pocket as from a piece of furniture. It was +true that Neale and she knew each other now till there was no hidden +corner, no mystery, no possibility of a single unexpected thing between +them. She had not realized it, but it was true. How could she not have +seen that his presence left her wholly unmoved, indifferent now? But how +could she have known it, so gradual had been the coming of satiety, +until she had to contrast with it this fierce burning response to a +fierce and new emotion? . . . + +Had she thought "indifference"? and "satiety"? Of whom had she been +thinking? Not of _Neale_! Was that what had come of the great hour on +Rocca di Papa? _Was that what human beings were?_ + +She had gone further this time, but now she was brought up short by the +same blankness at the name of Neale, the same impossibility to think at +all. She could not think about Neale tonight. All that must be put off +till she was more like herself, till she was more steady. She was +reeling now, with shock after shock; Cousin Hetty's death, 'Gene's +dreadful secret, the discovery no longer to be evaded of what Vincent +Marsh meant and was. . . . + +She felt a sudden hurried impatient haste to be with Vincent again, to +feel again the choking throb when she first saw him, the constant scared +uncertainty of what he might say, what she might feel, what they both +might do, from one moment to the next . . . she could forget, in those +fiery and potent draughts, everything, all this that was so hard and +painful and that she could not understand and that was such a torment to +try to understand. Everything would be swept away except . . . + +As though she had whirled suddenly about to see what was lurking there +behind her, she whirled about and found the thought, "But I ought to +tell someone, tell the police, that I saw 'Gene Powers running away +after he had killed the man who wanted to take his wife from him." + +Instantly there spoke out a bitter voice, "No, I shall tell no one. +'Gene has known how to keep Nelly. Let him have her for all his life." + +Another voice answered, "Frank's mother . . . his mother!" + +And both of these were drowned by a tide of sickness as the recollection +came upon her of that dreadful haste, those horrible labored breaths. + +She sat up with a great sweeping gesture of her arms, as though she must +fight for air. The little room seemed palpably crammed with those +jostling, shouting, battling thoughts. She slid from the bed and went to +the window, leaning far out from it, and looking up at the sky, +immeasurably high and black, studded thick with stars. + +They looked down disdainfully at her fever and misery. A chilling +consolation fell from them upon her, like a cold dew. She felt herself +shrink to imperceptible proportions. What did they matter, the struggles +of the maggots who crawled about the folds of the globe, itself the most +trifling and insignificant of all the countless worlds which people the +aimless disorder of the universe? What difference did it make? Anything +they did was so soon indistinguishable from anything else. The easiest +way . . . to yield to whatever had the strongest present force . . . that +was as good as any other way in the great and blind confusion of it all. + +After she had gone back to bed, she could still see the silent multitude +of stars above her, enormous, remote beyond imagination, and it was +under their thin, cold, indifferent gaze that she finally fell asleep. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +EUGENIA DOES WHAT SHE CAN + + +July 22. + +Agnes brought upstairs an armful of white roses. "The lady that visits +at your house, she brought them from your garden and she wants to see +you if she can." + +Eugenia of course. That was unexpected. She must have made an effort to +do that, she who hated sickness and death and all dark things. + +"Yes, tell her I will be down in a moment. Take her in a glass of cold +water, too, will you please, Agnes. The walk over here must have been +terribly hot for her." + +The roses showed that. They were warm to the touch and as she looked at +them intently, at their white clear faces, familiar to her as those of +human beings, bent on her with a mute message from the garden, she saw +they had begun to droop imperceptibly, that the close, fine texture of +their petals had begun ever so slightly to wither. She sprinkled them, +put their stems deep into water and went downstairs, wiping her moist +hands on her handkerchief. + +Eugenia in mauve organdie stood up from the deep Windsor chair where she +had sunk down, and came forward silently to greet her. They kissed each +other ceremoniously in token of the fact that a death lay between them +and the last time they had met . . . was it only yesterday morning? + +"Were you able to sleep at all, Marise? You look shockingly tired." + +"Oh yes, thanks. I slept well enough. Are the children all right?" + +Eugenia nodded, "Yes, as usual." + +"Did their father tell them the news of Cousin Hetty's death? How did +they take it? Elly perhaps was . . ." + +Eugenia did not know about this, had not happened to hear anybody say. +But old Toucle was back, at least, to do the work. + +"I knew she must be," said Marise. "She was here last night. It was she, +you know, who found Frank Warner's body at the foot of . . . of course +you've heard of that?" + +Eugenia made a little wry face. Of course she had heard of that, she +said with an accent of distaste. Everybody was talking about the +melodramatic accident, as probably they would still be talking about it +a hundred years from now, up here where nothing happened. People had +come all the way from North Ashley to look at the place, and some of the +men and boys had gone around up to the top of the Eagle Rocks to see +where Frank had lost his footing. They found his surveyor's compass +still set upon its staff. It was where the line ran very near the edge +and Frank must have stepped over the cliff as he was sighting along it. +They could see torn leaves and stripped twigs as though he had tried to +save himself as he fell. + +She stopped speaking. Marise found herself too sick and shaken to +venture any comment. There was rather a long silence, such as was +natural and suitable under the circumstances, in that house. Presently +Marise broke this to ask if anyone knew how Frank's mother had taken the +news, although she knew of course Eugenia was the last person of whom to +ask such a question. As she expected, Eugenia had only lifted eyebrows, +a faint slow shake of her head and a small graceful shrug of her +shoulders, her usual formula for conveying her ignorance of common +facts, and her indifference to that ignorance. + +But Marise, looking at her, as they sat opposite each other in the +twilight of the closely shuttered room, was struck by the fact that +Eugenia did not seem wholly like herself. Her outward aspect was the +same, the usual exquisite exactitude of detail, every blond hair shining +and in its place, the flawless perfection of her flesh as miraculous as +ever, her tiny white shoe untouched by dust through which she must have +walked to reach the house. But there was something . . . in her eyes, +perhaps . . . which now looked back at Marise with an expression which +Marise did not understand or recognize. If it had not been impossible to +think it of Eugenia, Marise would have imagined that her eyes looked +troubled, excited. Was it possible that even in her safe ivory tower of +aloofness from life, she had felt the jarring blow of the brutally +immediate tragedy of the Eagle Rocks? Or perhaps even Cousin Hetty's +disappearance . . . she had always hated reminders of death. + +As Marise, surprised, looked at her and wondered thus passingly if she +felt any reverberation from the tragedy-laden air about them, Eugenia's +face hardened back into its usual smooth calm; over the eyes that had +been for an instant transparent and alive with troubled brightness, slid +their acquired expression of benignant indifference. She answered +Marise's faintly inquiring gaze by getting up as if to go, remarking in +a clear low tone (she was the only person who had come into the house +who had not succumbed to that foolish, instinctive muffling of the +voice), "I forgot to give you a message from Neale. He is obliged to be +away today, on business, something about a deed to some wood-land." + +Marise was slightly surprised. "Where is he going?" she asked. "In the +Ford? On the train?" How little she had thought about the mill of late, +that she should be so entirely blank as to this business trip. + +"Oh, I didn't even try to understand," said Eugenia, smoothing the +shining silk of her parasol. "Business finds no echo in me, you know. A +man came to supper last night, unexpectedly, and they talked +interminably about some deal, lumbering, lines, surveys, deeds . . . till +Toucle came in with the news of the accident. The man was from New +Hampshire, with that droll, flat New Hampshire accent. You know how they +talk, 'bahn' and 'yahd' for barn and yard." + +The words "New Hampshire" and "deeds" stirred a disagreeable association +of ideas in Marise's mind. The shyster lawyer who had done the Powers +out of their inheritance had come from New Hampshire. However, she +supposed there were other people in the state besides dishonest lawyers. + +Eugenia went on casually. "It seemed quite important. Neale was absorbed +by it. He told me afterward, Neale did, that the man had acted as agent +for him some years ago in securing a big tract of wood-land around here, +something that had been hard to get hold of." + +Marise was startled and showed it by a quick lift of her head. She had +never known Neale to employ an agent. She looked hard at Eugenia's +quiet, indifferent face. The other seemed not to notice her surprise, +and returned her look with a long clear gaze, which apparently referred +to her hair, for she now remarked in just the tone she had used for the +news about Neale, "That way of arranging your coiffure _is_ singularly +becoming to you. Mr. Marsh was speaking about it the other day, but I +hadn't specially noticed it. He's right. It gives you that swathed +close-coifed Leonardo da Vinci look." She put her handkerchief into a +small bag of mauve linen, embroidered with white and pale-green crewels, +and took up her parasol. + +Marise felt something menacing in the air. Eugenia frightened her a +little with that glass-smooth look of hers. The best thing to do was to +let her go without another word. And yet she heard her voice asking, +urgently, peremptorily, "What was the name of the man from New +Hampshire?" + +Eugenia said, "What man from New Hampshire?" and then, under Marise's +silent gaze, corrected herself and changed her tone. "Oh yes, let me +see: Neale introduced him, of course. Why, some not uncommon name, and +yet not like Smith or Jones. It began with an L, I believe." + +Marise said to herself, "I will not say another word about this," and +aloud she said roughly, brusquely, "It wasn't Lowder, of course." + +"Yes, yes," said Eugenia, "you're right. It was Lowder. I _thought_ it +was probably something you'd know about. Neale always tells you +everything." + +She looked away and remarked, "I suppose you will inherit the furniture +of this house? There are nice bits. This Windsor chair; and I thought I +saw a Chippendale buffet in the dining-room." + +Marise, immobile in her chair, repeated, "It wasn't Lowder. You didn't +say it was Lowder." + +"Yes, it was Lowder," said Eugenia clearly. "And now you speak of it +once more, I remember one more thing about their talk although I didn't +try to understand much of it. It was all connected with the Powers +family. It was their woodlot which this Mr. Lowder had bought for Neale. +I was surprised to know that they had ever had any wood-land. They have +always seemed too sordidly poverty-stricken. But it seems this was the +only way Neale could get hold of it, because they refused to sell +otherwise." + +She looked again at Marise, a long, steady, and entirely opaque gaze +which Marise returned mutely, incapable of uttering a word. She had the +feeling of leaning with all her weight against an inner-door that must +be kept shut. + +"Did Neale _tell_ you this man had secured the Powers woodlot for him, +for Neale, for our mill?" she heard her voice asking, faint in the +distance, far off from where she had flung herself against that door. + +"Why yes, why not? Not very recently he said, some time ago. We had +quite a talk about it afterwards. It must be something you've +forgotten," said Eugenia. She took up a card from the table and fanned +herself as she spoke, her eyes not quitting Marise's face. "It's going +to be as hot as it was yesterday," she said with resignation. "Doesn't +it make you long for a dusky, high-ceilinged Roman room with a cool, +red-tiled floor, and somebody out in the street shouting through your +closed shutters, 'Ricotta! Ricotta!'" she asked lightly. + +Marise looked at her blankly. She wished she could lean forward and +touch Eugenia to make sure she was really standing there. What was it +she had been saying? She could not have understood a word of it. It was +impossible that it should be what it seemed to mean,--impossible! + +A door somewhere in the house opened and shut, and steps approached. The +two women turned their eyes towards the hall-door. Old Mrs. Powers +walked in unceremoniously, her gingham dress dusty, her lean face deeply +flushed by the heat, a tin pan in her hands, covered with a +blue-and-white checked cloth. + +"I thought maybe you'd relish some fresh doughnuts as well as anything," +she said briskly, with no preliminary of greeting. + +Something about the atmosphere of the room struck her oddly for all the +composed faces and quiet postures of the two occupants. She brought out +as near an apology for intruding, as her phraseless upbringing would +permit her. "I didn't see Agnes in the kitchen as I come through, so I +come right along, to find somebody," she said, a little abashed. + +Marise was incapable of speaking to her, but she made a silent gesture +of thanks, and, moving forward, took the pan from the older woman's +hand. + +Mrs. Powers went on, "If 'twouldn't bother you, could you put them in +your jar now, and let me take the pan back with me? We hain't got any +too many dishes, you know." + +Marise went out to the pantry with the older woman, feeling with +astonishment the floor hard and firm under her feet as usual, the walls +upright about her. Only something at the back of her throat contracted +to a knot, relaxed, contracted, with a singular, disagreeable, +involuntary regularity. + +"You look down sick, Mis' Crittenden," said Mrs. Powers with a +respectful admiration for the suitability of this appearance. "And there +ain't nothing surprising that you should. Did you ever see anybody go +off more sudden than Miss Hetty? Such a good woman she was, too. It must +ha' gi'n you an awful turn." She poured the doughnuts into the jar and, +folding the checked cloth, went on, "But I look at it this way. 'Twas a +quick end, and a peaceful end without no pain. And if you'd seen as many +old people drag along for years, as I have, stranglin' and chokin' and +half-dead, why, you'd feel to be thankful Miss Hetty was spared that. +And you too!" + +"Marise," said Eugenia, coming to the pantry door, "your neighbors +wanted me, of course, to bring you all their sympathetic condolence. Mr. +Welles asked me to tell you that he would send all the flowers in his +garden to the church for the service tomorrow. And Mr. Marsh was very +anxious to see you today, to arrange about the use of his car in meeting +the people who may come on the train tomorrow, to attend the funeral. He +said he would run over here any time today, if you would send Agnes to +tell him when you would see him. He said he wouldn't leave the house all +day, to be ready to come at any time you would let him." + +Mrs. Powers was filled with satisfaction at such conduct. "Now that's +what I call real neighborly," she said. "And both on 'em new to our ways +too. That Mr. Welles is a real nice old man, anyhow. . . . There! I call +him 'old' and I bet he's younger than I be. He acts so kind o' settled +down to stay. But Mr. Marsh don't act so. That's the kind man I like to +see, up-and-coming, so you never know what he's a-goin' to do next." + +Eugenia waited through this, for some answer, and still waited +persistently, her eyes on Marise's face. + +Marise aroused herself. She must make some comment, of course. "Please +thank them both very much," she said finally, and turned away to set the +jar on a shelf. + +"Well, you goin'?" said Mrs. Powers, behind her, evidently to Eugenia. +"Well, good-bye, see you at the funeral tomorrow, I s'pose." + +Marise looked around and caught a silent, graceful salutation of +farewell from Eugenia, who disappeared down the hall, the front door +closing gently behind her. + +Mrs. Powers began again abruptly, "Folks is sayin' that Frank Warner +must ha' been drinking, but I don't believe it. He wa'n't no drinker. +And where'd he git it, if he was? It was heedless, that's what it was. +He always was a heedless critter from a little boy up. He was the one +that skated right ahead into the hole and most drowned him, and he was +fooling with his gran'father's shot-gun when it went off and most blew +him to pieces. 'S a wonder he lived to grow up: he come so nigh breaking +his neck, before this." + +Marise was surprised to hear Eugenia's voice again, "Marise, I stepped +back to ask you if there are any errands I could do for you, any +messages to take. I pass by the door of Mr. Welles' house. I could +perfectly easily stop there and tell Mr. Marsh he could see you now, for +instance." + +Marise seemed to see her from afar. She heard what she said, but she was +aware of it only as an interruption. There was a question she must ask +old Mrs. Powers. How could she think of anything else till that had been +answered? She said to Eugenia at random, using the first phrase that +came into her mind, "No, no. Later. Some other time." + +Eugenia hesitated, took a step away from the door, and then came back +in, deliberately, close to Marise. She spoke to her in Italian, very +clearly, "He is not a man who will wait." + +To this Marise, wholly engrossed in her inner struggle, opposed a stupid +blankness, an incapacity to think of what Eugenia was saying, long +enough to understand it. In that dark inner room, where she kept the +door shut against the horror that was trying to come in, she dared not +for an instant look away. She merely shook her head and motioned +impatiently with her hand. Why did not Eugenia go away? + +And yet when Eugenia had gone, she could not bring the words out because +of that strange contraction of her throat. + +"My! but you ought to go and lie down," said Mrs. Powers +compassionately. "You're as white as a sheet. Why don't you just give up +for a while? Agnes and I'll tend to things." + +Marise was filled with terror at the idea of not getting her answer, and +spoke quickly, abruptly. "Mrs. Powers, you never heard, did you, you +never thought, in that trouble about losing your wood-land . . . nobody +ever thought that Mr. Lowder was only an agent for someone else, whose +name wasn't to be known then." + +"Oh sure," said Mrs. Powers readily. "'Gene found out from a man that +had lived in his town in New Hampshire that Lowder didn't do no +lumbering of his own. He just makes a business of dirty deals like that +for pay. He always surmised it to be some lumber-company; somebody that +runs a mill. Lots of men that run mills do that sort of thing, darn +'em!" + +Marise leaned against the pantry shelf. The old woman glanced at her +face, gave a cry, and pushed her into a chair, running for water. At the +sound, Agnes came trotting, and showed a scared rabbit-like face. "She's +just beat out with the shock of Miss Hetty's going off so sudden," +explained Mrs. Powers to Agnes. + +Marise got to her feet angrily. She had entirely forgotten that Cousin +Hetty was dead, or that she was in her house. She was shocked that for a +moment she had relaxed her steady pressure against that opening door. +She flung herself against it now. What could she do next? + +Instantly, clearly, as though she had heard someone saying it to her, +she thought, "Why, of course, all I have to do is to go and ask Neale +about it!" + +It was so simple. Somehow, of course, Neale could give the answer she +must have. Why had she not thought of that the instant Eugenia had begun +to speak? + +She drank the glass of water Agnes gave her and said, "Mrs. Powers, +could you do something for me? I promised I would stay here till the +funeral and I know Agnes is afraid to stay alone. Would you mind waiting +here for perhaps half an hour till I could get to the mill and back? +There is something important I must see to." + +Mrs. Powers hesitated. "Well now, Mis' Crittenden, there ain't nothing I +wouldn't do for you. But I'm kind o' _funny_ about dead folks. I don't +believe I'd be much good to Agnes because I feel just the way she does. +But I'll run over to the house and get Nelly and 'Gene to come. I guess +the four of us together won't be nervous about staying. 