THE BRIMMING CUP

_Dorothy Canfield_

HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY NEW YORK

1919

_By the same author_

THE SQUIRREL-CAGEA MONTESSORI MOTHERMOTHERS AND CHILDRENHILLSBORO PEOPLETHE BENT TWIGTHE REAL MOTIVEFELLOW CAPTAINS(_With Sarah N. Cleghorn_)UNDERSTOOD BETSYHOME FIRES IN FRANCETHE DAY OF GLORYTHE BRIMMING CUPROUGH-HEWNRAW MATERIALTHE HOME-MAKERMADE-TO-ORDER STORIESHER SON'S WIFEWHY STOP LEARNING?THE DEEPENING STREAMBASQUE PEOPLEFABLES FOR PARENTSSEASONED 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 gravebeauty of the scene before him and to the throng of ancient memoriesjostling him where he stood. Without troubling to look at his watch, heinformed the two young foreigners that they had a long hour to waitbefore the cable-railway would send a car down to the Campagna. His lazynonchalance was faintly colored with the satisfaction, common to hisprofession, in the discomfiture of travelers. 

Their look upon him was of amazed gratitude. Evidently they did notunderstand Italian, he thought, and repeated his information moreslowly, with an unrecognizable word or two of badly pronounced Englishthrown in. He felt slightly vexed that he could not make them feel theproper annoyance, and added, "It may even be so late that the signoriwould miss the connection for the last tramway car back to Rome. It is along walk back to the city across the Campagna. "

They continued to gaze at him with delight. "I've got to tip him forthat!" said the young man, reaching vigorously into a pocket. 

The girl's answering laugh, like the inward look of her eyes, showedonly a preoccupied attention. She had the concentrated absent aspect ofa person who has just heard vital tidings and can attend to nothingelse. She said, "Oh, Neale, how ridiculous of you. He couldn't possiblyhave the least idea what he's done to deserve getting paid for. "

At the sound of her voice, the tone in which these words werepronounced, the ticket-seller looked at her hard, with a bold, intrusive, diagnosing stare: "Lovers!" he told himself conclusively. Heaccepted with a vast incuriosity as to reason the coin which the youngforeigner put into his hand, and, ringing it suspiciously on his table, divided his appraising attention between its clear answer to hischallenge, and the sound of the young man's voice as he answered hissweetheart, "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'vedone 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 courtingAnnunziata?" he asked himself. He glanced up from pocketing the coin, and caught the look which passed between the two. He felt as thoughsomeone 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 themselveson the rocks, partly out of sight, just at the brink of the great dropto the Campagna. The setting sun was full in their faces. But they didnot see it, seeing only each other. 

Below them spread the divinely colored plain, crossed by the ancientyellow river, rolling its age-old memories out to the sea, a bluereminder of the restfulness of eternity, at the rim of the weary oldland. Like a little cluster of tiny, tarnished pearls, Rome gleamedpalely, remote and legendary. 

 * * * * *

The two young people looked at each other earnestly, with a passionate, single-hearted attention to their own meaning, thrusting awayimpatiently the clinging brambles of speech which laid hold on theirevery effort to move closer to each other. They did not look down, oraway from each other's eyes as they strove to free themselves, to stepforward, to clasp the other's outstretched hands. They reached downblindly, tearing at those thorny, clutching entanglements, pulling andtugging at those tenuous, tough words which would not let them say whatthey meant: sure, hopefully sure that in a moment . . . Now . . . With thenext breath, they would break free as no others had ever done beforethem, and crying out the truth and glory that was in them, fall intoeach 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 tellyou 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 waythat sounds. I don't mean, you know I don't mean any old-fashionedimpossible vows never to change, or be any different! I know too muchfor that. I've seen too awfully much unhappiness, with people trying todo 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 neverthought I should. But now I'm in it, I see that it's not at allunhappiness 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 bebefore us? That's not what would be unendurable, sickening. That wouldmake us unhappy. But what would poison us to death . . . What I'm afraidof, between two people who try to be what we want to be to eachother . . . 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 . . . Thatwould be the betrayal I'm afraid of. That's what I mean. No matter what itcosts 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 longtroubled breath and said, "You _do_ think we can always have between usthat loyalty to what is deep and living? It does not seem too much toask, when we are willing to give up everything else for it, evenhappiness?"