'Gene ain't +workin' today. He got a sunstroke or something yesterday, in the sun, +cultivatin' his corn and he don't feel just right in his head, he says." + +She went out of the door as she spoke, calling over her shoulder, "I +wun't be gone long." + +Marise sat down again, there in the pantry, leaned her head against the +door and looked steadily at the shelves before her, full of dishes and +jars and bottles and empty jelly glasses. In her mind there was only one +thing, a fixed resolve not to think at all, of anything, until she had +been to Neale's office and had Neale explain it to her. Surely he would +not have started on that trip whatever it was. It was so early still. +She must not think about it at all, until she had asked Neale. Eugenia +had probably made a mistake about the name. Even if Neale had gone she +would be able to ask about the name and find that Eugenia had made a +mistake. That would make everything all right. Of course Eugenia had +made a mistake about the name. + +She was still staring fixedly at the shelves, frowning and beginning +again to count all the things on them, when Mrs. Powers' voice sounded +from the kitchen. "I met 'em on the way is why I'm back so soon," she +explained to Agnes. "Nelly had some flowers to bring. And they've been +down by the river and got a great lot of ferns too." + +Marise started up, for an instant distracted from her concentration on +what Eugenia had said. This was the first time she had seen Nelly and +'Gene since Frank's death. How would they look? How did people go on +living? How would they speak, and how could they listen to anything but +their own thoughts? What had Frank's death meant to Nelly? + +She turned shrinkingly towards Nelly. Nelly was bending down and +flicking the dust from her shoes with her handkerchief. When she stood +up, she looked straight at Marise. Under the thick-springing, +smooth-brushed abundance of her shining fair hair, her eyes, blue as +precious stones, looked out with the deep quiet which always seemed so +inscrutable to the other woman. + +She held out an armful of flowers. "I thought you'd like the white phlox +the best. I had a lot of pink too, but I remembered Mrs. Bayweather said +white is best at such times." + +Marise drew a long breath. What superb self-control! + +"Were the biscuits good?" asked Nelly, turning to Agnes. "I was afraid +afterward maybe they weren't baked enough." + +Marise was swept to her feet. If Nelly could master her nerves like +that, she could do better herself. She took the flowers, carried them to +the kitchen, and set them in a panful of water. She had not yet looked +at 'Gene. + +She went to find an umbrella to shield her hatless head from the sun, +and on her way out only, cast a swift glance at 'Gene. That was enough. +All the blazing, dusty way to the mill, she saw hanging terribly before +her that haggard ashy face. + +At the mill, she paused in the doorway of the lower office, looking in +on the three desk-workers, tapping on their machines, leaning sideways +to consult note-books. The young war-cripple, Neale's special protege, +seeing her, got to his feet to ask her what he could do for her. + +Marise considered him for a moment before she answered. _Was_ there +anything he could do for her? Why had she come? All she could remember +for the moment was that singular contraction of her throat, which had +come back now. + +Then she remembered, "Is Mr. Crittenden here?" + +"No, he was called away for the day, urgent business in New Hampshire." + +Marise looked about her helplessly. "May I sit down for a moment?" + +The young stenographer ran, limping and eager, to offer her a chair, and +then, shyly, swung his swivel chair towards her, not wishing to go back +to his work, uncertain what to say to his employer's wife. + +"When will Mr. Crittenden be back?" asked Marise, although she knew the +answer. + +"No later than tonight, he said," answered the stenographer. "He spoke +particularly about coming back because of Miss Hetty Allen's funeral." + +"Yes, of course," said Marise. + +There was nothing more to be said, she knew that, nothing more to be +done, until Neale came back. But it seemed physically impossible for her +to live until then, with the clutch in her throat. + +She ought to get up now, at once, and go back to Cousin Hetty's. The +Powers were waiting for her return. But her consternation at finding +Neale really gone was a blow from which she needed a breathing time to +recover. She couldn't have it so. She could never endure a whole day +with this possibility like a threatening powder-mine under her feet, +ready to go off and bring her inner world to ruin and despair. She put +her hand out to take her umbrella and struggled up. + +"Any message to leave for Mr. Crittenden?" asked the stenographer, +seeing her ready to go. + +She shook her head. Her eye fell on the waste-paper basket beside the +desk. On one of the empty envelopes, torn in two, the words, "Return to +C.K. Lowder," stood out clearly. She turned away and stood motionless, +one hand at her temple. She was thinking to herself, "This is simply +incredible. There is some monstrous mistake. If I could only think of a +way to find it out before it kills me." + +She became aware that the young cripple was looking at her anxiously, +and saw in his startled, agitated face a reflection of what hers must +be. She made an effort to speak quietly, and heard herself say, "Do you +happen to remember if Mr. Crittenden was alone as he drove away?" + +"Oh no," said the other. "He had had someone with him ever since the +afternoon train came in yesterday. Mr. Crittenden drove the car in +himself to the Ashley station to meet him. Somebody here on business." + +"What sort of a man, do you remember?" asked Marise. + +"Well, a clean-shaven man, with a queer thin long mouth, like the +pictures of William Jennings Bryan's. And he talked out of one corner of +it, the way . . . see here, Mrs. Crittenden, you look awfully tired. +Wouldn't you better sit down and rest a moment more?" + +Marise shook her head with an impatient gesture. Now she needed to get +away from that office as much as she had wished to go to it. The place +was hateful to her. The young man's eyes were intolerable. He was one of +the people, one of the many, many people who had grown up trusting in +Neale. + +She swung suddenly to a furious incredulity about the whole thing. It +was nonsense! None of it could be true. What were all these people +saying to her, Eugenia, Mrs. Powers, this boy . . . ? She would never +forgive them for trying to do such an infamous thing. They were trying +to make her believe that Neale had been back of Lowder in the low-down +swindle that had been practised on the Powers. They were trying to make +her believe that for seven years Neale had been lying to her with every +breath he drew. Because other men could lie, they thought they could +make her believe that Neale did. Because other women's husbands had done +base things in business, they thought she would be capable of believing +that about Neale. They didn't know how preposterous it was, how close +she and Neale had always been, how deeply a part of the whole aspect of +life to her, Neale's attitude toward his work had become. Those people +did not realize what they were trying to make her believe, it was not +only that her husband had been the instigator of a mean little cheat +which had cost years of suffering to helpless neighbors, it was the +total destruction of all that she had thought Neale to be . . . _thought_ +him? Known him to be. + +"I must get back at once," she said, with a resentful accent and moved +towards the door. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +MARISE LOOKS DOWN ON THE STARS + + +July 22. + +She passed out from the office into the yellow glare of the sun, her +feet moving steadily forward, with no volition of hers, along the dusty +road. And as steadily, with as little volition of hers, march, march, +came . . . first what Eugenia had said, the advance from that to Mrs. +Powers' words, from that to the stenographer's, to the name on the +envelope . . . and then like the door to a white-hot blast-furnace thrown +open in her face, came the searing conception of the possibility that it +might be true, and all the world lost. + +The extremity and horror of this aroused her to a last effort at +self-preservation so that she flung the door shut by a fierce incapacity +to believe any of those relentless facts which hung one from another +with their horrible enchaining progression. No, she had been dreaming. +It was all preposterous! + +The heat wavered up from the hot earth in visible pulsations and there +pulsed through her similar rhythmic waves of feeling; the beginning . . . +what Eugenia had said, had said that _Neale had told her_ . . . what Mrs. +Powers had said, "Lots of men that run mills do that sort of thing" . . . +what the stenographer had said . . . the name on the envelope . . . +_suppose it should be true_. + +She was at Cousin Hetty's door now; a give-and-take of women's voices +sounding within. "Here's Mrs. Crittenden back. Come on, Nelly, we better +be going. There's all the work to do." + +Marise went in and sat down, looking at them with stony indifference, at +'Gene this time as well as at the women. The drawn sickness of his ashy +face did not move her in the least now. What did she care what he did, +what anyone did, till she knew whether she had ever had Neale or not? +The women's chatter sounded remote and foolish in her ears. + +If Neale had done that . . . if that was the man he was . . . but of course +it was preposterous, and she had been dreaming. What was that that +Eugenia had said? The descent into hell began again step by step. + +The Powers went out, the old woman still talking, chattering, as if +anything mattered now. + +After they were gone, Agnes ran to the door calling, "Mis' Powers! You +forgot your pan and towel after all!" And there was Mrs. Powers again, +talking, talking. + +She had been saying something that needed an answer apparently, for now +she stood waiting, expectant. + +"What was that, Mrs. Powers? I was thinking of something else." + +"I was just tellin' you that there's going to be a big change over to +our house. 'Gene, he told Nelly, as he was setting here waiting for you, +how he was going to cut down the big pine one of these days, like she +always wanted him to. You know, the one that shades the house so. +'Gene's grandfather planted it, and he's always set the greatest store +by it. Used to say he'd just as soon cut his grandmother's throat as +chop it down. But Nelly, she's all housekeeper and she never did like +the musty way the shade makes our best room smell. I never thought to +see the day 'Gene would give in to her about that. He's gi'n in to her +about everything else though. Only last night he was tellin' her, he was +going to take something out'n the savings-bank and buy her an organ for +Addie to learn to play on, that Nelly always hankered after. Seems +'sthough he can't do enough for Nelly, don't it?" + +Marise looked at her coldly, incapable of paying enough attention to her +to make any comment on what she said. Let them cut down all the trees in +the valley, and each other's throats into the bargain, if Neale had . . . +if there had never been her Neale, the Neale she thought she had been +living with, all these years. + +Mrs. Powers had gone finally, and the house was silent at last, so +silent that she could now hear quite clearly, as though Eugenia still +sat there, what the sweet musical voice was saying over and over. Why +had they gone away and left her alone to face this deadly peril which +advanced on her step by step without mercy, time after time? Now there +was nothing to do but to wait and stand it off. + + * * * * * + +She was sitting in the same chair, her umbrella still in her hand, +waiting, when Agnes came in to say that she had lunch ready. She turned +eyes of astonished anger and rebuke on her. "I don't want anything to +eat," she said in so strange a voice that Agnes crept back to the +kitchen, shuffling and scared. + +She was still sitting there, looking fixedly before her, and frowning, +when Agnes came to the door to say timidly that the gentleman had come +about using his car to meet the train, and wanted to know if he could +see Mrs. Crittenden. + +Marise looked at her, frowning, and shook her head. But it was not until +late that night that she understood the words that Agnes had spoken. + + * * * * * + +She was still sitting there, rigid, waiting, when Agnes brought in a +lighted lamp, and Marise saw that evening had come. The light was +extremely disagreeable to her eyes. She got up stiffly, and went +outdoors to the porch, sitting down on the steps. + +The stars were beginning to come out now. The sight of them suggested +something painful, some impression that belonged to that other world +that had existed before this day, before she had conceived the +possibility that Neale might not be Neale, might never have been Neale, +that there was no such thing for her as human integrity. Was it she who +had leaned out from the window and felt herself despised by the height +and vastness of the stars? From the height and vastness of her need, she +looked down on them now, and found them nothing, mere pin-pricks in the +sky, compared to this towering doubt of her, this moral need which +shouted down all the mere matter on the earth and in the heavens above +the earth. Something eternal was at stake now, the faith in +righteousness of a human soul. + +She had thought childishly, shallowly last night that she had had no +faith, and could live with none. That was because she had not conceived +what it would be to try to live without faith, because she had not +conceived that the very ground under her feet could give way. At that +very moment she had had a faith as boundless as the universe, and had +forgotten it. And now it was put in doubt. She could not live without +it. It was the only vital thing for her. + +Was she the woman who had felt forced into acquiescing when Vincent +Marsh had said so boldly and violently, that she loved her husband no +more, that he was nothing to her now? It seemed to her at this moment +that it was a matter of the utmost unimportance whether she _loved_ him +or not; but she could not live without believing him. That was all. She +could not live without that. Life would be too utterly base . . . + +Neale nothing to her? She did not know _what_ he was to her, but the +mere possibility of losing her faith in him was like death. It was a +thousand times worse than death, which was merely material. This +mattered a great deal more than the physical death of someone's body . . . +it was the murder, minute by minute, hour by hour, month by month, year +by year of all her married life, of all she had found lovable and +tolerable and beautiful and real in life. + +Of course this could not be true . . . of course not . . . but if it were +true, she would find the corrosive poison of a false double meaning in +every remembered hour. She did not believe any of those hideously +marshaled facts, but if they were true, she would go back over all those +recollections of their life together and kill them one by one, because +every hour of her life had been founded on the most unthinking, the most +absolute, the most recklessly certain trust in Neale. To know that past +in peril, which she had counted on as safe, more surely than on anything +in life, so surely that she had almost dismissed it from her mind like a +treasure laid away in a safe hiding-place . . . to know those memories in +danger was a new torture that had never before been devised for any +human being. No one had the safe and consecrated past taken from him. +Its pricelessness shone on her with a blinding light. What if it should +be taken away, if she should find she had never had it, at all . . . ? + +The idea was so acute an anguish to her that she startled herself by a +cry of suffering. + +Agnes' voice behind her asked tremblingly, "Did you call me, Miss +Marise?" + +Marise shifted her position, drew a breath, and answered in a hard tone, +"No." + +She knew with one corner of her mind that Agnes must be terrified. What +if she were? Marise's life-long habit of divining another's need and +ministering to it, vanished like a handful of dust in a storm. What did +she care about Agnes? What did she care about anything in the world but +that she should have back again what she had valued so little as to lose +it from her mind altogether? All of her own energy was strained in the +bitterness of keeping her soul alive till Neale should come. She had not +the smallest atom of strength to care about the needs of anyone else. + +She looked up at the stars, disdainful of them. How small they were, how +unimportant in the scheme of things, so much less able to give +significance to the universe, than the presence of integrity in a human +soul. + +If she could have Neale back again, as she had always had him without +thinking of it, if she could have her faith in him again, the skies +might shrivel up like a scroll, but something eternal would remain in +her life. + + * * * * * + +It seemed to her that she heard a faint sound in the distance, on the +road, and her strength ran out of her like water. She tried to stand up +but could not. + +Yes, it was the car, approaching. The two glaring headlights swept the +white road, stopped, and went out. For an instant the dark mass stood +motionless in the starlight. Then something moved, a man's tall figure +came up the path. + +"Is that you, Marise?" asked Neale's voice. + +She had not breath to speak, but all of her being cried out silently to +him the question which had had all the day such a desperate meaning for +her, "Is that _you_, Neale?" + + + + +PART IV + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + +NEALE'S RETURN + +July 22. Evening. + +He stooped to kiss her and sank down beside her where she sat cowering +in the dark. Although she could not see his face clearly Marise knew +from his manner that he was very tired, from the way he sat down, taking +off his cap, and his attitude as he leaned his head back against the +pillar. She knew this without thinking about it, mechanically, with the +automatic certainty of a long-since acquired knowledge of him. And when +he spoke, although his voice was quiet and level, she felt a great +fatigue in his accent. + +But he spoke with his usual natural intonation, which he evidently tried +to make cheerful. "I'm awfully glad you're still up, dear. I was afraid +you'd be too tired, with the funeral coming tomorrow. But I couldn't get +here any sooner. I've been clear over the mountain today. And I've done +a pretty good stroke of business that I'm in a hurry to tell you about. +You remember, don't you, how the Powers lost the title to their big +woodlot? I don't know if you happen to remember all the details, how a +lawyer named Lowder . . ." + +"I remember," said Marise, speaking for the first time, "all about it." + +"Well," went on Neale, wearily but steadily, "up in Nova Scotia this +time, talking with one of the old women in town, I ran across a local +tradition that, in a town about ten miles inland, some of the families +were descended from Tory Yankees who'd been exiled from New England, +after the Revolution. I thought it was worth looking up, and one day I +ran up there to see if I could find out anything about them. It was +Sunday and I had to . . ." + +Marise was beside herself, her heart racing wildly. She took hold of his +arm and shook it with all her might. "Neale, quick! quick! Leave out all +that. _What did you do?_" + +She could see that he was surprised by her fierce impatience, and for an +instant taken aback by the roughness of the interruption. He stared at +her. How _slow_ Neale was! + +He began, "But, dear, why do you care so much about it? You can't +understand about what I did, if I don't tell you this part, the +beginning, how I . . ." Then, feeling her begin to tremble uncontrollably, +he said hastily, "Why, of course, Marise, if you want to know the end +first. The upshot of it all is that I've got it straightened out, about +the Powers woodlot. I got track of those missing leaves from the Ashley +Town Records. They really were carried away by that uncle of yours. I +found them up in Canada. I had a certified copy and tracing made of +them. It's been a long complicated business, and the things only came in +yesterday's mail, after you'd been called over here. But I'd been in +correspondence with Lowder, and when I had my proofs in hand, I +telephoned him and made him come over yesterday afternoon. It was one of +the biggest satisfactions I ever expect to have, when I shoved those +papers under his nose and watched him curl up. Then I took him back +today, myself, to his own office, not to let him out of my sight, till +it was all settled. There was a great deal more to it . . . two or three +hours of fight. I bluffed some, about action by the bar-association, +disbarment, a possible indictment for perjury, and seemed to hit a weak +spot. And finally I saw him with my own eyes burn up that fake +warranty-deed. And that's all there is to that. Just as soon as we can +get this certified copy admitted and entered on our Town Records, 'Gene +can have possession of his own wood-land. Isn't that good news?" + +He paused and added with a tired, tolerant, kindly accent, "Now Nelly +will have fourteen pairs of new shoes, each laced higher up than the +others, and I won't be the one to grudge them to her." + +He waited for a comment and, when none came, went on doggedly making +talk in that resolutely natural tone of his. "Now that you know the end, +and that it all came out right, you ought to listen to some details, for +they are queer. The missing pages weren't in that first town I struck at +all. Nothing there but a record of a family of Simmonses who had come +from Ashley in 1778. They had . . ." + +Marise heard nothing more of what he said, although his voice went on +with words the meaning of which she could not grasp. It did not seem to +her that she had really understood with the whole of her brain anything +he had said, or that she had been able to take in the significance of +it. She could think of nothing but a frightening sensation all over her +body, as though the life were ebbing out of it. Every nerve and fiber in +her seemed to have gone slack, beyond anything she had ever conceived. +She could feel herself more and more unstrung and loosened like a violin +string let down and down. The throbbing ache in her throat was gone. +Everything was gone. She sat helpless and felt it slip away, till +somewhere in the center of her body this ebbing of strength had run so +far that it was a terrifying pain, like the approach of death. She was +in a physical panic of alarm, but unable to make a sound, to turn her +head. + +It was when she heard a loud insistent ringing in her head, and saw the +stars waver and grow dim that she knew she was fainting away. + + * * * * * + +Then she was lying on the sofa in Cousin Hetty's sitting-room, Neale +bending over her, holding a handkerchief which smelled of ammonia, and +Agnes, very white, saying in an agitated voice, "It's because she hasn't +eaten a thing all day. She wouldn't touch her lunch or supper. It's been +turrible to see her." + +Marise's head felt quite clear and lucid now; her consciousness as if +washed clean by its temporary absence from life. She tried to sit up and +smile at Neale and Agnes. She had never fainted away in all her life +before. She felt very apologetic and weak. And she felt herself in a +queer, literal way another person. + +Neale sat down by her now and put his arm around her. His face was grave +and solicitous, but not frightened, as Agnes was. It was like Neale not +to lose his head. He said to Agnes, "Give me that cup of cocoa," and +when it came, he held it to Marise's lips. "Take a good swallow of +that," he said quietly. + +Marise was amazed to find that the hot sweet smell of the cocoa aroused +in her a keen sensation of hunger. She drank eagerly, and taking in her +hand the piece of bread and butter which Neale offered to her, she began +to eat it with a child's appetite. She was not ashamed or self-conscious +in showing this before Neale. One never needed to live up to any pose +before Neale. His mere presence in the room brought you back, she +thought, to a sense of reality. Sometimes if you had been particularly +up in the air, it made you feel a little flat as she certainly did now. +But how profoundly alive it made you feel, Neale's sense of things as +they were. + +The food was delicious. She ate and drank unabashedly, finding it an +exquisite sensation to feel her body once more normal, her usual home, +and not a scaring, almost hostile entity, apart from her. When she +finished, she leaned against Neale's shoulder with a long breath. For an +instant, she had no emotion but relieved, homely, bodily comfort. + +"Well, for Heaven's sake!" said Neale, looking down at her. + +"I know it," she said. "I'm an awful fool." + +"No, you're not," he contradicted. "That's what makes me so provoked +with you now, going without eating since morning." + +Agnes put in, "It's the suddenness of it that was such a shock. It takes +me just so, too, comes over me as I start to put a mouthful of food into +my mouth. I can't get it down. And you don't know how _lost_ I feel not +to have Miss Hetty here to tell me what to eat. I feel so gone!" + +"You must go to bed this minute," said Neale. "I'll go right back to the +children." + +He remembered suddenly. "By George, I haven't had anything to eat since +noon, myself." He gave Marise an apologetic glance. "I guess I haven't +any stones to throw at your foolishness." + +Agnes ran to get him another cup of cocoa and some more bread and +butter. Marise leaned back on the sofa and watched him eat. + + * * * * * + +She was aware of a physical release from tension that was like a new +birth. She looked at her husband as she had not looked at him for years. +And yet she knew every line and hollow of that rugged face. What she +seemed not to have seen before, was what had grown up little by little, +the expression of his face, the expression which gave his presence its +significance, the expression which he had not inherited like his +features, but which his life had wrought out there. + +Before her very eyes there seemed still present the strange, alien look +of the dead face upstairs, from which the expression had gone, and with +it everything. That vision hung, a cold and solemn warning in her mind, +and through it she looked at the living face before her and saw it as +she had never done before. + +In the clean, new, sweet lucidity of her just-returned consciousness she +saw what she was not to forget, something like a steady, visible light, +which was Neale's life. That was Neale himself. And as she looked at him +silently, she thought it no wonder that she had been literally almost +frightened to death by the mere possibility that it had not existed. She +had been right in thinking that there was something there which would +outlast the mere stars. + +He looked up, found her eyes on him, and smiled at her. She found the +gentleness of his eyes so touching that she felt the tears mounting to +her own. . . . But she winked them back. There had been enough foolishness +from her, for one day. + +Neale leaned back in his chair now, looked around for his; cap, took it +up, and looked back at her, quietly, still smiling a little. Marise +thought, "Neale is as _natural_ in his life as a very great actor is in +his art. Whatever he does, even to the most trifling gesture, is done +with so great a simplicity that it makes people like me feel fussy and +paltry." + +There was a moment's silence, Neale frankly very tired, looking rather +haggard and grim, giving himself a moment's respite in his chair before +standing up to go; Marise passive, drawing long quiet breaths, her hands +folded on her knees; Agnes, her back to the other two, hanging about the +sideboard, opening and shutting the drawers, and shifting their contents +aimlessly from one to the other. + +Then Agnes turned, and showed a shamed, nervous old face. "I don't know +what's got into me, Miss Marise, that I ain't no good to myself nor +anybody else. I'm afraid to go back into the kitchen alone." She +explained to Neale, "I never was in the house with a dead body before, +Mr. Crittenden, and I act like a baby about it, scared to let Mrs. +Crittenden out of my sight. If I'm alone for a minute, seems 'sthough +. . ." She glanced over her shoulder fearfully and ended lamely, "Seems +'sthough I don't know what might happen." + +"I won't leave you alone, Agnes, till it is all over," said Marise, and +this time she kept contempt not only out of her voice, but out of her +heart. She was truly only very sorry for the old woman with her foolish +fears. + +Agnes blinked and pressed her lips together, the water in her eyes. +"I'm awful glad to hear you say that!" she said fervently. + +Marise closed her eyes for a moment. It had suddenly come to her that +this promise to Agnes meant that she could not see Neale alone till +after the funeral, tomorrow, when she went back into life again. And she +found that she immensely wanted to see him alone this very hour, now! +And Agnes would be there . . . ! + +She opened her eyes and saw Neale standing up, his cap in his hand, +looking at her, rough and brown and tall and tired and strong; so +familiar, every line and pose and color of him; as familiar and +unexciting, as much a part of her, as her own hand. + +As their eyes met in the profound look of intimate interpenetration +which can pass only between a man and a woman who have been part of each +other, she felt herself putting to him clearly, piercingly, the question +which till then she had not known how to form, "_Neale, what do you want +me to do?_" + +She must have said it aloud, and said it with an accent which carried +its prodigious import, for she saw him turn very white, saw his eyes +deepen, his chest lift in a great heave. He came towards her, evidently +not able to speak for a moment. Then he took her hands . . . the memory of +a thousand other times was in his touch . . . + +He looked at her as though he could never turn his eyes away. The +corners of his mouth twitched and drew down. + +He said, in a deep, trembling, solemn voice, "Marise, my darling, I want +you always to do what is best for _you_ to do." + +He drew a deep, deep breath as though it had taken all his strength to +say that; and went on, "What is deepest and most living in you . . . that +is what must go on living." + +He released one hand and held it out towards her as though he were +taking an oath. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV + +MARISE'S COMING-OF-AGE + + +July 23. Dawn + +Even after the old child, Agnes, had been soothed and reassured, over +and over, till she had fallen asleep, and the house lay profoundly +quiet, Marise felt not the slightest approach of drowsiness or even of +fatigue. She lay down on her bed, but could not close her eyes. They +remained wide open, looking not at a wild confusion of incoherent images +as they had the night before, but straight into blackness and vacancy. + +It was strange how from the brawling turmoil of impressions which had +shouted and cried out to her the night before, and had wrought her to +frenzy by their insane insistence, not an echo reached her now. Her mind +was as silent and intent as the old house, keeping its last mute watch +over its mistress. Intent on what? She did not know. On something that +was waiting for her, on something for which she was waiting. + +In an immense hush, like the dusky silence in a cathedral aisle or in +the dark heart of the woods, there was something there waiting for her +to go and find it. + +That hush had fallen on her at the sight of Neale's face, at the sound +of his voice, as he had looked at her and spoken to her, at the last, +just before he went away back to the children. Those furiously racing +pulses of hers had been stilled by it into this steady rhythm which now +beat quietly through her. The clashing thoughts which had risen with +malevolent swiftness, like high, battling shadowy genii, and had torn +her in pieces as they fought back and forth, were stilled as though a +master-word had been spoken which they must all obey. + +The old house, silent under the stars, lay quiet in its vigil about her, +but slept no more than she; the old house which had been a part of her +childhood and her youth now watched over her entry into another part of +her journey. + +For as she lay there, wide-awake, watching the light of the candle, she +felt that she knew what was waiting for her, what she must go to find. +It was her maturity. + +And as she lay quiet, her ears ringing in the solemn hush which Neale's +look and voice had laid about her, she felt slowly coming into her, like +a tide from a great ocean, the strength to go forward. She lay still, +watching the candle-flame, hovering above the wick which tied it to the +candle, reaching up, reaching up, never for a moment flagging in that +transmutation of the dead matter below it, into something shining and +alive. + +She felt the quiet strength come into her like a tide. And presently, as +naturally as a child wakes in the morning, refreshed, and feels the +impulse to rise to active effort again, she sat up in bed, folded her +arms around her knees, and began to think. + +Really to think this time, not merely to be the helpless battle-field +over which hurtling projectiles of fierce emotions passed back and +forth! She set her life fairly there before her, and began to try to +understand it. + +As she took this first step and saw the long journey stretching out +before her, she knew on what staff she leaned. It was Neale's belief +that she was strong and not weak, that she could find out, if she tried, +what was deepest and most living in her heart. With this in her hand, +with that great protecting hush about her, she set forth. She was afraid +of what she might find, but she set forth. + +She must begin at the beginning this time, and go steadily forward from +one step to the next, not her usual involuntary plunge, not the usual +closing over her head of those yelling waters of too vivid impression. + +The beginning had been . . . yes, the first conscious beginning had been +the going away of little Mark, out of his babyhood into his own +child-life. He had gone out and left an empty place behind him, which +till then had been filled with the insistent ever-present need for care +for the physical weakness of babyhood. And she had known that never +again would Mark fill that place. + +Emptiness, silence, solitude in the place of constant activity; it had +frightened her, had set before her a vision that her life had reached +its peak, and henceforth would go down the decline. Into that empty +place had come a ringing, peremptory call back to personal and physical +youth and excitement and burning sensations. And with that blinding +rebirth of physical youth had come a doubt of all that had seemed the +recompense for the loss of it, had come the conception that she might be +letting herself be fooled and tricked out of the only real things. + +There had been many parts to this: her revolt from the mere physical +drudgery of her life, from giving so much of her strength to the dull, +unsavory, material things. This summer, a thousand times in a thousand +ways, there had been brought home to her by Vincent, by Eugenia, the +fact that there were lives so arranged that other people did all the +drudgery, and left one free to perceive nothing but the beauty and +delicacy of existence. Now, straight at it! With all the knowledge of +herself and of life which she had gathered,--straight at it, to see what +this meant! Did their entire freedom from drudgery give them a keener +sense of the beauty and delicacy of existence? Were they more deeply +alive because of the ease of their lives? + +She cast about her for evidence, in a firm, orderly search among the +materials which life had brought to her. Had she seen anything which +could give evidence on that? There was Eugenia; Eugenia and her friends +had always lived that life of rich possessions and well-served ease. +What had it made of them? Was their sense of beauty deeper and more +living because of it? No, not in the least. + +She turned her inward eye on Eugenia's life, on the lives of the people +in that circle, in a long searching gaze. Was it deep in eternal values? +Was it made up of a constant recurrence of sensitive aliveness to what +is most worth responding to? Odd, that it did not seem to be! They were +petulant, and bored, and troubled about minute flaws in their ease, far +more than they were deep in communion with beauty. + +Another piece of evidence came knocking at the door now, a picture of +quaint and humble homeliness . . . herself standing before the stove with +the roast on a plate, and little Mark saying fastidiously, "Oh, how +nasty raw meat looks!" She recalled her passing impatience with the +childishness of that comment, her passing sense of the puerile ignorance +of the inherent unity of things, in such an attitude of eagerness to +feed on results and unwillingness to take one's share of what leads up +to results. Yes, it was more there, than in looking at Eugenia, that she +could find evidence. Did she want to be of those who sat afar off and +were served with the fine and delicate food of life, and knew nothing of +the unsavory process of preparing it? It had seemed to her this summer, +a thousand times with Vincent's eyes on her, scornful of her present +life, that she did want it, that she wanted that more than anything +else. Now let her look full at it. She was a grown woman now, who could +foresee what it would mean. + +She looked full at it, set herself there in her imagination, in the +remote ivory tower and looked out from its carven windows at the rough +world where she had lived and worked, and from which she would +henceforth be protected . . . and shut out. She looked long, and in the +profound silence, both within and without her, she listened to the +deepest of the voices in her heart. + +And she knew that it was too late for that. She had lived, and she could +not blot out what life had brought to her. She could never now, with a +tranquil heart, go into the ivory tower. It would do her no good to shut +and bar the golden door a hundred times behind her, because she would +have with her, everywhere she went, wrought into the very fiber of her +being, a guilty sense of all the effort and daily strain and struggle in +which she did not share. + +She saw no material good accomplished by taking her share. The existence +in the world of so much drudgery and unlovely slavery to material +processes was an insoluble mystery; but a life in which her part of it +would be taken by other people and added to their own burdens . . . no, +she had grown into something which could not endure that! + +Perhaps this was one of the hard, unwelcome lessons that the war had +brought to her. She remembered how she had hated the simple comforts of +home, the safety, the roof over her head, because they were being paid +for by such hideous sufferings on the part of others; how she had been +ashamed to lie down in her warm bed when she thought of Neale and his +comrades in the trench-mud, in the cold horror of the long drenching +nights, awaiting the attack; and she had turned sick to see the long +trains of soldiers going out while she stayed safely behind and bore no +part in the wretchedness which war is. There had been no way for her to +take her part in that heavy payment for her safety and comfort; but the +bitterness of those days had shocked her imagination alive to the shame +of sharing and enjoying what she had not helped to pay for, to the +disharmony of having more than your share while other people have less +than theirs. + +This was nothing she had consciously sought for. She felt no dutiful +welcome that it had come; she bent under it as under a burden. But it +was there. Life had made her into one of the human beings capable of +feeling that responsibility, each for all, and the war had driven it +home, deep into her heart, whence she could not pluck it out. + +She might never have known it, never have thought of it, if she had +been safely protected by ignorance of what life is like. But now she +knew, living had taught her; and that knowledge was irrevocably part of +the woman she had become. + +Wait now! Was this only habit, routine, dulled lack of divining +imagination of what another life could be? That was the challenge +Vincent would throw down. She gazed steadily at the wall before her, and +called up, detail by detail, the life which Vincent Marsh thought the +only one that meant richness and abundance for the human spirit. It hung +there, a shimmering mass of lovely colors and exquisite textures and +fineness and delicacy and beauty. And as she looked at it, it took on +the shape of a glorious, uprooted plant, cut off from the very source of +life, its glossy surfaces already beginning to wither and dull in the +sure approach of corruption and decay. But what beauties were there to +pluck, lovely fading beauties, poignant and exquisite sensations, which +she was capable of savoring, which she sadly knew she would live and die +without having known, a heritage into which she would never enter; +because she had known the unforgettable taste of the other heritage, +alive and rooted deep! + +This faded out and left her staring at the blank wall again, feeling old +and stern. + +Nothing more came for a moment, and restless, feeling no bodily fatigue +at all, she got out of her bed, took up the candle, and stepped +aimlessly out into the hall. The old clock at the end struck a muffled +stroke, as if to greet her. She held up her candle to look at it. +Half-past two in the morning. A long time till dawn would come. + +She hesitated a moment and turned towards the door of a garret room +which stood open. She had not been in there for so long,--years perhaps; +but as a child she had often played there among the old things, come +down from the dead, who were kept in such friendly recollection in this +house. Near the door there had been an old, flat-topped, hair-covered +trunk . . . yes, here it was, just as it had been. Nothing ever changed +here. She sat down on it, the candle on the floor beside her, and saw +herself as a little girl playing among the old things. + +A little girl! And now she was the mother of a little girl. So short a +time had passed! She understood so very little more than when she had +been the little girl herself. Yet now there was Elly who came and stood +by her, and looked at her, and asked with all her eyes and lips and +being, "Mother, what is the meaning of life?" + +What answer had she to give? Was she at all more fit than anyone else to +try to give Elly the unknowable answer to that dark question? Was there +any deep spiritual reality which counted at all, which one human being +could give to another? Did we really live on desert islands, cut off so +wholly from each other by the unplumbed, salt, estranging sea? And if we +did, why break one's heart in the vain effort to do the impossible, to +get from human beings what they could not give? + +Her heart ached in an old bitterness at the doubt. Did her children . . . +could they . . . give her the love she wanted from them, in answer to her +gift of her life to them? They were already beginning to go away from +her, to be estranged from her, to shut her out of their lives, to live +their lives with no place for her in them. + +She sat there on the old trunk and saw the endless procession of parents +and children passing before her, the children so soon parents, all +driven forward by what they could not understand, yearning and starving +for what was not given them, all wrapped and dimmed in the twilight of +their doubt and ignorance. Where were they going? And why? So many of +them, so many! + +Her humbled spirit was prostrate before their mystery, before the +vastness of the whole, of which she and her children were only a part, a +tiny, lowly part. + +With this humbling sense of the greatness of the whole, something +swollen and sore in her heart gave over its aching, as though a +quieting hand had been laid on it. She drew a long breath. Oh, from what +did it come, this rest from that sore bitterness? + +It came from this, that she had somehow been shown that what she wanted +was not love from her children for herself. That was trying to drive a +bargain to make them pay for something they had never asked to have. +What she wanted was not to get love, to get a place in their lives for +herself, to get anything from them, but to give them all that lay in her +to give. If that was what she wanted, why, nothing, nothing could take +it away. And it was truly . . . in this hour of silence and searching . . . +she saw that it was truly what she wanted. It was something in her which +had grown insensibly to life and strength, during all those uncounted +hours of humble service to the children. And it was something golden and +immortal in her poor, flawed, human heart. + + * * * * * + +A warm bright wave of feeling swept over her . . . there, distinct and +rounded against the shadowy confused procession of abstract ideas about +parents and children, there stood looking at her out of their clear +loving eyes, Paul and Elly and little Mark, alive, there, a part of her; +not only themselves but her children; not only her children but +themselves; human life which she and Neale had created out of the stuff +of the universe. They looked at her and in their regard was the clear +distillation of the innumerable past hours when they had looked at her +with love and trust. + +At the sight of them, her own children, her heart swelled and opened +wide to a conception of something greater and deeper in motherhood than +she had had; but which she could have if she could deserve it; something +so wide and sun-flooded that the old selfish, possessive, +never-satisfied ache which had called itself love withered away, its +power to hurt and poison her gone. + +She had no words for this . . . she could not even try to understand it. +It was as solemn a birth-hour to her, as the hour when she had first +heard the cry of her new-born babies . . . she was one mother then, she +had become another mother now. She turned to bless the torment of +bitter, doubting questioning of what she had called mother-love, which +had forced her forward blindly struggling, till she found this +divination of a greater possibility. + +She had been trying to span the unfathomable with a mean and grasping +desire. Now she knew what she must try to do; to give up the lesser and +receive the greater. + + * * * * * + +This passed and left her, looking straight before her at the flickering +shadows, leaping among the dusky corners of the dark slant-ceilinged +room. The old clock struck three in the hall behind her. + +She felt tired now, as she had after the other travail which had given +her her children, and leaned her head on her hand. Where did she +herself, her own personal self come in, with all this? It was always a +call to more effort which came. To get the great good things of life how +much you had to give! How much of what seemed dearly yourself, you had +to leave behind as you went forward! Her childhood was startlingly +called up by this old garret, where nothing had changed: she could still +see herself, running about there, happily absorbed in the vital +trivialities of her ten years. She had not forgotten them, she knew +exactly the thrill felt by that shadowy little girl as she leaned over +the old chest yonder, and pulled out the deep-fringed shawl and quilted +petticoat. + +It had been sweet to be a little girl, she thought wistfully, to have +had no past, to know only the shining present of every day with no +ominous, difficult future beyond it. Ineffably sweet too was the aroma +of perfect trust in the strength and wisdom of grown-up people, which +tinctured deep with certainty every profoundest layer of her +consciousness. Ineffably sweet . . . and lost forever. There was no human +being in the world as wise and strong as poor old Cousin Hetty had +seemed to her then. A kingdom of security from which she was now shut +out. + +And the games, the fantastic plays,--how whole and rounded and entire, +the pleasure in them! She remembered the rainy day she had played +paper-dolls here once, with little Margaret Congdon . . . dead, years ago, +that much-loved playmate of past summer days . . . and how they