He gave her a long, profound look. "I'm trying to give that loyalty toyou this minute, Marise darling, " he said slowly, "when I tell you nowthat I think it a very great deal to ask of life, a very great deal forany human beings to try for. I should say it was much harder to get thanhappiness. "

She was in despair. "Do you think that?" She searched his face anxiouslyas though she found there more than in his speech. "Yes, yes, I see whatyou mean. " She drew a long breath. "I can even see how fine it is of youto 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 theapples of Hesperides, " he said, looking older than she, curiously andsuddenly 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 veryintelligence that makes you want it, that makes me want it, shows me howmortally hard it would be! Think! To be loyal to what is deepest andmost living in yourself . . . That's an undertaking for a life-time'seffort, with all the ups and downs and growths of life. And then to tryto 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 morethan try with all his might?"

Their gaze into each other's eyes went far beyond the faltering wordsthey spoke. She asked him in a low voice, "Couldn't you do more for methan for yourself? One never knows, but . . . What else is love for, butto give greater strength than we have?"

There was a moment's silence, in which their very spirits met flame-likein the void, challenging, hoping, fearing. The man's face set. Hisburning look of power enveloped her like the reflection of the sun. "Iswear you shall have it!" he said desperately, his voice shaking. 

She looked up at him with a passionate gratitude. "I'll never forgetthat 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 neverbefore they had felt any other human being: they had both at once caughta moment of flood-tide, and both together had been carried up side byside; the long, inevitable isolation of human lives from birth onwardhad been broken by the first real contact with another human soul. Theyfelt 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 itsebbing. They had touched their goal, it was really there. Now they knewit within their reach. Appeased, assuaged, fatigued, they felt the needfor quiet, they knew the sweetness of sobriety. They even looked awayfrom each other, aware of their own bodies which for that instant hadbeen left behind. They entered again into the flesh that clad theirspirits, taking possession of their hands and feet and members, andtaken possession of by them again. The fullness of their momentarysatisfaction had been so complete that they felt no regret, only asimple, tender pleasure as of being again at home. They smiled happilyat each other and sat silent, hand in hand. 

 * * * * *

Now they saw the beauty before them, the vast plain, the mountains, thesea: harmonious, serene, ripe with maturity, evocative of all thecenturies 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 thatit makes you feel a midge in the sunshine with only an hour or two oflife before you. What if you are, when it's life as we feel it now, sucha flood of it, every instant brimming with it? Neale, " she turned to himwith a sudden idea, "do you remember how Victor Hugo's 'Waterloo'begins?"

"I should say not!" he returned promptly. "You forget I got all theFrench 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 itgot to do with us?"

The girl was as unamused as he at his certainty that it had something todo with them, or she would not have mentioned it. She explained, "It'snot a famous line at all, nothing I ever heard anybody else admire. Wehad to learn the poem by heart, when I was a little girl and went toschool 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. Icould see it, so vividly, an urn boiling over with the great gush ofwater springing up in it. It gave me a feeling, inside, a real physicalfeeling, I mean. I wanted, oh so awfully, sometime to be so filled withsome 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 curlof the water surging up and out!"

She stopped to look at him and exclaim, "Why, you're listening! You'reinterested. Neale, I believe you are the only person in the world whocan really pay attention to what somebody else says. Everybody else justgoes 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 forsomething 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 tome. I was about fourteen years old then, and of course, being a gooddeal with Catholics, I thought probably it was religious ecstasy thatwas going to be the great flood that would brim my cup full. I used togo up the hill in Bayonne to the Cathedral every day and stay there forhours, trying to work up an ecstasy. I managed nearly to faint away onceor twice, which was _some_thing of course. But I couldn't feel thatgreat tide I'd dreamed of. And then, little by little . . . Oh, lots ofthings 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 itwas at home. I was pretty busy at the house because she was away somuch. And Father and I hung together because there wasn't anybody elseto hang to: and all sorts of ugly things happened, and I didn't have thetime or the heart to think about being 'an urn too full. '"

She stopped, smiling happily, as though those had not been tragic wordswhich 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 infront of St. Peter's, when we stood together, and felt the spray of thefountains 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 intothe church, and I knelt there for a while, so struck down with joy thatI couldn't stand on my feet, all those wild bursts of excitement, andincredulity and happiness, that kept surging up and drenching me . . . Ihad a queer feeling, that awfully threadbare feeling of having beenthere before, or felt that before; that it was familiar, although it wasso 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, justas 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_ knowwhat 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 peoplehave. "

"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 agesture. 

They sank into a reverie, smiling to themselves. 

"How the fountains shone in the sun, that day, " she murmured; "the spraythey 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'venever even seen it, " she returned. 

"Well, anybody could make a pretty fair guess that a small Vermont townisn'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 yousaw it last, weren't you?"