had taken +the chest for the house for Margaret's dolls, and the hair-trunk where +she sat, for hers; how they had arranged them with the smallest of +playthings, with paste-board furniture, and bits of colored tissue paper +for rugs, and pieces of silk and linen from the rag-bag for bed-clothes; +how they had hummed and whistled to themselves as they worked (she could +hear them now!); and how the aromatic woodsy smell of the unfinished old +room and the drone of the rain on the roof had been a part of their deep +content. + +Nothing had changed in that room, except the woman who sat there. + +She got up with a sudden impulse, and threw back the lid of the trunk. A +faint musty odor rose from it, as though it had been shut up for very +long. And . . . why, there it was, the doll's room, just as they had left +it, how long ago! How like this house! How like Cousin Hetty never to +have touched it! + +She sat down on the floor and, lifting the candle, looked in at the +yellowed old playthings, the flimsy, spineless paper-dolls, the faded +silk rags, the discolored bits of papers, the misshapen staggering +paste-board chairs and bed, which had seemed so delightful and +enchanting to her then, far better than any actual room she knew. A +homesickness for the past came over her. It was not only Margaret who +was dead. The other little girl who had played there, who had hung so +lovingly over this creation of her fancy, was dead too, Marise thought +with a backward look of longing. + +And then the honest, unsparing habit of her life with Neale shook her +roughly. This was sentimentalizing. If she could, would she give up what +she had now and go back to being the little girl, deeply satisfied with +make-shift toys, which were only the foreshadowings of what was to come? +If she could, would she exchange her actual room at home, for this, even +to have again all the unquestioning trust in everyone and everything of +the child who had died in her heart? Would she choose to give up the +home where her living children had been born, at no matter what cost of +horrid pain to herself, and were growing up to no matter what dark +uncertainties in life, for this toy inhabited by paper-dolls? No, no, +she had gone on, gone on, and left this behind. Nor would she, if she +could, exchange the darker, heavier, richer gifts for the bright small +trinkets of the past. + +All this ran fluently from her mind, with a swiftness and clarity which +seemed as shallow as it was rapid; but now there sounded in her ears a +warning roar of deeper waters to which this was carrying her. + +Before she knew what was coming, she braced herself to meet it; and +holding hard and ineffectually, felt herself helplessly swept out and +flung to the fury of the waves . . . and she met them with an answering +tumult of welcome. That was what Vincent Marsh could do for her, wanted +to do for her,--that wonderful, miraculous thing,--give back to her +something she had thought she had left behind forever; he could take +her, in the strength of her maturity with all the richness of growth, +and carry her back to live over again the fierce, concentrated intensity +of newly-born passion which had come into her life, and gone, before she +had had the capacity to understand or wholly feel it. He could lift her +from the dulled routine of life beginning to fade and lose its colors, +and carry her back to the glorious forgetfulness of every created thing, +save one man and one woman. + +She had had a glimpse of that, in the first year of her married life, +had had it, and little by little had lost it. It had crumbled away +insensibly, between her fingers, with use, with familiarity, with the +hateful blunting of sensitiveness which life's battering always brings. +But she could have it again; with a grown woman's strength and depth of +feeling, she could have the inheritance of youth. She had spent it, but +now she could have it again. That was what Vincent meant. + +He seemed to lean over her now, his burning, quivering hand on hers. She +felt a deep hot flush rise to her face, all over her body. She was like +a crimson rose, offering the splendor of its maturity to be plucked. Let +her have the courage to know that its end and aim and fulfilment lay in +being plucked and gloriously worn before the coming of the inevitable +end! Thus and thus only could one find certainty, before death came, of +having lived as deeply as lay in one to live. + + * * * * * + +Through the glowing pride and defiance with which she felt herself rise +to the challenge, felt herself strong to break and surmount all +obstacles within and without, which stood in the way of that fulfilment +of her complete self, she had heard . . . the slightest of +trivialities . . . a thought gone as soon as it was conceived . . . +nothing of the slightest consequence . . . harmless . . . +insignificant . . . yet why should it give off the betraying clink of +something flawed and cracked? . . . She had heard . . . it must have +come from some corner of her own mind . . . something like this, "Set +such an alternative between routine, traditional, narrow domestic life, +and the mightiness and richness of mature passion, before a modern, free +European woman, and see how quickly she would grasp with all her soul for +passion." + +What was there about this, the veriest flying mote among a thousand +others in the air, so to awaken in Marise's heart a deep vibration of +alarm? Why should she not have said that? she asked herself, angry and +scared. Why was it not a natural thought to have had? She felt herself +menaced by an unexpected enemy, and flew to arms. + +Into the rich, hot, perfumed shrine which Vincent's remembered words and +look had built there about her, there blew a thin cool breath from the +outside, through some crack opened by that casual thought. Before she +even knew from whence it came, Marise cried out on it, in a fury of +resentment . . . and shivered in it. + +With no apparent volition of her own, she felt something very strong +within her raise a mighty head and look about, stirred to watchfulness +and suspicion by that luckless phrase. + +She recognized it . . . the habit of honesty of thought, not native to +Marise's heart, but planted there by her relation with Neale's stark, +plain integrity. Feeding unchecked on its own food, during the long +years of her marriage it had grown insensibly stronger and stronger, +till now, tyrant and master, with the irresistible strength of conscious +power, it could quell with a look all the rest of her nature, rich in +colored possibilities of seductive self-deceit, sweet illusions, lovely +falsities. + +She could no more stop its advance now, straight though it made its way +over treasures she fain would keep, than she could stop the beating of +her heart. + +A ruthless question or two . . . "Why did you say that about what a +modern, free European woman would do in your place? Are you trying to +play up to some trumpery notion of a role to fill? And more than this, +did you really mean in your heart an actual, living woman of another +race, such as you knew in Europe; or did you mean somebody in an +Italian, or a French, or a Scandinavian book?" Marise writhed against +the indignity of this, protested fiercely, angrily against the +incriminating imputation in it . . . and with the same breath admitted it +true. + +It was true. She was horrified and lost in grief and humiliation at the +cheapened aspect of what had looked so rich before. Had there been in +truth an element of such trashy copying of the conventional pose of +revolt in what had seemed so rushingly spontaneous? Oh no, no . . . not +that! + +She turned away and away from the possibility that she had been +partially living up to other people's ideas, finding it intolerable; and +was met again and again by the relentless thrust of that acquired +honesty of thought which had worn such deep grooves in her mind in all +these years of unbroken practice of it. "You are not somebody in a book, +you are not a symbol of modern woman who must make the gestures +appropriate for your part . . ." One by one, that relentless power seated +in her many-colored tumultuous heart put out the flaring torches. + +It had grown too strong for her, that habit of honesty of thought and +action. If this struggle with it had come years before she could have +mastered it, flinging against it the irresistible suppleness and +lightness of her ignorant youth. But now, freighted heavily with +experience of reality, she could not turn and bend quickly enough to +escape it. + +It had profited too well by all those honest years with Neale . . . never +to have been weakened by a falsehood between them, by a shade of +pretense of something more, or different from what really was there. +That habit held her mercilessly to see what was there now. She could no +more look at what was there and think it something else, than she could +look with her physical eyes at a tree and call it a dragon. + +If it had only been traditional morality, reproaching her with +traditional complaints about the overstepping of traditional bounds, how +she could have overwhelmed it, drowned out its feeble old voice, with +eloquent appeals for the right to growth, to freedom, to the generous +expansion of the soul, of the personality, which Vincent Marsh could +give. But honesty only asked her neutrally, "Is it really growth and +freedom, and generous expansion of the soul?" Poor Marise felt her arms +fall to her side, piteous and defenseless. No, it was not. + +It was with the flatness of accent which she hated, which was so hard +for her, that she made the admission. It was physical excitement,--that +was what it was. Physical excitement, that was what Vincent Marsh could +give her which Neale no longer could. . . . That and great ease of life, +which Neale never would. There was a pause in which she shivered, +humiliated. She added lamely to this, a guessed-at possibility for +aesthetic sympathy and understanding, perhaps more than Neale could . . . +and broke off with a qualm of sickness. How horrid this was! How it +offended a deep sense of personal dignity and decency! How infinitely +more beautiful and gracious those rolling clouds of vagueness and +impulsive illusion! + +But at least, when it had extracted the plain, bare statement which it +had hunted down through the many-recessed corners of her heart, that +stern sense of reality let her alone. She no longer felt like a beetle +impaled on a pin. She was free now to move as she liked and look +unmolested at what she pleased. Honesty had no more power over her than +to make sure she saw what she was pretending to look at. + +But at what a diminished pile she had now to look, tarnished and faded +like the once-loved bits of bright-colored silk and paper. She felt +robbed and cried out in a pain which seemed to her to come from her very +heart, that something living and vital and precious to her had been +killed by that rough handling. But one warning look from the clear eyes +of honesty forced her, lamenting, to give up even this. If it had been +living and precious and vital to her, it would have survived anything +that honesty could have done to it. + +But something had survived, something to be reckoned with, something +which no tyrant, overbearing honesty could put out of her life . . . the +possibility for being carried away in the deep full current of passion, +fed by all the multitudinous streams of ripened personality. If that +was all that was left, was not that enough? It had been for thousands of +other women. . . . + +No, not that; honesty woke to menace again. What thousands of other +women had done had no bearing here. She was not thousands of other +women. She was herself, herself. Would it be enough for her? + +Honesty issued a decree of impartial justice. Let her look at it with a +mature woman's experienced divination of reality, let her look at it as +it would be and see for herself if it would be enough. She was no girl +whose ignorance rendered her incapable of judging until she had +literally experienced. She was no bound-woman, bullied by the tyranny of +an outgrown past, forced to revolt in order to attain the freedom +without which no human decision can be taken. Neale's strong hand had +opened the door to freedom and she could see what the bound-women could +not . . . that freedom is not the end, but only the beginning. + +It was as though something were holding her gripped and upright there, +staring before her, motionless, till she had put herself to the last +supreme test. She closed her eyes, and sat so immobile, rapt in the +prodigious effort of her imagination and will, that she barely breathed. +How would it be? Would it be enough? She plunged the plummet down, past +the fury and rage of the storm on the surface, past the teeming life of +the senses, down to the depths of consciousness. . . . + +And what she brought up from those depths was a warning distaste, a +something offending to her, to all of her, now she was aware of it. + +She was amazed. Why should she taste an acrid muddy flavor of dregs in +that offered cup of heavy aromatic wine, she who had all her life +thanked Heaven for her freedom from the ignominy of feeling it debasing +to be a woman who loved? It was glorious to be a woman who loved. There +had been no dregs left from those sweet, light, heady draughts she and +Neale had drunk together in their youth, nor in the quieter satisfying +draughts they knew now. What was the meaning of that odor of decay about +what seemed so living, so hotly more living than what she had? Why +should she have this unmistakable prescience of something stale and +tainting which she had never felt? Was she too old for passion? But she +was in the height of her physical flowering, and physically she cried +out for it. Could it be that, having spent the heritage of youth, she +could not have it again? Could it be that one could not go back, there, +any more than . . . + +Oh, what did that bring to mind? What was that fleeting cobweb of +thought that seemed a recurrence of a sensation only recently passed? +When she had tried to tell herself that full-fruited passion was worth +all else in life, was the one great and real thing worth all the many +small shams . . . what was it she had felt? + +She groped among the loose-hanging filaments of impression and brought +it out to see. It seemed to be . . . could it have been, the same startled +recoil as at the notion of getting back the peace of childhood by giving +up her home for the toy-house; her living children for the dolls? + + * * * * * + +Now, for the great trial of strength. Back! Push back all those +thick-clustering, intruding, distracting traditional ideas of other +people on both sides; the revolt on one hand, the feeble resignation on +the other; what other women did; what people had said. . . . Let her wipe +all that off from the too-receptive tablets of her mind. Out of sight +with all that. This was _her_ life, _her_ question, hers alone. Let her +stand alone with her own self and her own life, and, with honesty as +witness, ask herself the question . . . would she, if she could, give up +what she was now, with her myriads of roots, deep-set in the soil of +human life, in order to bear the one red rose, splendid though it might +be? + +That was the question. + +With no conscious volition of hers, the answer was there, plain and +irrefutable as a fact in the physical world. No, she would not choose to +do that. She had gone on, gone on beyond that. She was almost bewildered +by the peremptory certainty with which that answer came, as though it +had lain inherent in the very question. + + * * * * * + +And now another question crowded forward, darkly confused, charged with +a thousand complex associations and emotions. There had been something +displeasing and preposterous in the idea of trying to stoop her grown +stature and simplify her complex tastes and adult interests back into +the narrow limits of a child's toy-house. Could it be that she felt +something of the same displeasure when she set herself fully to conceive +what it would be to cramp herself and her complex interests and adult +affections back to . . . + +But at this there came a wild protesting clamor, bursting out to prevent +her from completing this thought; loud, urgent voices, men's, women's, +with that desperate certainty of their ground which always struck down +any guard Marise had been able to put up. They cried her down as a +traitor to the fullness of life, those voices, shouting her down with +all the unquestioned authority she had encountered so many times on that +terribly vital thing, the printed page; they clashed in their fury and +all but drowned each other out. Only disconnected words reached her, but +she recognized the well-known sentences from which they came . . . +"puritanism . . . abundance of personality . . . freedom of +development . . . nothing else vital in human existence . . . +prudishness . . . conventionality . . . our only possible contact with +the life-purpose . . . with the end of passion life declines and dies." + +The first onslaught took Marise's breath, as though a literal storm had +burst around her. She was shaken as she had been shaken so many times +before. She lost her hold on her staff . . . _what had that staff been?_ + +At the thought, the master-words came to her mind again; and all fell +quiet and in a great hush waited on her advance. Neale had said, "What +is deepest and most living in _you_." Well, what _was_ deepest and most +living in her? That was what she was trying to find out. That was what +those voices were trying to cry her down from finding. + +For the first time in all her life, she drew an inspiration from Neale's +resistance to opposition, knew something of the joy of battle. What +right had those people to cry her down? She would not submit to it. + +She would go back to the place where she had been set upon by other +people's voices, other people's thoughts, and she would go on steadily, +thinking her own. + +She had been thinking that there _was_ the same displeasure and distaste +as when she had thought of returning to her literal childhood, when she +set herself fully to conceive what it would be to cramp herself and +simplify her complex interests and affections back to the narrow limits +of passion, which like her play with dolls had been only a foreshadowing +of something greater to come. + +She spoke it out boldly now, and was amazed that not one of the +clamorous voices dared resist the authenticity of her statement. But +after all, how would they dare? This was what she had found in her own +heart, what they had not been able, for all their clamor, to prevent her +from seeing. She had been strong enough to beat them, to stand out +against them, to say that she saw what she really did see, and felt what +she really did feel. She did not feel what traditionally she should +feel, that is what a primitive Italian woman might feel, all of whose +emotional life had found no other outlet than sex. . . . + +Well, if it was so, it was so. For better or for worse, that was the +kind of woman she had become, with the simple, forthright physical life +subordinate, humble; like a pleasant, lovable child playing among the +strong, full-grown, thought-freighted interests and richly varied +sympathies and half-impersonal joys and sorrows which had taken +possession of her days. And she could not think that the child could +ever again be master of her destiny, any more than (save in a moment of +false sentimentality) she could think that she would like to have her +horizon again limited by a doll-house. To be herself was to go on, not +to go back, now that she knew what she had become. It seemed to her that +never before had she stood straight up. + +And in plain fact she found that somehow she had risen to her feet and +was now standing, her head up, almost touching the rafters of the slant +ceiling. She could have laughed out, to find herself so free. She knew +now why she had never known the joy of battle. It was because she had +been afraid. And she had been afraid because she had never dared to +enter the battle, had always sent others in to do her fighting for her. +Now she had been forced into it and had won. And there was nothing to be +afraid of, there! + +She spread out her arms in a great gesture of liberation. How had she +ever lived before, under the shadow of that coward fear? This . . . this +. . . she had a moment of vision . . . this was what Neale had been trying +to do for her, all these years, unconsciously, not able to tell her what +it was, driving at the mark only with the inarticulate wisdom of his +love for her, his divination of her need. He had seen her, shivering and +shrinking in the shallow waters, and had longed for her sake to have her +strike out boldly into the deep. But even if he had been ever so able to +tell her, she would not have understood till she had fought her way +through those ravening breakers, beyond them, out into the sustaining +ocean. + +How long it took, how _long_ for men and women to make the smallest +advance! And how the free were the only ones who could help to liberate +the bound. How she had fought against Neale's effort to set her free, +had cried to him that she dared not risk herself on the depths, that he +must have the strength to swim for her . . . and how Neale, doggedly sure +of the simple truth, too simple for her to see, had held to the +certainty that his effort would not make her strong, and that she would +only be free if she were strong. + +Neale being his own master, a free citizen of life, knew what a kingdom +he owned, and with a magnanimity unparalleled could not rest till she +had entered hers. She, not divining what she had not known, had only +wished to make the use of his strength which would have weakened her. +Had there ever before been any man who refused to let the woman he loved +weaken herself by the use of his strength? Had a man ever before held +out his strong hand to a woman to help her forward, not to hold her +fast? + +Her life was her own. She stood in it, knowing it to be an impregnable +fortress, knowing that from it she could now look abroad fearlessly and +understandingly, knowing that from it she could look at things and men +and the world and see what was there. From it she could, as if for the +first time, look at Vincent Marsh when next she saw him; she would look +to see what was really there. That was all. She would look at him and +see what he was, and then she would know the meaning of what had +happened, and what she was to do. And no power on earth could prevent +her from doing it. The inner bar that had shut her in was broken. She +was a free woman, free from that something in her heart that was afraid. +For the moment she could think of nothing else beyond the richness of +that freedom. Why, here was the total fulfilment she had longed for. +Here was the life more abundant, within, within her own heart, waiting +for her! + + * * * * * + +The old clock in the hall behind her sounded four muffled strokes and, +as if it had wakened her, Agnes stirred in her bed and cried out in a +loud voice of terror, "Oh, come quick, Miss Marise! Come!" + +Marise went through the hail and to her door, and saw the frightened old +eyes glaring over the pulled-up sheet. "Oh . . . oh . . . it's you . . . I +thought. . . . Oh, Miss Marise, don't you see anything standing in that +corner? Didn't you hear. . . . Oh, Miss Marise, I must have had a bad +dream. I thought . . ." Her teeth were chattering. She did not know what +she was saying. + +"It's all right, Agnes," said Marise soothingly, stepping into the room. +"The big clock just struck four. That probably wakened you." + +She sat down on the bed and laid her hand firmly on Agnes' shoulder, +looking into the startled old eyes, which grew a little quieter now that +someone else was there. What a pitiable creature Agnes' dependence on +Cousin Hetty had made of her. + +Like the boom from a great bell came the thought, "That is what I wanted +Neale to make of me, when the crucial moment came, a dependent . . . but +he would not." + +"What time did you say it is?" Agnes asked, still breathing quickly but +with a beginning of a return to her normal voice. + +"Four o'clock," answered Marise gently, as to a child. "It must be +almost light outside. The last night when you have anything to fear is +over now." + +She went to the window and opened the shutter. The ineffable sacred +pureness of another dawn came in, gray, tranquil, penetrating. + +At the sight of it, the dear light of everyday, Marise felt the thankful +tears come to her eyes. + +"See, Agnes," she said in an unsteady voice, "daylight has come. You can +look around for yourself, and see that there is nothing to be afraid +of." + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + +MARISE LOOKS AND SEES WHAT IS THERE + + +_A Torch in a Living Tree_ + +July 24. + +Not since his fiery, ungovernable youth had Vincent felt anything like +the splendid surge of rich desire and exultant certainty which sent him +forward at a bound along the wood-road into which he had seen Marise +turn. The moment he had been watching for had come at last, after these +three hideous days of sudden arrest and pause. The forced inaction had +been a sensation physically intolerable to him, as though he had been +frozen immobile with every nerve and muscle strained for a great leap. + +He felt himself taking the leap now, with such a furious, triumphant +sense of power released, that he came up beside her like a wind in the +forest, calling her name loudly, his hands outflung, his face glowing, +on fire with joy and his need for her. + +For an instant he was dumfounded by the quiet face she turned on him, by +his instant perception of a profound change in her, by an expression in +her long dark eyes which was new to him, which he felt to be ominous to +him. But he was no untried boy to be cast down or disconcerted by sudden +alterations of mood in a woman. He was a man, with a man's trained +tenacity of purpose and experienced quickness of resource. + +He wasted no time. "What has happened to you?" he demanded, peremptorily +as by right to know, and with the inner certainty of over-riding it, +whatever it was. + +She did not seem tacitly or otherwise to deny his right to know, but +she seemed to have no words for it, continuing to look at him silently, +intently, with no hostility, with a sort of steady, wondering attention +in her face, usually so sensitively changing. He felt a resentment at +its quiet, at its lack of that instant responsiveness to his look which +had given him such moments of exquisite pleasure, which had been her +own, her wonderful gift to him. She was looking at him now as she might +have looked at any one else, merely in order to see what was there. + +Well, he would show her what was there! The will to conquer rose high +and strong in him, with an element of fierceness it had not had before +because no resistance had called it out. He did not show this, indeed +only allowed it the smallest corner of his consciousness, keeping all +the rest tautly on the alert for the first indication of an opening, for +the first hint of where to throw his strength. + +But standing in suspense on the alert was the last role he could long +endure, and in a moment, when she did not answer, he took a step towards +her, towering above her, his hands on her shoulders, pouring out with a +hot sense of release all his longing into the cry, "Marise, Marise my +own, what has happened to you?" + +How he hated the quiet of her face! With what hungry impatience he +watched to see it break. How surely he counted on its disappearance at +his touch. For he had the certainty of his power to kindle her left +intact from the last time he had seen her, tinder to his spark, +helplessly played upon by his voice. + +But now it was as though he had held a torch aloft into the green +branches of a living tree. A twitch of surface agitation on her face and +that was all. + +And when she spoke, as she did at once, the sound of her voice was +strange and alien to him. With an extreme directness, and with a deep +sincerity of accent which, even to his ears, made his own impassioned +outcry to her sound inflated and false, she said earnestly, "I don't +believe I can tell you what has happened. I don't believe you could +understand it." + +He did not believe a word of this, but with his brilliant suppleness of +mind he perceived that he was in the wrong key. She was not, for the +moment, to be kindled to flame, she who miraculously was never the same. +Perhaps it was the moment for a thrust of sheer power, straight at the +obstacle, for of course he knew the obstacle. + +"I know what has happened," he said, "without your telling me. Your +husband has made a scene, and overborne you, and is trying to force you +back into the hen-yard of domestic virtue. . . ." He changed his manner. He +said in a low, beautiful, persuasive voice, his eyes deeply on her, sure +of himself with that sureness that no one had ever resisted, "But you +can never do that now, you bird-of-paradise! You would only . . ." + +He was brought up short by a change in her. This time his words had had +the power to move her face from the quiet he hated. It was suddenly +alive with a strong emotion. But what emotion? He could not guess at its +meaning, nor why she should step quickly away, shaking his hands from +her shoulders, and looking at him sadly, her eyebrows drawn up as if in +pain. He hung uncertain, daunted by his inability to read her face, +feeling for the first time an instantly dismissed doubt of his mastery +over her. + +She said very quickly, with the accent and manner of one who, shocked +and pitying, tries to save another from going on with an involuntary +disclosure in him of something shaming and unworthy. + +"No, oh no! Not that. Neale has done nothing . . . said nothing . . . +except as he always has, to leave me quite free, all free." + +As he was silent for a moment, watchful, not especially moved by her +words, which seemed to him unimportant, but alarmed by some special +significance which they seemed to have for her, she went on with the +single, only note of blame or reproach which was to come into her voice. +"Oh, how _could_ you think that?" she said to him, with a deep quavering +disappointment, as though she were ashamed of him. + +He knew that he was the cause of the disappointment, although he could +not imagine why, and he regretted having made a false move; but he was +not deeply concerned by this passage. He did not see how it could have +any importance, or touch what lay at issue between them. These were all +womanish, up-in-the-air passes and parries. He had only not yet found +his opening. + +He flung his head back impatiently. "If it is not that, what is it?" he +demanded. "A return of hide-bound scruples about the children? You know +that they must live their own lives, not yours, and that anything that +gives you greater richness and power makes you a better mother." + +"Oh yes, I know that," she answered. "I have thought of that, myself." + +But he had a baffled feeling that this was not at all the admission the +words would make it seem. + +His impatience began to burn high, and a dawning alarm to translate +itself into anger. He would not be played with, by any woman who ever +lived! "Marise," he said roughly, "what under the sun is it?" In his +tone was all his contemptuous dismissal of it, whatever it might be . . . +outworn moral qualms, fear of the world's opinion, inertia, cowardice, +hair-splitting scruples, or some morbid physical revulsion . . . there was +not one of them which he knew he could not instantly pounce on and shake +to rags. + +Marise stood very still, her eyes bent downward. "Aren't you going to +answer me?" he said, furious. + +She nodded. "Yes, I'm going to answer you," she said, without raising +her eyes. He understood that he must wait, and stood opposite to her, +close to her, looking at her, all the strength of his passion in that +avid gaze. + +She was stamped on his mind in every detail as she looked at that +instant, infinitely desirable, infinitely alluring, in her thin white +dress, her full supple woman's body erect and firm with a strong life of +its own, her long sensitive hands clasped before her . . . how many times +in his dreams had he held them in his . . . her shining dark hair bound +smoothly about her head and down low on each side of her rounded +forehead. Her thick white eyelids, down-dropped, were lowered over her +eyes, and her mouth with its full lips and deep corners . . . at the sight +of her mouth on which he had laid that burning kiss, Vincent felt a +barrier within him give way . . . here he was at last with the woman he +loved, the woman who was going to give herself to him . . . Good God! all +these words . . . what did they mean? Nothing. He swept her into his arms +and drew her face to his, his eyes closed, lost in the wonder and +ecstasy of having reached his goal at last. + + * * * * * + +She did not make the startled virginal resistance of a girl. She drew +away from him quietly . . . the hatred for that quiet was murderous in him +. . . and shook her head. Why, it was almost gently that she shook her +head. + +How dared she act gently to him, as though he were a boy who had made a +mistake! How dared she not be stirred and mastered! He felt his head +burning hot with anger, and knew that his face must be suffused with +red. + +And hers was not, it was quiet. He could have stamped with rage, and +shaken her. He wanted to hurt her at once, deeply, to pierce her and +sting her back to life. "Do you mean," he said brutally, "that you find, +after all, that you are a cold, narrow, cowardly, provincial woman, +stunted by your life, so that you are incapable of feeling a generous +heat?" + +As she remained silent, he was stung by the expression on her face which +he did not understand. He went on vindictively snatching up to drive +home his thrust the sharpest and cruelest weapon he could conceive, +"_Perhaps you find you are too old?_" + +At this she looked away from him for an instant, up to the lower +branches of the oak under which they stood. She seemed to reflect, and +when she brought her eyes back to his, she answered, "Yes, I think that +is it. I find I am too old." + +He was for years to ponder on the strangeness of the accent with which +she said this, without regret, with that damnable gentleness as though +to hide from him a truth he might find hard to bear, or be incapable of +understanding. + +How could any woman say "I find I am too old" with that unregretting +accent? Was it not the worst of calamities for all women to grow old? +What was there left for a woman when she grew old? + +But how preposterous, her saying that, she who stood there in the +absolute perfection of her bloom! + +He found that he did not know what to say next. That tolerant +acquiescence of hers in what he had meant to sting intolerably . . . it +was as though he had put all his force into a blow that would stun, and +somehow missing his aim, encountering no resistance, was toppling +forward with the impetus of his own effort. He recovered himself and +looked at her, choking, "You don't mean . . ." he began challenging her +incredulously, and could go no further. + +For she nodded, her eyes on his with that singular expression in them +which he did not understand, and which he intensely resented. + +He was so angry that for a moment he could not speak. He was aware of +nothing but anger. "It's impotence and weakness on your part, that's all +it is!" he cast out at her, hating her savagely as he spoke, "no matter +what fine words you've decided to call it to cloak your own feebleness. +It's the littleness of the vital spark in you. Or it's cowardly inertia, +turning from the real fulfilment that calls for you, back to chips and +straw because you are used to them. It's being a small, poor, weak, +cowed creature, traditional-minded, instead of the splendid, brave, +living woman I thought I loved. I am _glad_ to leave you behind, to have +no more of you in my life. I have no use for thin-blooded cowards." + +She made no answer at all, not a word. His flaming eyes fell away from +her face. He turned from her abruptly and walked rapidly away, not +looking back. + +Then he found he had ceased to advance rapidly, had stopped and was +standing still, wrung in so dreadful a pain that his hand was at his +side as though he had been stabbed. With no thought, with no awareness +of what he was doing, he ran back to her, his hands outstretched, +suffering so that he must have help. He did not mean to speak, did not +know what he was to say . . . he cried out to her, "Marise, Marise . . . I +love you! _What can I do?_" + +The cry was desperate, involuntary, forcing its way out from unfathomed +depths of feeling below all his anger and resentment, and tearing him to +pieces as it came. It was as though he had taken his heart out and flung +it at her feet. + +Her face changed instantly and was quiveringly alight with a pale and +guilty agitation. "No . . . oh _no_, Vincent! I thought you only . . . I +had thought you could not really . . . Vincent, forgive me! Forgive me!" +She took one of his hands in both hers . . . the last unforgotten touch +he was ever to have of her. . . . + + * * * * * + +It came to him through those words which he did not understand that she +was pitying him; and stung to the quick, he drew back from her, +frowning, with an angry toss of his head. + +Instantly she drew back also, as though she had misinterpreted +something. + +He stood for an instant looking full at her as though he did not see +her; and then with a wide gesture of utter bewilderment, strange from +him, he passed her without a look. + +This time he did not turn back, but continued steadily and resolutely on +his way. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + +THE FALL OF THE BIG PINE + + +August 2. + +I + +When Marise reached the place on the wood-road where she had had that +last talk with Vincent Marsh, she stopped, postponing for a moment the +errand to the Powers which she had so eagerly undertaken. She stood +there, looking up into the far green tops of the pines, seeing again +that strange, angry, bewildered gesture with which he had renounced +trying to make anything out of her, and had turned away. + +It remained with her, constantly, as the symbol of what had happened, +and she looked at it gravely and understandingly. Then, very swiftly, +she saw again that passing aspect of his which had so terribly +frightened her, felt again the fear that he might be really suffering, +that she might really have done a hurt to another human being. + +This brought her a momentary return of the agitation it had caused in +her that day, and she sat down abruptly on a tree-trunk, her knees +trembling, her hands cold. + +That fear had come as so totally unexpected a possibility, something +which his every aspect and tone and word up to then had seemed to +contradict. Strange, how unmoved he had left her, till that moment! +Strange the impression of him, that first time after she had known +herself strong enough to stand up and be herself, not the responsive +instrument played on by every passing impression. Strange, how instantly +he had felt that, and how passionate had been his resentment of her +standing up to be herself, her being a grown woman, a human being, and +not a flower to be plucked. How he had hated it, and alas! how +lamentable his hatred of it had made him appear. What a blow he had +dealt to her conception of him by his instant assumption that a change +in her could only mean that Neale had been bullying her. It had been +_hard_ to see him so far away and diminished as that had made him seem, +so entirely outside her world. It had dealt a back-hand blow to her own +self-esteem to have him seem vulgar. + +How strange an experience for her altogether, to be able to stand firm +against noise and urgent clamor and confusion, and to see, in spite of +it, what she was looking at; to see, back of the powerful magnetic +personality, the undeveloped and tyrannical soul, the cramped mind +without experience or conception of breadth and freedom in the relations +between human beings; to be able to hear Vincent cry out on her with +that fierce, masterful certainty of himself, that she was acting from +cowed and traditional-minded motives and not to believe a word of it, +because it was not true; not even to feel the scared throb of alarm at +the very idea that it might be true; to have it make no impression on +her save pity that Vincent should be imprisoned in a feeling of which +possession was so great a part that failure to possess turned all the +rest to poison and sickness. + +What had happened to her, in truth, that she had this new steadfastness? +She had told Vincent he could not understand it. Did she understand it +herself? She leaned her chin on her two hands looking deep into the +green recesses of the forest. High above her head, a wind swayed the +tops of the pines and sang loudly; but down between the great brown +columns of their trunks, not a breath stirred. The thick-set, +myriad-leaved young maples held all their complicated delicately-edged +foliage motionless in perfect calm. + +It was very still in the depths of Marise's complicated mind also, +although the wind stirred the surface. Yes, she knew what had happened +to her. She had seen it completely happen to three other human beings, +miraculously, unbelievably, certainly; had seen the babies who could +not tell light from dark, heat from cold, emerge by the mere process of +healthful living into keenly sensitive beings accurately alive to every +minutest variation of the visible world. It must be that like them she +had simply learned to tell moral light from dark, heat from cold, by the +mere process of healthful living. What happened to the child who at one +time could not grasp the multiplication table, and a few years later, if +only he were properly fed and cared for, had somehow so wholly changed, +although still the same, that he found his way lightly among geometric +conceptions, and only a few years after that was probing with expert +fingers at some unsolved problem of astronomy? He had grown up, that was +all. By calling the miracle a familiar name we veiled the marvel of it. +Insensibly to him, with no visible change from one day to the next, he +had acquired a totally different conception of the universe, a totally +different valuation of everything in life. + +That was what had happened to her. She had grown up . . . why should not a +woman grow up to other valuations of things as well as her comrade in +life? + +And it had happened to her as it did to the child, because someone +stronger than she had protected her while she was growing . . . not +protected from effort, as though one should try to protect the child +from learning his lessons. . . . Back there, such ages ago in Italy, in her +ignorant . . . how ignorant! . . . and frightened girlhood, she had begged +Neale, without knowing what she did, to help her grow up, to help her +save what was worth saving in her, to help her untangle from the +many-colored confusion of her nature what was best worth keeping. And +Neale had done it, had clung steadily to his divination of what was +strong in her, in spite of her clamor to him to let it go. + +But Vincent had not grown up, was back there still in confusion, holding +desperately with all that terrific strength of his to what could not be +held, to what was impermanent and passing in its nature. Why should he +do that? Neale knew better than that. Then she saw why: it was because +Vincent conceived of nothing but emptiness if he let it go, and horribly +feared that imaginary emptiness. Out of the incalculable richness of her +kingdom she wondered again at his blindness. . . . And made a pitying guess +at the reason for it . . . perhaps for him it was _not_ imaginary. Perhaps +one of the terms of the bargain he had made with life was that there +_should_ be nothing later but emptiness for him. Yes, she saw that. She +would have made that bargain, too, if it had not been for Neale. She +would have been holding terrified to what was not to be held; with +nothing but that between her and the abyss. Who was she to blame Vincent +for his blindness? + +That, perhaps, had been the meaning of that singular last moment of +their talk together, which had frightened her so, with its sudden plunge +below the surface, into the real depths, when, changed wholly into +someone else, he had run back to her, his hands outstretched, his eyes +frightened, his lips trembling . . . perhaps he had felt the abyss there +just before him. For an instant there, he had made her think of Paul, +made her remember that Vincent himself had, so short a time ago, been a +little boy too. She had been so shocked and racked by pity and remorse, +that she would have been capable of any folly to comfort him. Perhaps +she had seen there for an instant the man Vincent might have been, and +had seen that she could have loved that man. + +But how instantly it had passed! He had not suffered that instant of +true feeling to have space to live, but had burned it up with the return +of his pride, his resentment that anyone save himself should try to +stand upright, with the return of the devouring desire-for-possession of +the man who had always possessed everything he had coveted. There was +something sad in being able to see the littleness of life which +underlay the power and might of personality in a man like Vincent. He +could have been something else. + +She wondered why there should slide into her mood, just now, a faint +tinge of regret. . . . Why should there be anything there but the bright +gladness of thanksgiving for the liberation from the chains which her +own nature might have forged about her? She had at last stepped outside +the narrow circle of personal desire, and found all the world open to +her. And yet there was room in her heart for a shade of wistful wonder +if perhaps all this did not mean that she might be sliding from the +ranks of those who feel and do, into the ranks of those who only +understand. + +But one glance at the life that lay before her scattered this hanging +mist-cloud . . . good heavens! what feeling and doing lay there before +her! + +Had she thought that Neale was nothing to her because he had become all +in all to her so that he penetrated all her life, so that she did not +live an instant alone? Had she thought the loss of the amusing trinket +of physical newness could stand against the gain of an affection ill +massy gold? Would she, to buy moments of excitement, lose an instant of +the precious certainty of sympathy and trust and understanding which she +and Neale had bought and paid for, hour by hour, year by year of honest +life-in-common? Where was real life for her? Had she not known? Where +were the real depths, where the real food for the whole woman she had +grown to be? Neale had opened the door so that she could go away from +him if that was what she needed, or go back to stand by his side; and +through the open door had come the flood of daylight which had shown her +that she could not go back to stand by his side because she had been +there all the time, had never left it, never could leave it, any more +than she could leave half of her body in one place, and go on to +another. + + +II + +There was other feeling and doing now, too, before her, this instant, +which she had forgotten, idling here in her much-loved forest, as much a +part of her home as her piano or her own roof-tree. She had been trying +to understand what had been happening that summer. Let her try first of +all to understand what she must do in that perfectly definite and +concrete dilemma in which she had been placed by that strange sight of +'Gene Powers, fleeing back from the Eagle Rocks. She must look squarely +at what she supposed was the legal obligation . . . she instantly felt a +woman's impatience of the word legal as against human, and could not +entertain the thought of the obligations of the situation. She must see, +and think and try to understand, with Neale to help her. She had not yet +had time to tell Neale. + +But not today. Today she was only the bearer of the good tidings to +Nelly and 'Gene, tidings which would wipe out for her the recollection +of a day which was shameful to her, the day when she had conceived the +possibility of believing some thing base against Neale. It was not that +she had believed it,--no, she had stood it off till Neale came back. But +there was shame for her in those recurrent spasms of horror when she had +conceived the possibility that she might believe it. There had been +proof of it, of course, Eugenia's positive statement . . . strange how +Eugenia could have so entirely misunderstood the affair! . . . But what was +mere proof against human certainty? No, she had been attacked suddenly +and for an instant had failed to rise to defend what was hers to defend. +It was a failure to live down. + +She stood up and moved forward along the path, changing the thick +envelope in one hand to the other. She had already lost time. She ought +to have been by this time through the forest and out in the edge of the +Powers pasture. + +She became aware that for some time she had heard a distant sound, a +faint toc-toc-toc, like the sound of chopping. This being associated in +her mind with snow and winter woods, she had not thought it could be the +sound of the axe which it seemed to be. Nobody could be felling trees in +the height of the farming season, and on this day of swooning heat. But +as she came to the edge of the woods and turned into the path along the +brook, she heard it more plainly, unmistakable this time, not far now, +the ringing blows delivered with the power and rhythmic stroke of the +trained chopper. It came not from the woods at all, she now perceived, +but from the open farming land, from the other side of the pasture, +beyond the Powers house. + +But there were no woods there, only the Powers' big pine which towered +up, darkly glorious, into the shimmering summer haze. + +As she looked at it wondering, it came into her mind had somebody told +her, or had she overheard it somewhere? . . . that 'Gene had promised Nelly +at last to cut down the big pine he and his fathers had so cherished. + +Could it be that? What a sacrifice! And to a foolish whim of Nelly's. +There had been no musty smell in the house till Nelly came there to keep +the shutters closed so that the sun would not fade the carpets. The old +pine was one of the most splendid things of beauty in the valley. And it +was something vital in 'Gene's strange, choked, inarticulate life. She +stopped to listen a moment, feeling a chill of apprehension and +foreboding. It was dreadful to have 'Gene do that. It was as though he +were cutting at his own strength, cutting off one of his own members to +please his wife. Poor 'Gene! He would do that too, now, if Nelly asked +him. + +The resonant winter note rang out loud, strange in that sultry summer +air. She looked from afar at the tree, holding its mighty crest high +above the tiny house, high above the tiny human beings who had doomed +it. So many winters, so many summers, so many suns and moons and rains +and snows had gone to make it what it was. Like the men who had planted +it and lived beneath its shade, it had drawn silently from the depths of +the earth and the airy treasures of the sky food to grow strong and live +its life. And now to be killed in an hour, in attempted expiation of a +deed for which it bore no guilt! + +Marise was coming closer now. The axe-strokes stopped for a moment as +though the chopper drew breath. The silence was heavy over the +breathless summer field. + +But by the time she had arrived at the back door of the house, the +axe-blows were renewed, loud, immediate, shocking palpably on her ear. +She knocked, but knew that the ringing clamor of the axe drowned out the +sound. Through the screen-door she saw old Mrs. Powers, standing by the +table, ironing, and stepped in. The three children were in the pantry, +beyond, Ralph spreading some bread and butter for his little brother and +sister. Ralph was always good to the younger children, although he was +so queer and un-childlike! Nelly was not there. Mrs. Powers looked up at +Marise, and nodded. She looked disturbed and absent. "We're at it, you +see," she said, jerking her head back towards the front of the house. "I +told you 'bout 'Gene's sayin' he'd gi'n in to Nelly about the big pine." + +Marise made a gesture of dismay at this confirmation. The old woman went +on, "Funny thing . . . I ain't a Powers by birth, Lord knows, and I never +thought I set no store by their old pine tree. It always sort o' riled +me, how much 'Gene's father thought of it, and 'Gene after him . . . sort +of silly, seems like. But just now when we was all out there, and 'Gene +heaved up his axe and hit the first whack at it . . . well, I can't tell +you . . . it give me a turn most as if he'd chopped right into _me_ +somewhere. I got up and come into the house, and I set to ironin', as +fast as I could clip it, to keep my mind off'n it. I made the children +come in too, because it ain't no place for kids around, when a tree +that size comes down." + +Marise demurred, "'Gene is such a fine chopper, he knows to a hair where +he'll lay it, of course." + +"Well, even so, who knows what notion a kid will take into his head? +They was playin' right there on a pile of pole-wood 'Gene's brought in +from the woods and ain't got sawed up into stove-lengths yet. I didn't +want to take no chances; maybe they wouldn't ha' moved quick enough when +their papa yelled to them. No, ma'am, I made 'em come in, and here +they'll stay. Nelly, she's out there, walkin' round and round watchin' +'Gene. She's awfully set up havin' it come down. 'Gene he's told her +he'll give her the money from the lumber in it. There'll be a sight of +boards, too. It's the biggest pine in the valley." + +Marise went to the window and looked at the scene, penetrated by the +strangeness of the difference between its outer and inner aspect: 'Gene, +his faded blue overalls tucked into his plowman's heavy cow-hide boots, +his shirt open over his great throat and chest, his long corded arms +rising and falling with the steady effortless rhythm of the master +woodsman. Nelly, in one of her immaculate blue ginghams, a white apron +over it, a white frilled shade-hat on her head, her smartly shod small +feet, treading the ground with that inimitable light step of hers, +circling slowly about, looking at 'Gene as he worked, looking up at the +crown of the tree, high, so insolently high above her head, soon to be +brought low by a wish from her heart, soon to be turned into money for +her to spend. + +"I came over to talk to 'Gene and Nelly about some business," Marise +said, over her shoulder, to Mrs. Powers, not able to take her eyes from +the trio in the drama out there, "but I'd better wait till the tree is +down before I speak to them." + +"'Twon't be long now. 'Gene's been at it quite a while, and he's +stavin' away like all possessed. Seems as if, now he's started in, he +couldn't get it over with quick enough to suit him. He acted awful queer +about it, I thought." + +She left her ironing and, looking over her shoulder at the children, +came closer to where Marise stood. Then she stepped back and shut the +door to the pantry. "Mis' Crittenden," she said in an anxious troubled +voice, "'Gene ain't right these days. He acts to me like he's comin' +down with a sick spell, or something. He ain't _right_. Today Nelly told +me she woke up in the night last night and 'Gene wasn't there. She +hollered to him, and he didn't answer. It scared her like everything, +and she scrambled out of bed and lighted the lamp, and she said she +'most fainted away, when she see 'Gene, rolled up in a blanket, lying on +the floor, over against the wall, his eyes wide open looking at her. She +said she let out a yell . . . it scairt the life out of her . . . and 'Gene +he got right up. She says to him, 'For the Lord's sake, 'Gene, what +_ails_ you?' And what do you suppose he says to her, he says, 'I didn't +know whether you wanted me there or not, Nelly.' What do you think of +that? She says back, 'For goodness' sake, 'Gene Powers, where _would_ +you be nights, except in your own bed!' He got back and for all Nelly +knows slept all right the rest of the night. She says she guesses he +must have had some sort of funny dream, and not been really all waked up +yet. But it must ha' gi'n her a turn, for all she ain't one of the +nervous kind." + +Marise turned sick with shocked pity. The two women looked at each +other, silently with shadowed eyes of foreboding. Mrs. Powers shook her +head, and turned back into the pantry, shutting the door behind her. +Marise heard her speaking to the children, in the cheerful, bantering, +affectionate, grandmother tone she had always had for them. She was +brave, old Mrs. Powers, she always said she could "stand up to things." +She was the sort of woman who can always be depended on to keep life +going, no matter what happens; who never gives up, who can always go on +taking care of the children. + +Marise herself did not feel at all brave. She sat down heavily in a +chair by the window looking out at the man who for his wife's sake was +killing something vital and alive. He had done that before, 'Gene had. +He went at it now with a furious haste which had something dreadful in +it. + +Nelly, who had sat down to rest on the pile of brush and poles, seemed a +carved and painted statuette of ivory and gold. + +She took off her ruffled pretty hat, and laid it down on the white-birch +poles, so that she could tip her head far back and see the very top of +the tree. Her braids shone molten in the sunshine. Her beautiful face +was impassive, secreting behind a screen all that Marise was sure she +must have been feeling. + +'Gene, catching sight of her now, in a side-glance, stopped abruptly in +the middle of a swing, and shouted to her to "get off that brush-pile. +That's jus' where I'm lottin' on layin' the tree." + +Somewhat startled, Nelly sprang up and moved around to the other side, +back of him, although she called protestingly, "Gracious, you're not +_near_ through yet!" + +'Gene made no answer, returning to the fury of his assault on what he so +much loved. The great trunk now had a gaping raw gash in its side. Nelly +idled back of him, looking up at the tree, down at him. What was she +thinking about? + +Marise wondered if someone with second-sight could have seen Frank +Warner, there between the husband and wife? 'Gene's face was still gray +in spite of the heat and his fierce exertion. Glistening streams of +perspiration ran down his cheeks. + +What did the future hold for 'Gene? What possible escape was there from +the tragic net he had wrapped stranglingly around himself? + +Very distantly, like something dreamed, it came to Marise that once for +an instant the simple, violent solution had seemed the right one to her. +_Could she have thought that?_ + +What a haunted house was the human heart, with phantoms from the +long-dead past intruding their uninvited ghastly death's-heads among the +living. + +The axe-strokes stopped; so suddenly that the ear went on hearing them, +ghost-like, in the intense silence. 'Gene stood upright, lifting his +wet, gray face. "She's coming now," he said. + +Marise looked out, astonished. To her eyes the tree stood as massively +firm as she had ever seen it. But 'Gene's attitude was of strained, +expectant certainty: he stood near Nelly and as she looked up at the +tree, he looked at her. At that look Marise felt the cold perspiration +on her own temples. + +Nelly stepped sideways a little, tipping her head to see, and cried out, +"Yes, I see it beginning to slant. How _slow_ it goes! + +"It'll go fast enough in a minute," said 'Gene. + +Of what followed, not an instant ever had for Marise the quality of +reality. It always remained for her a superb and hideous dream, +something symbolical, glorious, and horrible which had taken place in +her brain, not in the lives of human beings. + + * * * * * + +Nelly, . . . looking down suddenly to see where the tree would fall, +crying out, "Oh, I left my hat where it'll . . ." and darting, light as a +feather, towards it. + +'Gene, making a great futile gesture to stop her, as she passed him, +shouting at her, with a horrified glance up at the slowly leaning tree, +"Come back! Come back!" + +Nelly on the brush-pile, her hat in her hand, whirling to return, supple +and swift, suddenly caught by the heel and flung headlong . . . up again +in an instant, and falling again, to her knees this time. Up once more +with a desperate haste, writhing and pulling at her shoe, held by its +high heel, deep between the knotty poles. + +'Gene, bounding from his place of safety, there at her feet, tearing in +a frenzy at the poles, at her shoe. . . . + +Above them the great tree bearing down on them the solemn vengeful +shadow of its fall. + +Someone was screaming. It was Nelly. She was screaming, "'Gene! 'Gene! +'Gene!" her face shrunken in terror, her white lips open. + + * * * * * + +And then, that last gesture of 'Gene's when he took Nelly into his great +arms, closely, hiding her face on his shoulder, as the huge tree, +roaring downward, bore them both to the earth, forever. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII + +TWO GOOD-BYES + + +August 10. + +Marise welcomed the bother about the details of Eugenia's departure and +Mr. Welles', and flung herself into them with a frightened desire for +something that would drown out the roaring wind of tragedy which filled +her ears in every pause of the day's activities, and woke her up at +night out of the soundest sleep. Night after night, she found herself +sitting up in bed, her night-gown and hair damp with perspiration, +Nelly's scream ringing knife-like in her ears. Then, rigid and wide-eyed +she saw it all again, what had happened in those thirty seconds which +had summed up and ended the lives of 'Gene and Nelly. + +But one night as she sat thus in her bed, hammered upon beyond +endurance, she saw as though she had not seen it before what 'Gene had +finally done, his disregard of possible safety for himself, his abandon +of his futile, desperate effort to free Nelly from the tangle where her +childish vanity had cast her, the grandeur and completeness of his +gesture when he had taken Nelly into his strong arms, to die with her. +Marise found herself crying as she had not cried for years. The picture, +burned into her memory, stood there endlessly in the black night till +she understood it. The tears came raining down her face, and with them +went the strained, wild horror of the memory. + +But the shadow and darkness hung about her like a cloud, through which +she only dimly saw the neat, unhurried grace of Eugenia's preparations +for departure and far travels, and felt only a dimmed, vague echo of the +emotion she had thought to feel at the disappearance of Mr. Welles, +poor, weary, futile old crusader on his Rosinante. + +On that last morning of their stay she drove with them to the station, +still giving only a half-attention to the small episodes of their +departure. She did see and smile at the characteristic quality of an +instinctive gesture of Eugenia's as they stepped up on the platform of +the station. Two oddly-shaped pieces of metal stood there, obviously +parts of a large machine. Paul stumbled over them as he climbed out of +the car, and held tight to Mr. Welles' hand to save himself from a fall. +Eugenia saw them instantly from afar as an element in life which +threatened the spotlessness of her gray traveling cloak, and as she +passed them she drew the thick folds of velvet-like wool about her +closely. Marise thought to herself, "That's Eugenia's gesture as she +goes through the world." + +Neale turned off his switch, listened a moment to see if the Ford were +boiling from the long climb up the hill to the station, and now made one +long-legged step to the platform. He started towards Eugenia with the +evident intention of making some casual pleasant remarks, such as are +demanded by decency for a departing guest, but in his turn his eyes +caught the curiously shaped pieces of metal. He stopped short, his face +lighted up with pleasure and surprise. All consciousness of anyone else +on the platform disappeared from his expression. "Hello!" he said to +himself, "those mandrels here." He picked up one in his strong hands on +which the metal left a gray dust, and inspected it. He might have been +entirely alone in his shop at the mill. + +Marise noted with envy how he gave all of himself to that momentary +examination, entirely escaped from any awareness of that tyrannical self +which in her own heart always clamored like a spoiled child for +attention. The impersonal concentration of his look as he turned the +metal about between those strong dusty hands, gave to his face the calm, +freed expression not to be bought for any less price than a greater +interest in one's work than in one's self. "They'll do," pronounced +Neale. This was evidently a thought spoken aloud, for it did not occur +to him to make any pretense of including the two women in his interest. +He set down the casting he held, and went off into the freight-house, +calling loudly, "Charlie! Charlie! Those mandrels have come. I wish +you'd . . ." his voice died away as he walked further into the dusky +freight-shed. + +Marise happening to glance at Eugenia now, caught on her face an +expression which she took to be annoyance at a breach of manners. She +reflected, "Eugenia must find Neale's abrupt American ways perfectly +barbaric." And she was surprised to feel for the first time a rather +scornful indifference to all that was involved in Eugenia's finding them +barbaric. Heavens! What did it matter? In a world so filled with awful +and portentous and glorious human possibilities, how could you bother +about such things? + +There was a silence. Mr. Welles and Paul had been standing near, +aimlessly, but now, evidently taking the silence for the inevitable +flatness of the flat period of waiting for a train, Mr. Welles drew the +little boy away. They walked down the cinder-covered side-tracks, +towards where the single baggage truck stood, loaded with elegant, +leather-covered boxes and wicker basket-trunks, marked "E. Mills. S.S. +Savoie. Compagnie Generale Transatlantique." Among them, out of place +and drab, stood one banal department-store trunk labeled, "Welles. 