"No, you've got it wrong. It was when we came to France to live that Iwas eleven, and of course I stopped going to Ashley regularly forvacations then. But I went back for several summers in the old housewith Cousin Hetty, when I was in America for college, after Motherdied. "

"Oh well, I don't care what it's like, " he said, "except that it's theplace where I'm going to live with you. Any place on earth would seemwide enough and deep enough, if I had you there. "

"Isn't it funny, " she mused, "that I should know so much more about itthan 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 ourexisting and happening to meet out of all the millions of people in theworld, you can't think up anything funnier. Just the littletwo-for-a-cent queerness of our happening to meet in Rome instead of inBrooklyn, and your happening to know the town where my uncle lived andowned the mill he left me . . . That can't hold a candle for queerness, for wonderfulness, compared to my having ever laid eyes on you. SupposeI'd never come to Rome at all? When I got the news of Uncle Burton'sdeath and the bequest, I was almost planning to sail from Genoa and notcome to southern Italy at all. "

She shook her head confidently. "You can't scare me with any suchhideous possibilities. It's not possible that we shouldn't ever havemet, 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_ cometogether, no matter how you mix them up with other things?"

He made no answer, gazing out across the plain far below them, mellowingrichly in the ever-softening light of the sunset. 

She looked doubtfully at his profile, rather lean, with the beginningalready drawn of the deep American line from the Corner of the nose tothe mouth, that is partly humorous and partly grim. "Don't you believethat, Neale, that we would have come together somehow, anyhow?" sheasked, "even if you had gone straight back from Genoa to Ashley? Maybeit might have been up there after you'd begun to run the mill. Maybe I'dhave 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 wecould have passed all our lives and never have _seen_ each other?"

He turned on her his deep-set eyes, full of tenderness and humor anduncertainty, and shook his head. "Yes, dear, I do believe that, " he saidregretfully. "I don't see how I can help believing it. Why, I hadn't thefaintest idea of going back to settle in Ashley before I met you. I hadtaken Uncle Burton's mill and his bequest of four thousand dollars as asort of joke. What could I do with them, without anything else? And whaton earth did I want to do with them? Nothing! As far as I had any plansat all, it was to go home, see Father and Mother for a while, getthrough the legal complications of inheritance, sell the mill and house. . . I wouldn't have thought of such a thing as bothering even to go toAshley to look at them . . . And then take the money and go off somewhere, somewhere different, and far away: to China maybe. I was pretty restlessin my mind, pretty sure that nothing in our civilization was worth thecandle, you know, before you arrived on the scene to put everything infocus. 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 awfullyliteral . . . 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 simplecourage. 

She considered it and him seriously, studying his face and eyes, listening retrospectively to the accent of his words, and immenselyastonished him by suddenly flashing a kiss on his cheek. "You'remiraculous!" she said. "You don't know how it feels; as though I'd beenfloundering in a marsh, deeper and deeper, and then all at once, when Ithought 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 verystrength of ages under my feet. You don't _know_ how good it seems tohave a silly, romantic remark like what I said, answered the way youdid, telling the truth; how _good_ it feels to be pulled down to what'swhat, 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 herwords but vaguely. "I don't seem to catch hold of all that. What's itall about?"

"It's all about the fact that I really begin to believe that you will beloyal and tell me the truth, " she told him. 

He saw cause for gravity in this, remembering the great moment soshortly back of them, and said with a surprised and hurt accent, "Didn'tyou believe me, when I said I would?"

She took up his hand in hers and said rapidly, "Dear Neale, I didbelieve it, for just a moment, and I can't believe anything good ofanybody for longer than that, not _really_ in my heart of hearts. Andit'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, intelligentattention, as she went on, stumbling, reaching out for words, discardingthose 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 agreat deal more than most girls have. And then, half brought up in Francewith people who are clever and have their eyes wide open, people whoreally count, I've seen how they don't believe in humans, or goodness, oranything that's not base. They know life is mostly bad and cruel anddull and low, and above all that it's bound to fool you if you trust toit, 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 alltheir energies trying to dodge a little, all they think they can. Theneverything you read, except the silly little Bibliothèque-Rose sort ofthing, makes you know that it's true . . . Anatole France, and Maupassant, and Schnitzler. Of course back in America you find lots of nice peoplewho don't believe that. But they're so sweet you know they'd swallowanything that made things look pleasant. So you don't dare take theirword for anything. They won't even look at what's bad in everybody'slife, they just pretend it's not there, not in _their_ husbands, orwives or children, and so you know they're fooled. " She lowered hervoice, which faltered a little, but she still continued to look straightinto his eyes, "And as for love, why, I've just hated the sound of thename and . . . I'm horribly afraid of it, even now. "

He asked her gravely, "Don't you love me? Don't you think that I loveyou?"

She looked at him piteously, wincing, bracing herself with an effort tobe brave. "I must try to be as honest as I want you to be. Yes, I loveyou, Neale, with all my heart a thousand times more than I ever dreamedI could love anybody. But how do I know that I'm not somehow foolingmyself: but that maybe all that huge unconscious inheritance from all mymiserable ancestors hasn't _got_ me, somehow, and you too? How do I knowthat 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 agreat and unexpected treasure, "But, Neale, listen! I _don't_ think thatabout you! I don't believe you're being fooled. Why, I believe in youmore than in myself!" She was amazed at this and radiant. 

Then she asked him, "Neale, how do _you_ manage about all this? What doyou feel about all the capacity for being low and bad, that everybodyhas? 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, thatwe can't even be bad? Are you afraid of being fooled? Do you believe inyourself at all?"

He was silent for some time, his eyes steadily fixed on some invisiblerealm. 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 Idon't think it matters the least bit in the world beside the fact that Ilove you. That's big enough to overtop everything else. "

He raised his voice and spoke out boldly to the undefined specter in hermind. "And if it's the mating instinct you mean, that may be foolingboth 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 thewater of a little brook flowing into the sea? Do you think _that_, whichis only a little trickle and a harmless and natural and healthy littletrickle, could unsalt the great ocean of its savor? Why, Marise, allthat 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 wavesif you want to . . . But nothing at all, the biggest of them, compared tothe stillness in the depths of the sea. Why, I love you! Do I believe inmyself? Of course I believe in myself, because I have you. "

She drew a long sigh and, closing her eyes, murmured, "I feel as thoughI were lifted up on a great rock. " After a moment, opening her eyes, shesaid, "You are better than I, you know. I'm not at all sure that I couldsay that. I never knew before that I was weak. But then I never metstrength before. "

"You're not weak, " he told her; adding quaintly, "maybe a littleoverballasted; with brains and sensitiveness and under-ballasted withexperience, that's all. But you haven't had much chance to take on anyother cargo, as yet. "

She was nettled at this, and leaving her slow, wide-winged poise in theupper airs, she veered and with swallow-like swiftness darted down onhim. "That sounds patronizing and elder-brotherish, " she told him. "I'vetaken on all sorts of cargo that you don't know anything about. In everso many ways you seem positively . . . Naïve! You needn't go thinking thatI'm always highstrung and fanciful. I never showed that side to anybodybefore, never! Always kept it shut up and locked down and danced andwhooped it up before the door. You know how everybody always thinks ofme as laughing all the time. I do wish everything hadn't been saidalready so many times. If it weren't that it's been said so often, I'dlike 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 possibilitiesin it. I know _you'd_ say what you meant, no matter how many thousandshad said it before. And since I know it's not stupidness in you, why, itseems to me just splendidly and simply courageous, a kind of courage I'dnever thought of before. I see now, how, after all, those stupid peoplehad me beaten, because I'd always thought that a person either had to bestupid so that he didn't _know_ he was saying something everybody elsehad said, or else not say it, even if he wanted to, ever so much, and itwas 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 saidthings or not? What difference does it make, if it's a question of whatyou yourself feel? I'd be just as satisfied if you gave _all_ your timeto discovering the wonderful possibilities in what I say. It would giveme a chance to conceal the fact that I get all out of breath trying tofollow what you mean. "

This surprised her into a sudden laugh, outright and ringing. He lookeddown at her sparkling face, brilliant in its mirth as a child's, andsaid seriously, "You must instantly think of something perfectly prosaicand commonplace to say, or I shall be forced to take you in my arms andkiss you a great many times, which might have Lord knows what effect onthat gloomy-minded ticket-seller back of us who already has hissuspicions. "

She rose instantly to the possibilities and said smoothly, swiftly, whimsically, with the accent of drollery, "I'm very particular aboutwhat 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'ma very fine and conscientious housekeeper, I'd have you know, and allthe while we lived in Bayonne I ran the house because Mother never gotused to French housekeeping ways. I was the one who went to market . . . Oh, the gorgeous things you get in the Bayonne market, near enoughSpain, 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 forcook and learned how to cook from her, using a great many onions foreverything. 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 ofmy own, just as though I weren't the extremely clever, cynical, disillusioned, fascinating musical genius everybody knows me to be: onlylet me warn you that the old house we are going to live in will needlots done to it. Your uncle never opened the dreadful room he called theparlor, and never used the south wing at all, where all the sunshinecomes in. And the pantry arrangements are simply humorous, they're soinadequate. I don't know how much of that four thousand dollars you aregoing to want to spare for remodeling the mill, but I will tell younow, that I will go on strike if you don't give me a better cook-stovethan your Uncle's Touclé had to work with. "

He had been listening with an appreciative grin to her nimble-wittedchatter, but at this he brought her up short by an astonished, "Who had?What had? What's that . . . Touclé?"