320 +Maple Avenue. Macon, Georgia." + +The departure of the old man and the little boy left the two women +alone. Eugenia stepped closer to Marise and took her hand in her own +gloved fingers. She looked at it intently, with the expression of one +who is trying to find words for a complicated feeling. Marise made an +effort to put herself in the receptive mood which would make the saying +of it easier, but failed. The fall of the big pine roared too loudly in +her ears. She looked without sympathy or admiration at Eugenia's +perfection of aspect. "To look like that, she must care for looks more +than anything else. What can she know about any real human feeling?" +Marise asked herself, with an intolerance she could not mitigate. + +And yet as she continued to peer at Eugenia through that dark cloud of +tragedy, it seemed to her that Eugenia showed signs of some real human +emotion. As she gazed at her in the crude brilliance of the gaudy +morning sun, she saw for the first time signs of years in Eugenia's +exquisite small face. There was not a line visible, nor a faltering of +the firmness of the well-cared-for flesh, but over it all was a faint, +hardly discernible flaccid fatigue of texture. + +But perhaps she imagined it, for even as she looked, and felt her heart +soften to think what this would mean to Eugenia, an inner wave of +resolution reached the surface of the other woman's face, and there was +Eugenia as she always had been, something of loveliness immutable. + +She said impulsively, "Eugenia, it's a stupidly conventional thing to +say, but it's a pity you never married." + +As Eugenia only looked at her, quietly, she ventured further, "You might +really be happier, you know. There is a great deal of happiness in the +right marriage." She had never said so much to Eugenia. + +Eugenia let Marise's hand drop and with it, evidently, whatever +intention she might have had of saying something difficult to express. +Instead, she advanced with her fastidious, delicate note of irony, "I +don't deny the happiness, if that sort of happiness is what one is +after. But I think my appetite for it . . . that sort . . . is perhaps not +quite robust enough to relish it." + +Marise roused herself to try to put a light note of cheerfulness into +this last conversation. "You mean that it seems to you like the coarsely +heaped-up goodies set before a farmhand in a country kitchen . . . chicken +and butter and honey and fruit and coffee, all good but so profuse and +jumbled that they make you turn away?" + +"I didn't give that definition of domestic life," corrected Eugenia, +with a faint smile, "that's one of _your_ fantasies." + +"Well, it's true that you get life served up to you rather pell-mell, +lots of it, take-it-as-it-comes," admitted Marise, "but for a gross +nature like mine, once you've had that, you're lost. You know you'd +starve to death on the delicate slice of toasted bread served on old +china. You give up and fairly enjoy wallowing in the trough." + +She had been struck by that unwonted look of fatigue on Eugenia's face, +had tried to make her laugh, and now, with an effort, laughed with her. +She had forgotten her passing notion that Eugenia had something special +to say. What could she have? They had gone over that astonishing +misconception of hers about the Powers woodlot, and she had quite made +Marise understand how hopelessly incapable she was of distinguishing one +business detail from another. There could be nothing else that Eugenia +could wish to say. + +"How in the world shall I get through the winter?" Eugenia now wondered +aloud. "Biskra and the Sahara perhaps . . . if I could only get away from +the hideous band of tourists. They say there are swarms of +war-profiteers from Italy now, everywhere, low-class people with money +for the first time." She added with a greater accent of wonder, "How in +the world are _you_ going to get through the winter?" + +Marise was struck into momentary silence by the oddness of the idea. +There were phrases in Eugenia's language which were literally +non-translatable into hers, representing as they did ideas that did not +exist there. "Oh, we never have to consider that," she answered, not +finding a more accurate phrase. "There won't be time enough to do all +we'll try to do, all we'll have to do. There's living. That takes a lot +of time and energy. And I'll have the chorus as usual. I'm going to try +some Mendelssohn this year. The young people who have been singing for +five or six years are quite capable of the 'Elijah.' And then any of the +valley children who really want to, come to me for lessons, you know. +The people in North Ashley have asked me to start a chorus there this +year, too. And in the mill, Neale has a plan to try to get the men to +work out for themselves some standards of what concerns them especially, +what a day's work really is, at any given job, don't you know." + +What an imbecile she was, she thought, to try to talk about such things +to Eugenia, who could not, in the nature of things, understand what she +was driving at. But apparently Eugenia had found something +understandable there, for she now said sharply, startled, "Won't that +mean less income for you?" + +She did not say, "_Even_ less," but it was implied in the energy of her +accent. + +Marise hesitated, brought up short by the solidity of the intangible +barrier between their two languages. There were phrases in her own +tongue which could not be translated into Eugenia's, because they +represented ideas not existing there. She finally said vaguely, "Oh +perhaps not." + +Her pause had been enough for Eugenia to drop back into her own world. +She said thoughtfully, "I've half a notion to try going straight on +beyond Biskra, to the south, if I could find a caravan that would take +me. That would be something new. Biskra is so commonplace now that it +has been discovered and exploited." She went on, with a deep, wistful +note of plaintiveness in her voice, "But _every_thing's so commonplace +now!" and added, "There's Java. I've never been to Java." + +It came over Marise with a shock of strangeness that this was the end of +Eugenia in her life. Somehow she knew, as though Eugenia had told her, +that she was never coming back again. As they stood there, so close +together, in the attitude of friends, they were so far apart that each +could scarcely recognize who the other was. Their paths which in youth +had lain so close to each other as to seem identical, how widely they +had been separated by a slight divergence of aim! Marise was struck by +her sudden perception of this. It had been going on for years, she could +understand that now. Why should she only see it in this quiet, silent, +neutral moment? + +An impalpable emanation of feeling reached her from the other woman. She +had a divination that it was pain. Perhaps Eugenia was also suddenly +realizing that she had grown irrevocably apart from an old friend. + +The old tenderness felt for the girl Eugenia had been, by the girl +Marise had been, looked wistfully down the years at the end. + +Marise opened her arms wide and took Eugenia into them for a close, +deeply moved embrace. + +"Good-bye, Eugenia," she said, with sadness. + +"Good-bye, Marise," said Eugenia, looking at her strangely. + + * * * * * + +Neale came back now, frankly consulting his watch with Neale's bluntness +in such matters. "Train's due in a minute or two," he said. "Where's Mr. +Welles?" + +Marise said, "Over there, with Paul. I'll go tell them." + +She found them both, hand in hand, sitting on the edge of the truck +which carried the leather-covered boxes and wicker basket-trunks, bound +for Biskra or beyond, or Java; and the square department-store trunk +bound for Maple Avenue, Macon, Georgia. + +"Mother," said Paul, "Mr. Welles has promised me that he'll come up and +visit us summers." + +"There's no house in the world where you'll be more welcome," said +Marise with all her heart, holding out her hand. + +Mr. Welles shook it hard, and held it in both his. As the train whistled +screamingly at the crossing, he looked earnestly into her face and tried +to tell her something, but the words would not come. + +As she read in his pale old face and steady eyes what he would have +said, Marise cried out to herself that there do not exist in the world +any things more halting and futile than words. She put her arms around +his neck and kissed him. "Good-bye, dear Mr. Welles," was all she said, +but in the clinging of his old arms about her, and in the quivering, +shining face he showed as they moved down the platform together, she +knew that he too had not needed words. + +Paul clung to his hand till the last moment, gazing up at him +constantly, silently. Marise looked down on the little boy's tanned, +freckled, sober face and strained, rapidly winking eyes, and had the +intuition, "This is one of the moments Paul will never forget. He will +always be able to shut his eyes and see this old Don Quixote setting +forth." With a rush of her old, jealous, possessive mother-love, she +longed to share this with him and to have him know that she shared it; +to put her arms around him and _make him let her in_. But she knew +better now. She yearned over him silently, and did not touch him. + +"Well, good-bye, Paul," said Mr. Welles, shaking hands with him. + +"Well, good-bye," said Paul dryly, setting his jaw hard. + +"Oh, this is the day-coach!" cried Eugenia. "Where is the drawing-room +car?" + +"At the far end," said the conductor with the sweeping gesture of a man +used to talking with his arms. + +"Good-bye, Mr. Welles," said Eugenia, giving him for an instant a small, +pearl-gray hand. "Boa voyage! Good luck!" + +"Same to you," said the old gentleman, scrambling up the unswept, +cinder-covered steps into the day-coach. + +At the front end of the train, the baggage man was tumbling into the +express car the fine, leather-covered boxes and the one square trunk. + +Neale carried Eugenia's two small bags down to the drawing-room car and +now handed them to the porter. + +The two women kissed each other on both cheeks, hurriedly, as someone +cried, "All aboard!" + +Eugenia took Neale's outstretched hand. "Good-bye, Neale," she said. + +With the porter's aid, she mounted the rubber-covered steps into the +mahogany and upholstery of the drawing-room car. + +"Good luck, Eugenia! Bon voyage!" called Neale after her. + +She did not turn around or look back. + + * * * * * + +Marise noted that characteristically Eugenia had forgotten Paul. But +Paul had forgotten her, too, and was now back near the day-coach +searching one window after another. + +The conductor signaled widely, the whistle shrieked, the wheels groaned. +Neale drew Marise a little back out of the whirl of dust and stood +holding her arm for an instant. + +It seemed to Marise as they stood thus, Neale holding her arm, that she +caught a last glimpse of Eugenia behind plate-glass, looking at them +gravely, steadily. + +Paul suddenly caught sight of Mr. Welles' face at a window, snatched off +his cap, and waved it frantically, over and over, long after the train +was only an echoing roar from down the tracks. + + * * * * * + +Then the mountain-silence settled down about them calmly, and they could +hear their own hearts beat, and knew the thoughts in their minds. + +As they went back to their battered Ford, Marise said thoughtfully, +"Somehow I believe that it will be a long time before we see Eugenia +again." + +Neale permitted himself no comment on this, nor showed the alteration of +a line in his face as he stepped into the car and turned on the switch, +but Marise cried out to him accusingly, "You might as well say it right +out, that you can support life if it is." + +Neale laughed a little and put his foot on the starter. "Get in the back +seat, Paul," was all he said, as the little boy came up silently from +the other side of the station. + +He added as they started up the hill road, "First time in my life I was +ever sort of sorry for Eugenia. It seemed to me this morning that she +was beginning to show her age." + +Marise hid the fact that she had had the same idea and opposed, "Eugenia +would laugh at that from you, the husband of such a frankly middle-aged +thing as I." + +Neale was silent for a moment, and then, "You'll always look younger +than she. No, not younger, that's not it, at all. It's _living_, you +look. I tell you what, she's a cut flower in a vase, that's beginning to +wilt, and you're a living plant." + +"Why, _Neale_!" said Marise, astonished and touched. + +"Yes, quite a flight of fancy for me, wasn't it?" commented Neale +casually, leaning forward to change the carburetor adjustment. + + * * * * * + +Marise felt Paul lean over her shoulder from the back of the car. "Say, +Mother," he said in her ear, "would you just as soon get in back with me +for a while?" + +Neale stopped the care. Marise stepped out and in, and seated herself +beside Paul. He had apparently nothing to say, after all, looking +fixedly down at his bare brown feet. + +But presently he moved nearer to his mother and leaned his head against +her breast. This time she put her arm around him and held him close to +her, the tears in her eyes. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX + +VIGNETTES FROM HOME LIFE + +I + + +August 20. + +Paul had been sent for blue-berries through the Eagle Rock woods to the +high upland pasture where the Powers cows fed during the day. On the +upper edge of that, skirting a tract of slash left from an old cutting, +was a berry-patch, familiar to all the children of Crittenden's valley. + +When at four o'clock there was no sign of him, and then at five still +none, Marise began to feel uneasy, although she told herself that +nothing in the world could happen to Paul on that well-known +mountain-side. He had taken Medor with him, who would certainly have +come for help if Paul had fallen and hurt himself. She excused herself +to the tall, awkward lad from North Ashley come to try over his part in +a quartet, asked Toucle to help Elly set the supper things on the table +if she should be late, and set off at a rapid pace by the short-cut over +the ledges. + +As she hurried over the rough trail, frankly hastening, now frankly +alarmed, she thought that probably for all the life-time of the people +in the valley the death of Frank Warner would set a sinister element of +lurking danger in those familiar wooded slopes. Nothing _could_ have +happened to Paul, but still she hurried faster and faster, and as she +came near the upper edge of the pasture she began to shout loudly, +"Paul! Paul!" and to send out the high yodel-cry that was the family +assembly call. That act of shouting brought her a step nearer to panic. + +But almost at once she heard the little boy's answer, not far from her +saw his dog bounding through the bushes, and as she emerged from the +woods into the open pasture she saw Paul running towards her, pail in +hand, evidently astonished to know her there. But there was about him +something more than astonishment, something which Marise's mother-eye +catalogued as furtitve, that consciousness of something to hide which +always looks to grown-ups like guilt. She gave no sign of seeing this, +however, stopping short to catch her breath, smiling at him, and +wondering with great intensity what in the world it could be. He looked +a little frightened. + +He came up to her, answering her smile uneasily, and she saw that he had +only a few berries in his pail. At this she was relieved, thinking that +possibly all that had happened was that he had lingered to play. But +when she glanced back at his face, she had the impression that there was +something more, very much more. He had received some indelible +impression and it was his instinct to hide it from his mother. Her heart +sank forebodingly. + +"What is the best thing to do?" she asked herself. "To speak about it +first, or to wait till he does?" + +She sat down on a stone, fanning herself with her hat, watching him, +trying to make out the meaning of every shift of expression, turn of +eye, position of his hands, carriage of his head, bringing to this all +her accumulated knowledge of Paul, afire with the sudden passion to +protect him which had flamed up with her intuition that something had +happened to him. + +(Come and gone with the dry rapidity of fingers snapped, she had +thought, "The point is, that other people may be more clever than +mothers, but nobody else _cares_ enough, always, always to try to +understand!") + +"I thought I'd come up and walk back with you," she offered. + +"I haven't got very many," said Paul, abashed, looking down at the few, +blue, bloom-covered balls in the bottom of his shining tin pail. "I was +trying to hurry up and get enough for supper, anyhow." + +Marise in spite of herself, moved by pity for his confusion, offered him +a way out. It always seemed to her too dreadful for anyone not to have a +way out, even if it implied a fib. "Weren't there very many on the +bushes?" she asked. + +But he refused it with a characteristic integrity. "Oh yes, there were +lots there," he said. + +A silence fell. The little dog, sensitively aware of something wrong, +whined uneasily, and pawed at Paul's hand. But Paul did not look down at +him. He stood, his bare feet wide apart, the empty pail in his hand, +looking down the beautiful green slope of the pasture, golden now in the +long rays from the sun poised low on the line of the mountains opposite. + +Marise looked at him, seeing nothing in all the world but that tanned, +freckled, anxious little face. With what an utter unexpectedness did +these moments of crisis spring on you; something vital there, and no +warning, no chance to think. + +"Anything the matter, Paul?" she said gently. + +He nodded, silent. + +"Anything you can tell Mother?" she asked, still more gently. + +Paul said gruffly, "I don't know: it's about Ralph Powers. He was up +here this afternoon." He looked down at his brown, bramble-scratched +legs. + +Marise's imagination gave an unbridled leap of fear. She had always felt +something strange and abnormal about Ralph. But she thought, "I mustn't +tyrannize over Paul, even by a too-waiting expectant silence," and +stooped over with the pretext of tying her shoe. A lump came to her +throat. How terribly, helplessly, you _cared_ about what came to your +children! + +When she lifted her head, Paul had come nearer her and was looking down +at her, with troubled eyes. "Say, Mother, he didn't _say_ not to tell +you. Do you suppose it would be fair?" + +She made a great effort at loyalty and said, "I can't tell, Paul. You +saw him. You know better than I, if you think he meant you not to tell. +Try to remember if he said anything about it." + +Paul thought hard. "You wouldn't tell anybody?" he asked. + +"Not if you don't want me to," she answered. + +Paul sat down by her and drew a long breath. "I don't believe he would +care, your knowing it, if you never told anybody else, nor said anything +to him. Mother, I was going along, up there by the big rock where the +white birches grow, and I saw Ralph. . . . He was in front of a sort of +table he'd fixed up with a long piece of slate-stone, and he had some +queer-shaped stones on it . . . oh, _Mother_ . . . he was crying so, and +talking to himself! And when he saw me he got as mad! And he told me +about it, just as mad all the time, as though he was mad at me. Mother, +it's an altar! + +"An altar!" said Marise, stupidly, utterly disconcerted by the word, so +totally other than what her fears had been foreboding. + +"Yes, an altar, and he says the stones on it are idols, and he bows down +and worships them, the way the Bible says it's wicked to." + +Marise was too much astonished to open her lips. + +Paul said, "Mother, Ralph says he hates God, and isn't going to say his +prayers to him any more. He says God let his father and mother both get +killed, and he don't know what the devil could do any worse than that. +He said he started in having an altar to idols because he thought from +what the Bible said that if you did you'd be so wicked lightning would +strike you dead. But it didn't, and now he doesn't believe _any_thing. +So he's going on, having idols because the Bible says not to." + +Marise's first rounded and exclusive emotion was of immense relief. +Nothing had happened to her own son, and beside this relief, nothing for +the moment seemed of any consequence. She drew Paul to her with a long +breath of what was, she recognized it the moment afterward, her old, +clear, undiluted, ferocious, hateful mother-egotism. For that instant +she had not cared an atom what happened to another woman's child, so +long as hers was safe. + +But the next instant, the awareness of her hard heart cut across her +like the lash of a whip. She shrank under it, horrified. She hung her +head guilty and ashamed, divining the extremity of the other child's +misery. + +As she sat there, with her living arms around her own little son, the +boy whose mother was dead came and stood before her in imagination, +showing those festering, uncared-for wounds of sorrow and bitterness and +loneliness, and furious, unavailing revolt from suffering too great to +be borne. + +She felt the guilt driven out from her narrow heart as it swelled larger +to take him in. Any child who needed a mother so much, was _her own +child_. He had no longer any mother who would care enough to try to +understand, but _she_ would care enough. + +"He bowed down and worshiped," said Paul, in a shocked, frightened +voice. "He knocked his head on the stones and cried like anything. He +said he hated God." + +"Oh!" cried Marise, intolerably stung by sympathy and pity. She started +up to her feet, her heart burning, the tears on her cheeks. Her arms +ached with emptiness till she should have drawn that suffering into +them. + +Paul said shyly, "Say, Mother, it's _awful_ hard on those Powers kids, +isn't it, not having anybody but their grandmother. Say, Mother, don't +you think maybe we could . . . we could . . ." He turned his freckled, +tanned, serious little face up to hers. + +His mother stooped to kiss him, furiously, burningly, passionately, as +she did not often kiss Paul, and he clung to her with all the strength +of his strong little arms. "Yes, yes, you darling, you darling," she +told him brokenly. "Yes, yes, yes." + + +II + +September 10. + +Marise was slowly going through a passage of Scriabine, which had just +come in the mail. She was absorbed in the difficulties and novelties of +it, her ear alert to catch a clue to the meaning of those new rhythms +and progressions, her mind opened wide to understand them when she heard +them. + +It was with an effort that she brought her attention back to Elly, who +had come in behind her and was saying something urgently. Marise turned +around on the piano-stool, her head humming with the unfamiliar, +tantalizing beauties and intricacies of the page she had left half +unread, and considered the little girl for an instant before she heard +what she said. How Elly did grow! That dress was already much too small +for her. + +Well, Elly was not the only one who had grown out of her old clothes +this summer . . . the old garments that had been large enough and now must +be laid aside! . . . Elly was saying, "Mother, one of my chickens looks +sick, and I don't know what to do. I _wish_ you'd come!" + +Marise began a process of mentally weighing which was more important, +Scriabine or Elly's chicken. Elly looked at her mother with imploring +eyes. "Mother, he looked awfully sick. And he is my nicest little +Downy-head, the one I've always loved the best. I've tried to take such +good care of him. Mother, I'm _worried_ about him." + +Marise decided that Scriabine had at least the capacity to wait, while +the chicken might not. She got up, saying, "All right, Elly, we'll see +what we can do." + +Elly pulled her along rapidly to the chicken-yard where grossly +self-satisfied hens scratched in trash and filth undiscriminatingly, +and complacently called their families to share what they had found +there, or indeed at times apparently to admire them for having found +nothing. Marise stood regarding them with a composed, ironic eye. It was +good, she reflected, to be able to know that that was the way you looked +from the outside, and not to care a bit because you knew firmly that +there was something else there that made all the difference. All the +same, it was a very good thing to have had the scaring thought that you +were like that . . . "there but for the grace of God. . . ." Was it +complacent to say that? Oh, what did it matter what you called +it,--complacent or not, if you knew! It all came back to not caring so +much about what things could be called, if you knew what they were. + +Elly had disappeared into the chicken-house and now came back with a +perplexed face. "Downy-head was there, by the nests, and now he's gone." +Marise caught in the child's eyes the realness of her anxiety and +thrilled to it, as she always did to any real emotion. "I'll help you +look," she said, turning her eyes about the chicken-yard, crowded with +voluble, intently self-centered, feathered personalities. "Which hen is +his mother, Elly? + +"This one, Old Speckle. Oh, Mother, there he is, lying down. He must be +feeling worse!" She ran forward and stooped over a little panting yellow +ball. Across the intervening space and beyond all those carelessly alive +bodies, Marise's eyes caught the unmistakable aspect of death in the +tiny creature lying there. + +"Mother!" cried Elly, "his eyes look so! He can't get his breath. +_Mother!_" Marise felt the child's agitation and alarm knock at her +heart. She looked down helplessly at the dying creature. That tiny, tiny +scrap of down-covered flesh to be alive, to contain the miracle and +mystery of life, and now to be struggling, all alone, with the miracle +and mystery of death! + +The little thing opened its glazing eyes once more, drew a long breath, +and lay still. An age-old inherited knowledge and experience told Elly +what bad happened. She gave a scream, picked it up and held it in her +cupped hands, her little face drawn in horrified incredulity. She looked +up at her mother and said in a whisper, "Mother, he's _dead_." + +Marise nodded silently. Poor Elly! She wished she could think of +something comforting to say. But what is there to say? For her there had +never been anything but stoic silence. The mother hen clucked +unconcernedly at their feet, and with coaxing guttural sounds called the +rest of the chickens to eat a grain. The strong ammonia smell of the +chicken-yard rose in the sunshine. Elly stood perfectly still, the +little ball of yellow down in her hand, her face pale. + +Marise looked down on her with infinite sympathy. Her child, flesh of +her flesh, meeting in this uncouth place the revelation of the black +gulf! But she remained silent, not knowing what to say. + +Elly spoke in a low voice, "But, Mother, how _can_ he be dead, just so +quick while we were looking at him? Mother, he was alive a minute ago. +He was breathing. He looked at me. He knew me. And in just a minute like +that . . . nothing!" + +She looked around her wildly. "_Mother, where has his life gone to?