She laughed aloud again, delighted at having startled him intocuriosity. "Touclé. Touclé. Don't you think it a pretty name? Will youbelieve me when I say I know all about Ashley?"

"Oh, go on, tell me!" he begged. "You don't mean to say that my UncleBenton 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. Aslong 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 behanging around Grandfather and the mill, and the woods. I was crazyabout 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 heleft me the mill!" He cast his eye retrospectively on this idea and wassilent for a moment, emerging from his meditation to say, wonderingly, "Well, it certainly is _queer_, how things come out, how one thing hangson another. It's enough to addle your brains, to try to start to followback all the ways things happen . . . Ways you'd never thought of as ofthe least importance. "

"Your Uncle Burton was of some importance to _us_, " she told him. "MissOldham at the _pension_ said that she had just met a new American, downfrom Genoa, and when I heard your name I said, 'Oh, I used to know anold Mr. Crittenden who ran a wood-working factory up in Vermont, where Iused to visit an old cousin of mine, ' and that was why Miss Oldhamintroduced us, that silly way, as cousins. "

He said, pouncingly, "You're running on, inconsequently, just to divertmy mind from asking you again who or what Touclé is. "

"You can ask and ask all you like, " she defied him, laughing. "I'm notgoing to tell you. I've got to have _some_ secrets from you, to keep upthe traditions of self-respecting womanhood. And anyhow I couldn't tellyou, because she is different from everything else. You'll see foryourself, when we get there. If she's still alive. " She offered acompromise, "I'll tell you what. If she's dead, I'll sit down and tellyou about her. If she's still alive, you'll find out. She's an Ashleyinstitution, Touclé is. As symbolic as the Cumean Sybil. I don't believeshe'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 inher, " he professed. "I can make a guess that she's some old woman, and Ibet you I won't see anything remarkable in her. Except that wild name. Is it Miss Touclé, or Mrs. Touclé?"

The girl burst into laughter at this, foolish, light-hearted mirth whichdrenched the air all about her with the perfume of young gaiety. "Is itMiss Druid, or Mrs. Druid?" was all she would say. 

She looked up at him, her eyes shining, and cried between her gusts oflaughter, as if astonished, "Why, I do believe we are going to be happytogether. I do believe it's going to be fun to live with you. "

His appalled surprise that she had again fallen into the pit ofincredulity was, this time, only half humorous. "For God's sake, what_did_ you think!"

She answered, reasonably, "Well, nobody ever is happy together, eitherin books or out of them. Of all the million, million love-affairs thathave happened, does anybody ever claim any one to have been happy?"

His breath was taken away. He asked helplessly, "Well, why _are_ youmarrying 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 shortexclamation which seemed to carry away all his impatience, and finallysaid, quietly enough, "Why, yes, of course, if that's the way you wantto 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 anywherenear expressing it. Look here, Marise, I don't believe you have thefaintest, faintest idea how big this thing is. All these fool cleverways of talking about it . . . They're just a screen set up in front ofit, to my mind. It's enough sight bigger than just you or me, orhappiness or unhappiness. It's the meaning of everything!"

She considered this thoughtfully. "I don't believe I really know whatyou mean, " she said, "or anyhow that I _feel_ what you mean. I have haddreams sometimes, that I'm in something awfully big and irresistiblelike a great river, flowing somewhere; but I've never felt it in wakinghours. I wish I could. It's lovely in dreams. You evidently do, evenawake. "

He said, confidently, "You will, later on. "

She ventured, "You mean, maybe, that I'm so shaken up by the littlesurface waves, chopping back and forth, that I don't feel the bigcurrent. "

"It's there. Whether you feel it or not, " he made final answer to herdoubt. 

She murmured, "I wonder if there is anything in that silly, old-fashioned notion that men are stronger than women, and that womenmust lean on men's strength, to live?"

"Everybody's got to lean on his own strength, sooner or later, " he toldher with a touch of grimness. 

"You just won't be romantic!" she cried admiringly. 

"I really love you, Marise, " he answered profoundly; and on thisrock-like assurance she sank down with a long breath of trust. 

 * * * * *

The sun was dipping into the sea now, emblazoning the sky with a lastflaming half-circle of pure color, but the light had left the duskyedges of the world. Already the far mountains were dimmed, and theplain, passing from one deep twilight color to another more somber, wasquietly sinking into darkness as into the strong loving arms of ultimatedissolution. 