_" + +Marise put her arm around the little girl's shoulders tenderly, but she +still only shook her head without a word. She did not know any more than +Elly where his life had gone. And surely loving silence was better than +tinkling words of falseness. + +Elly looked up at her, glistening drops of sweat standing on her +temples. "Mother," she asked, urgently, in a loud, frightened whisper, +"Mother, do we die like that? Mother, will _you_ die like that? All in a +moment . . . and then . . . nothing?" + +It came like thunder, then, what Marise had never thought to feel. With +a clap, she found that this time she had something to answer, something +to say to Elly. Looking deep, deep into Elly's eyes, she said firmly +with a certainty as profound as it was new to her, "No, Elly, I don't +believe we do die like that . . . all in a moment . . . nothing." + +She was astonished by what she said, astonished by the sudden +overflowing of something she had not known was there, but which was so +great that her heart could not contain it, "comme une onde qui bout dans +une urne trop pleine." And she was as moved as she was astonished. Elly +came into her arms with a comforted gasp. They clung to each other +closely, Marise's ears humming with the unfamiliar beauty and intricacy +of that new page at which she had had that instant's glimpse. Here was a +new harmony, a new progression, a new rhythm to which her ear had just +opened . . . heard here in this uncouth place! + + * * * * * + +That evening, after the children were in bed, she stopped her reading of +the new music for a moment to say to Neale, "You know those ideas that +other people are better for children than their parents are?" + +"Yes," said Neale, laying down the baseball page of his newspaper, +instantly all there, looking at her intently. + +"Well, I don't believe a word of it," said Marise. + +"I should say it depended on which parents and on which children were +meant," advanced Neale guardedly. + +Marise had at first an affectionate smile for this, and then a laugh. +She got up from the piano-stool and went to kiss him. He said with a +whimsical suspicion of this, "Why so?" + +"Because you are so entirely you," she told him, and went back to +Scriabine. + + +III + +September 22. + +It was the half-hour of pause after lunch. The children played idly with +the fox-terrier and lounged on the steps of the side-porch, strong and +brown, living cups filled to the brim with life. Neale had pushed his +chair back from the table, lighted his pipe, and sat meditating. +Presently he put out his hand and laid it on Marise's, who had turned to +look down the sun-flooded valley. + +It was high-noon, dreamy, entranced, all the world golden with the +magnificent weather as a holly-hock is golden with pollen. From the +brook came the living voice of the water, with the special note of brave +clarity it always had for brilliant noons. + +It seemed to Marise that she too was all gold-powdered with the +magnificence of life, that in her heart there sang a clear living voice +that did not fear high-noons. + + +IV + +October. + +Would Vincent come back at all? Marise had wondered so often. Not +Vincent in the flesh; that last angry bewildered gesture had finality in +it. He had given her up then, totally. But would he come back to haunt +her in those inevitable moments of flat ebb-tide in life, when what +should be moist and living, withered and crisped in the merciless +drought of drudgery and routine? She feared it, frankly dreaded it at +first, and tried to think how to brace herself against it. But it was +not then that tie came, not when she was toiling with dishes to wash, or +vegetables to pare, or the endless care of the children's never-in-order +clothes. Instead she found in those moments, which had been arid before, +a curious new savor, a salt without which life would seem insipid, +something which gave her appetite for the rest. "This is all Tolstoyan +nonsense and sentimentality," she told herself mockingly, "there is +nothing sacred about scrubbing the floor." Or on another day, "I wonder +if it's a twist of the absurd mediaeval ascetic perversity left over?" +Or again, "All it does for me is to take off the curse of belonging to +the bourgeoisie." But no matter what skeptical name she called it, nor +how much she minimized the reality of it, she felt some odd value in it +which she would not have gone without. Once she said to herself, "It's +ballast, to a person like me," although she did not know exactly what +this meant. And another time she said, "Perhaps it's that I'm making an +honest effort to do my share." But it was true and real, the fact that +after such work the reading of the day's news of the world brought her a +less oppressive sense of guilt. And stranger than this, music had +greater vitality for her. She felt it a deeper, richer soil than even +she had dreamed of, and struck her roots profoundly into depths which +kept her whole complicated organism poised, steady, and upright. + +And here it was that Vincent came back. Not the Vincent of the hawk-like +imperious face, or burning eyes of desire, which had seemed to him his +realest self. But the Vincent who had come in from the porch that day in +March when she had first played to him, who had smiled at her, the good, +grateful, peaceful smile, and had said to her music, "Go on, go on." It +was the same Vincent of the afternoon in Cousin Hetty's garden when the +vulture of the desire to possess had left him for a moment in peace. +Often and often he came thus as she played and leaned his head back and +said, "Go on." And thus Marise knew he would always come. And thus she +welcomed him. + +This was what was left of him in the house he had so filled with his +smoky, flaming brilliance. + + +V + +December. + +They had been talking around the fire of the stars and their names and +stories, she and Neale and the children. Presently interest overcoming +inertia they decided to go out and see if the clouds had blown away so +that the stars could be seen. They huddled on hastily found wraps, +thrust their feet into flapping, unbuckled overshoes, and leaving the +still, warm, lamp-lit room, they shuffled out, laughing and talking, +into the snow which lay thick and still before the house. + +At first they carried out between them so much of the house atmosphere +that it hung about them like warm fog, shielding them from the fiercely +pure, still cold of the air, and from the brilliant glitter of the +myriad-eyed black sky. They went on talking and laughing, pointing out +the constellations they knew, and trying to find others in the spangled +vault over their heads. + +"A bear!" cried Mark. "I could draw a better bear than that any day!" +And from Paul, "They can call it Orion's belt all they want to, but +there's no belt to it!" And from Elly, "Aldebaran! Aldebaran! Red-eyed +Aldebaran!" + +But little by little the house-air began to be thinned about them, to +blow away from between them in wisps and wreathes, off into the +blackness. The warmed, lighted house dwindled to nothing. There were +only the great cold black sky and the small cold white earth. Their +voices were lowered; they stood very still, close together, their heads +tipped back, their faces and hearts upraised silently to receive the +immensity above and about them. + +Elly murmured under her breath, "Doesn't it seem funny, our world being +just one of all those, and such a little one, and here we are, just +these few of us, standing on the world and looking at it all." + +Marise thought, "We seem to be the only living things in all creation." +In that huge, black, cold glittering universe how tiny was the little +glow of life they made! + +Tiny but unquenchable! Those myriads of hard staring eyes could not look +down the immortal handful of human life and love which she and Neale had +created between them. + +There was a silence, filled with still, breathless cold; with enormous +space, with infinity. + +Marise felt a rigorous shudder run over her, as though something vital +were coming to her, like the rending pang of pain which heralds +child-birth. After this, did she close her eyes for a moment, or did it +come to her while she continued to gaze wide-eyed at the stern greatness +of the universe? What was this old, familiar, unknown sensation? + +. . . as though, on a long journey in the dark it had grown light, so that +she had suddenly recognized which way she was going. + +Then she knew what it was. Conscious and awake, she was feeling herself +one with the great current, advancing with an irresistible might, +majesty and power, in which she shared, to which she gave her part. + + +VI + +January. + +She was putting away the clean sheets from the washing on the shelves at +the end of the hall, upstairs, her mind entirely on the prosaic task, +wondering when she would have to replace some of the older ones, and +wishing she could put off buying till the outrageous post-war prices +went down. Someone stirred behind her and she turned her head quickly to +see who was there. It was Neale, come in early. He was standing, looking +at her back; and in the instant before he saw that she had turned, she +caught the expression on his face, the tender fathomless affection that +was there. + +A warm gush of happiness surged up all over her. She felt a sudden +intense physical well-being, as though her breath came more smoothly, +her blood ran more sweetly in her veins. + +"Oh, _Neale_!" she said, under her breath, flushing and turning to him. +He looked at her, his strong, resolute face and clear eyes smiled, and +opening his arms he drew her into them. The ineffable memory of all the +priceless past, the ineffable certainty of the priceless future was in +their kiss. + +That evening, after a long golden hour at the piano, she chanced to take +down the Largo in the Chopin sonata. As she began it, something stirred +in her mind, some memory that instantly lived with the first notes of +the music. How thick-clustered with associations music became, waking a +hundred echoes and overtones! + +This was the memory of the time when she had played it, almost a year +ago, and had thought how intimacy and familiarity with music but +deepened and enriched and strengthened its hold on you. It was only the +lower pleasures of which one grew tired,--had enough. The others grew +with your growing capacity to hold them. She remembered how that day she +had recalled the Wordsworth sonnet, "A beauteous evening, calm and +free," and had thought that music took you in to worship quite simply +and naturally at the Temple's inner shrine, that you adored none the +less although you were at home there and not breathless with adoration +like the nun: because it was a whole world given to you, not a mere pang +of joy, because you could live and move and be blessedly and securely at +home there. + +She finished the last note of the Largo and sat silent. She was thinking +that her marriage was like that, too. + +Presently she got up, took out the old portfolio of photographs, and +pinned upon the wall over the piano the view taken from Rocca di Papa. + + +VII + +February 24. + +Marise had been drilling the chorus in the Town Hall of Ashley after the +men's working-hours, and now in the dimming light of the early evening +was going home on snow-shoes, over the hill-path. She liked to use +snow-shoes and occasionally said that she could walk more easily and +more lightly on them than on bare ground. She trod over the tops of the +deep drifts with an accentuation of her usual strong free step. + +The snow fell thickly and steadily, a cold, finely-spun, straight-hung +curtain, veiling all the muffled sleeping valley. There was an +inconceivable silence about her as she drew her snow-shoes over the +velvet-like masses of the snow. But within her were ringing echoes of +the rhythms and cadences of the afternoon's struggle, imperfectly sung +most of them, haltingly, or dully, or feebly, or with a loud +misunderstanding of the phrase. At the recollection of these failures, +she clenched her hands hard inside her fur gloves with an indomitable +resolution to draw something better from her singers the next time. + +But mingled with them was a moment of splendor. It was when the men had +tried over the passage she had explained to them the week before. She +had not known then, she did not know now, how clearly or definitely she +had reached them with her summary of the situation of the drama: the +desperate straits of the Israelites after the three-year drought, the +trial by fire and water before the scorning aristocracy, Elijah stark +and alone against all the priesthood of Baal, the extremity of despair +of the people . . . and then the coming of the longed-for rain that +loosened the terrible tension and released their hearts in the great +groaning cry of thanksgiving. She had wondered how clearly or definitely +she had reached their understanding, but she knew that she had reached +their hearts, when suddenly she had heard all those men's voices pealing +out, pure and strong and solemn and free, as she had dreamed that phrase +could be sung. + +[Illustration: Thanks be to God! He laveth the thirsty land.] + +The piercing sweetness of the pleasure this had brought to her came over +her again in a wave. She halted on the crest of the hill, and for a +moment in place of the purples and blues of the late snowy afternoon +there hung before her eyes the powerful, roughly clad bodies of those +vigorous men, their weather-beaten faces, their granite impassivity, +under which her eye had caught the triumph of the moment, warming them +as it did her, with the purest of joys this side of heaven, the +consciousness of having made music worthily. The whole valley seemed to +be filled to its brim with that shout of exultation. It had taken all of +her patience, and will-power, and knowledge of her art and of these +people to achieve that moment. But it had lifted her high, high above +the smallness of life, up to a rich realm of security in joy. + +The snow fell more and more thickly, covering her as she stood with a +fine, soft mantle of white. She had heard the men that afternoon saying +they had seen signs of the winter break-up, and she wondered at it now, +looking about the frozen, buried, beautiful valley and up to the frozen +towering mountains, breathing in the cold air, as pure as the ether +itself. It seemed to her that spring was as remote and unreal and +impossible an imagination of the heart as a child's fairy-tale. + +Then suddenly, bursting out of the dimming distance, close in front of +her, flying low, silently, strongly, a pair of wild geese went winging +off towards the north, their gray shapes the only moving thing in all +the frost-held world. + +Marise drew a great breath of delight in their strong and purposeful +vitality. She looked after them, her heart rising and singing with +comradely pride in them. She would have liked to shout an exultant +greeting after them, "Hurrah!" + +They went beating off, fast and straight, for their unseen destination, +while, treading the velvet-like snow-drifts with her strong free tread, +Marise went home. + +[Illustration: Music] + + +VIII + +March 2. + +It was the first warm day of the year. The hard-frozen ruts of the road +thawed on top and glistened. The snow-banks shrank visibly from one hour +to the next under a warm wind and a hazy sun. The mountains were +unbelievably beautiful and seductive in a shimmer of blue and silver. +The children had brought home a branch of pussy-willows, and as Marise +and Neale stood for a moment at the open door breathing in the new +softness, they saw Toucle, old and stooped and shabby, her reticule bag +bulging, her flat feet in enormous overshoes plodding up the road +towards the mountain. + +They smiled at one another. It was in truth the first day of spring. +Marise said, after a pause, "Do you know what she goes off for?" + +Neale shook his head with a wide indifference as to the reason. "Because +she's an Injun," he conjectured casually. + +"She told me once," said Marise, with a sudden wonder what Neale would +think of that glimpse into the old mystic's mind, how he would (for she +knew beforehand he would) escape the wistfulness which struck at her +even now, at the thought of that door to peace. She repeated to him word +for word what Toucle had told her on that hot August day. + +Neale gave her his usual careful attention. Marise thought to herself, +"Neale is the only person I ever knew who could listen to other people's +ideas." But when she finished he made no comment. She asked him, "Did +you ever think that old carven-image had that in her? How profound a +disdain for us busy-about-nothing white people she must have!" + +Neale nodded. "Most likely. Everybody has a good deal of disdain for +other people's ideals." + +"Well, you haven't for hers, have you?" challenged Marise. Neale looked +thoughtful. "I'm no mystic. Their way of managing life often looks to me +like sort of lying down on the job. I'm no mystic and I'm no fish. Looks +to me as though the thing to do isn't to go off in a far corner to get +your momentary glimpse of daylight, but to batter a hole in the roof of +your cave and let daylight in where you live all the time. I can't help +being suspicious of a daylight that's so uncertain you have to go away +from life and hold your breath before you can see it for a minute. I +want it where I do my work." + +Marise looked at him, thinking deeply. That was just what Neale did. But +when she looked back at the old Indian woman, just now turning into the +wood-road, she sighed wistfully, and did not know why. + +There was so very much growing always to be done in life. + + +IX + +March 10. + +(_A letter from Eugenia_:) + +". . . I'm planning perhaps to make the trip to the temples in the Malay +jungle. Biskra was deadly, and Italy worse . . . vulgarity and commonness +everywhere. What an absolutely dreary outlook wherever one turns one's +eyes! There is no corner of the modern world that is not vulgar and +common. Democracy has done its horrible leveling down with a vengeance +. . ." + + * * * * * + +(_A letter from Mr. Welles_:) + +". . . The life here is full of interest and change, and it's like dew on +my dusty old heart to see the vitality of the joy-in-life of these +half-disinherited people. I'm ashamed to tell you how they seem to love +me and how good they are to me. Their warmness of heart and their zest +in life. . . . I'm just swept back into youth again. It makes me very much +mortified when I think what a corking good time I am having and what +sanctimonious martyr's airs I put on about coming down here. Of course a +certain amount of my feeling younger and brisker comes from the fact +that, working as I am, nobody feels about me the laid-on-the-shelf +compassion which everybody (and me too) was feeling before. I _am_ +somebody here and every time I say 'Dr. Martin' to a well-educated Negro +physician whom another white man has just hailed as 'Andy' I feel not +only a real sense of righteous satisfaction but the joyful mischievous +fun that a small boy has. Give my love to Paul (speaking of small boys) +and tell him I'm saving up for the fishing-pole I am going to use when I +go fishing with him next summer. He said in his last letter he wanted to +come down here and make me a visit; but you tell him I think he'd better +get his growth before he does that." + + +X + +March 15, 1921. + +From a profound sleep, serene warm infinity of rest, Marise was wakened +by a little outcry near the bed, a sobbing voice saying through +chattering teeth, "Mother! Father!" + +Still drowned in sleep, Marise cried out, "What? What's that?" and then, +"Oh, you, Elly. What's the matter, dear? Notions again?" + +"Oh, Mother, it was an awful dream this time. Can't I get into bed with +you?" + +"Why yes, come along, you dear little silly." + +The fumbling approach to the bed, Marise holding the sheets open and +stretching out her hand through the cold darkness towards the little +fingers groping for her; the clutch at her hand with a quick anguish of +relief and joy. "Oh, _Mother!_" + +Then the shivering body rolling into bed, the little cold arms tight +around her neck, the cold smooth petal-like cheek against hers. + +Marise reached over beyond Elly and tucked the covers in with one arm, +drew the child closer to her, and herself drew closer to Neale. She +wondered if he had been awakened by Elly's voice, and the little stir in +the room, and hoped he had not. He had been off on a very long hard +tramp over mountain trails the day before, and had been tired at night. +Perhaps if he had been wakened by Elly he would drowse off again at once +as she felt herself doing now, conscious sleepily and happily of Elly's +dear tender limbs on one side of her and of Neale's dear strong body on +the other. + + * * * * * + +The strong March wind chanted loudly outside in the leafless +maple-boughs. As Marise felt her eyelids falling shut again it seemed to +her, half-awake, half-asleep, that the wind was shouting out the refrain +of an old song she had heard in her childhood, "There's room for all! +There's room for all! What had it meant, that refrain? She tried +drowsily to remember, but instead felt herself richly falling asleep +again, her hands, her arms, her body. + +"There's room for all! There's room for all!" + +She was almost asleep. . . . + +Someone was speaking again. Elly's voice, calmer now, wistful and +wondering, as though she were lying awake and trying to think. + +"Mother." + +"Yes, dear, what is it? + +"Mother, aren't you and father afraid of anything?" + + * * * * * + +Marise was wide-awake now, thinking hard. She felt Neale stir, grope for +her hand and hold it firmly . . . Neale's strong hand! + +She knew what she was saying. Yes, she knew all that it meant when she +answered, "No, Elly, I don't believe we are." + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Brimming Cup, by Dorothy Canfield Fisher + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BRIMMING CUP *** + +***** This file should be named 14957.txt or 14957.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/4/9/5/14957/ + +Produced by Rick Niles, Charlie Kirschner and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +https://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at https://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +https://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at https://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit https://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including including checks, online payments and credit card +donations. To donate, please visit: https://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. |