The girl spoke in a dreamy twilight tone, "Neale dear, this is not aromantic idea . . . Honestly, I do wish we could both die right here andnever 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 feelthat. 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 darkplain, and we will have to cross it, painfully, step by step. _Dare_ youpromise me we will not lose our way?" she challenged him. 

"I don't promise you anything about it, " he answered, taking her hand inhis. "Only I'm not a bit afraid of the plain, nor the way that's beforeus. Come along with me, and let's see what's there. "

"Do you think you know where we are going, across that plain?" she askedhim painfully; "even where we are to _try_ to go?"

"No, I don't know, now, " he answered undismayed. "But I think we willknow it as we go along because we will be together. "

 * * * * *

The darkness, folding itself like a velvet mantle about the farmountains, deepened, and her voice deepened with it. "Can you evenpromise that we won't lose each other there?" she asked somberly. 

At this he suddenly took her into his arms, silently, bending his faceto hers, his insistent eyes bringing hers up to meet his gaze. She couldfeel the strong throbbing of his heart all through her own body. 

She clung to him as though she were drowning. And indeed she felt thatshe was. Life burst over them with a roar, a superb flooding tide onwhose strong swelling bosom they felt themselves rising, risingillimitably. 

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 bluereefer coat close to his throat. 

"Now you big children, " she said, with an anxious accent, to Paul andElly standing with their school-books done up in straps, "be sure tokeep an eye on Mark at recess-time. Don't let him run and get all hotand then sit down in the wind without his coat. Remember, it's his firstday at school, and he's only six. "

She kissed his round, smooth, rosy cheek once more, and let him go. Ellystooped and took her little brother's mittened hand in hers. She saidnothing, 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, allright. "

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, soclear, so quiet, so unchanging and true. "You're a good boy, Paul, areal comfort, " she told him. 

To herself she thought, "Yes, all his life he'll look out for people andget 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 ofcourse, except for the children, and it was absurd to fear for them. They were all safe; safe and strong and rooted deep in health, andlittle Mark was stepping off gallantly into his own life as the othershad done. But she felt afraid. What could she be afraid of? As sheopened the door, their advance was halted by the rush upon them ofPaul'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 opendoor-way for a moment. Elly rubbed her soft cheek against her mother'shand. 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-flaggedpath to the road. They were chattering to each other as they went. Theirvoices sounded at first loud and gay in their mother's ears. Then theysank to a murmur, as the children ran along the road. The dog boundedabout them in circles, barking joyfully, but this sound too grew fainterand fainter. 

When the murmur died away to silence, there seemed no sound left in thestark gray valley, empty and motionless between the steep dark walls ofpine-covered mountains. 

 * * * * *

Marise stood for a long time looking after the children. They wereclimbing up the long hilly road now, growing smaller and smaller. Howfar away they were, already! And that very strength and vigor of whichshe was so proud, which she had so cherished and fostered, how rapidlyit carried them along the road that led away from her!

They were almost at the top of the hill now. Perhaps they would turnthere and wave to her. 

No, of course now, she was foolish to think of such a thing. Childrennever remembered the people they left behind. And she was now onlysomebody whom they were leaving behind. She felt the cold penetratedeeper and deeper into her heart, and knew she ought to go back into thehouse. But she could not take her eyes from the children. She thought toherself bitterly, "This is the beginning of the end. I've been feelinghow, in their hearts, they want to escape from me when I try to holdthem, or when I try to make them let me into their lives. I've giveneverything to them, but they never think of that. _I_ think of it! Everytime 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 onlysee the Obstacle in the way of their getting what they want. And so theywant to run away from it. Just as they're doing now. "

She looked after them, yearning. Although they were so far, she couldsee 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. Thenthey 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 thechildren had taken everything with them. 

 * * * * *

A gust of icy wind blew down sharply from the mountain, stillsnow-covered, and struck at her like a sword. She turned and went backshivering, 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 withvarying degrees of attention at the closed white-painted old door. Theyounger, the one with the round dark head and quick dark eyes, seemedextremely interested in the door, and examined it competently, itsharmoniously disposed wide panels, the shapely fan-light over it, thesmall panes of greenish old glass on each side. "Beautiful old bits youget occasionally in these out-of-the-way holes, " he remarked. But theolder man was aware of nothing so concrete and material. He saw the dooras he saw everything else that day, through a haze. Chiefly he wasconcerned 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 leaflesselms, in a still air, transparent and colorless. 

The handle of the door turned, the door opened. The older man was tooastonished by what he saw to speak, but after an instant's pause theyounger one asked if Mr. And Mrs. Crittenden were at home and could seecallers. The lean, aged, leather-colored woman, with shiny opaque blackeyes, opened the door wider and silently ushered them into the house. 

As long as she was in sight they preserved a prudent silence as profoundas hers, but when she had left them seated, and disappeared, they turnedto each other with lifted eyebrows. "Well, what was _that_, do yousuppose?" exclaimed the Younger. He seemed extremely interested andamused. "I'm not so sure, Mr. Welles, about your being safe in neverlocking your doors at night, as they all tell you, up here. With thatfor 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, " hesaid. He looked about him still smiling, his pleasant old eyes full of afresh 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 tocomplain of, with the folks that live in this house, " he said, "any morethan with any of the rest of it. "

The other nodded. "Yes, it's a very good room, " he agreed. After alonger inspection, he added with a slight accent of surprise, "An oddlygood 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 uphere who could achieve it consciously. "

He got to his feet with a vigorous precision of movement which the otheradmired. "Well, he's grown to be considerable of a man, " he thought tohimself. "A pity his father couldn't have lived to see it, all thataliveness that had bothered them so much, down at last where he's gothis grip on it. And enough of it, plenty of it, oceans of it, left sothat he is still about forty times more alive than anybody else. " Helooked 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 château-fort I don't know!" he said with an abruptaccent. He added, with some vehemence, "I never even heard of it, I'msure. And it's authentic, evidently. "

The older man sat perfectly still. He did not know what a shatto fourwas, nor had he the slightest desire to ask and bring the informationdown on him, given as the other would give it, pressingly, vividly, sothat you had to listen whether you wanted to or not. Heaven knew he didnot want to know about whatever it was, this time. Not about that, noranything else. He only wanted to rest and have a little life before itwas too late. It was already too late for any but the quietest sort. Butthat was no matter. He wouldn't have liked the other kind very wellprobably. He certainly had detested the sort of "life" he'd experiencedin business. The quietest sort was what he had always wanted and nevergot. And now it really seemed as though he was going to have it. For allhis fatigued pose in the old arm-chair, his heart beat faster at theidea. He hadn't got used to being free yet. He'd heard people say thatwhen 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, everytime he heard his bride's skirts rustle, he had to turn his head to makesure she was really there. Well, he would like now to get up and lookout 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 thoseyellowed old seed catalogues which had come, varnished and brilliant andnew, year after year, so long ago, which he'd looked at so hard and solong, in the evenings, and put away to get yellow and sallow like hisface . . . And his hopes. It must be almost time to "make garden, " hethought. He had heard them saying at the store that the sap wasbeginning to run in the maple-trees. He would have just time to gethimself settled in his house . . . He felt an absurd young flush come upunder his grizzled beard at this phrase . . . "his house, " his own house, with bookshelves, and a garden. How he loved it all already! He sat verystill, feeling those savagely lopped-off tendrils put out their curlingfingers once more, this time unafraid. He sat there in the comfortableold arm-chair at rest as never before. He thought, "This is the way I'mgoing to feel right along, every day, all the time, " and closed hiseyes. 

He opened them again in a moment, moved subconsciously by the life-timehabit of making sure what Vincent was up to. He smiled at the keen lookof alert, prick-eared attention which the other was still giving to thatroom! Lord, how Vincent did love to get things all figured out! Heprobably had, by this time, an exact diagram of the owners of the houseall drawn up in his mind and would probably spend the hour of theircall, seeing if it fitted. Not that _they_ would have any notion he wasdoing anything but talk a blue streak, or was thinking of anything butintroducing 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'dforget that failure in a whole big row all along the terrace, tall andstrong, standing up straight in the country sunshine. What was theaddress of that man who made a specialty of gladioli? He ought to havenoted it down. "Vincent, " he asked, "do you remember the address of thatMr. Schwatzkummerer who grew nothing but gladioli?" Vincent was lookingwith an expression of extreme astonishment at the sheet of music on thepiano. 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-armedsofa. Mr. Welles thought he looked puzzled, a very unusual expression onthat face. Maybe, after all, he hadn't got the owners of the house sowell-plotted out as he thought he ought to. He himself, going on withhis own concerns, remarked, "Well, the name must be in the Long Islandtelephone directory. When you go back you could look it up and send meword. "

"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. Itought 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, laughedhimself, peaceably. "It would take a great deal more than a little ofVincent's fun, " he thought, "to make me feel anything but peaceablehere. " 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 hischaracter. It made a convenient screen behind which he could carry onhis own observation and meditation uninterrupted. 

"Here comes somebody, " said Vincent and turned his quick eyes toward thedoor, with an eager expression of attention. He really _must_ have beenstumped by something in the room, thought Mr. Welles, and meant tofigure it out from the owners of the house themselves. 

The tall, quiet-looking lady with the long dark eyes, who now came inalone, excusing herself for keeping them waiting, must of course be Mrs. Crittenden, Mr. Welles knew. He wished he could get to his feet asVincent did, looking as though he had got there by a bound or a springand were ready for another. He lifted himself out of his arm-chair witha heaviness he knew seemed all the heavier by contrast, took the slimhand Mrs. Crittenden offered him, looked at her as hard as he dared, andsank again into the arm-chair, as she motioned him to do. He had had along experience in judging people quickly by the expression of theirfaces, and in that short length of time he had decided thankfully thathe was really, just as he had hoped, going to like his new neighbor asmuch as all the rest of it. He gave her a propitiatory smile, hoping shemight like him a little, too, and hoping also that she would not mindVincent. Sometimes people did, especially nice ladies such as evidentlyMrs. Crittenden was. He observed that as usual Vincent had cut in aheadof everybody else, had mentioned their names, both of them, and wastalking with that . . . Well, the way he _did_, which people either likedvery much or couldn't abide. He looked at Vincent as he talked. He wasnot a great talker himself, which gave him a great deal of practice inwatching 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 thosefine teeth of his, and he had one of those instantaneously-gone, flash-light reminiscences of elderly people, . . . The day when Mr. Marshhad been called away from the office and had asked him to go with littleVincent to keep an appointment with the dentist. Heavens! How the kidhad 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 veryyoung any more, with a little gray in his thick hair, what people oftencalled 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 noticedfurther that as Vincent talked, his eyes fixed on his interlocutor, hisvigorous hands caressed with a slow circular motion the rounded arms ofhis chair. "What a three-ringed circus that fellow is, " he thought. "Ibet that the lady thinks he hasn't another idea in his head butintroducing an old friend, and all the time he's taking her in, everyinch of her, and three to one, what he'll talk about most afterwards isthe smooth hard feeling of those polished arm-chairs. " Vincent wassaying, ". . . And so, we heard in a round-about way too long to botheryou with, about the small old house next door being for sale, and howvery quiet and peaceful a spot this is, and the Company bought it forMr. 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 theirsense of his life-time devotion to their interests. There's noestimating what we all owe him, for his steadiness and loyalty and goodjudgment, 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 oneof the Directors from the first and I've been brought up in thetradition of how much the small beginning Company is indebted to Mr. Welles, during the years when they went down so near the edge of ruinthat they could see the receiver looking in through the open door. "

Welles moved protestingly. He never had liked the business and he didn'tlike reminders that he owed his present comfort to it. Besides this wasreading his own epitaph. He thought he must be looking very foolish toMrs. Crittenden. Vincent continued, "But of course that's of no greatimportance up here. What's more to the purpose is that Mr. Welles is agreat lover of country life and growing things, and he's been forced tokeep his nose on a city grindstone all his life until just now. I thinkI 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 hecould inlay so deftly that they seemed an integral part of theconversation. He wondered what Mrs. Crittenden would say, if Vincentever got through his gabble and gave her a chance. She was turning tohim now, smiling, and beginning to speak. What a nice voice she had! Hownice that she should have such a voice!

"I'm more than glad to have you both come in to see me, and I'mdelighted that Mr. Welles is going to settle here. But Mr. . . . " shehesitated an instant, recalled the name, and went on, "Mr. Marsh doesn'tneed 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 youthan Mr. Marsh would be likely to tell me, very likely a good deal morethan is true. I know for instance, . . . " she laughed and correctedherself, ". . . At least I've been told, what the purchase price of thehouse was. I know how Harry Wood's sister-in-law's friend told you aboutAshley and the house in the first place. I know how many years you werein the service of the Company, and how your pension was votedunanimously by the Directors, and about the silver loving-cup yourfellow employees in the office gave you when you retired; and indeedevery single thing about you, except the exact relation of the elderlyinvalid 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 pausedan instant to give them a chance to comment on this, but finding themstill quite speechless, she went on. "And now I know another thing, thatyou like gladioli, and that is a real bond. "

She was interrupted here by a great explosive laugh from Vincent. It washis 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 sidelongamused glance, evidently liking his capacity to laugh at seeing theground cut away from under his feet, evidently quite aware that he wasstill thinking about that, and not at all about Mr. Welles andtulip-beds. Welles was relieved at this. Apparently she was going to"take" Vincent the right way. Some ladies were frightfully rubbed thewrong way by that strange great laugh of Vincent's. And what she knewabout gardening! And not only about gardening in general, but about hisown garden. He was astounded at her knowledge apparently of every inchof the quadrangle of soil back of his house, and at the revelations shemade to him of what could lie sleeping under a mysterious blank surfaceof earth. Why, a piece of old ground was like a person. You had to knowit, 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 yourvegetable lot, " she told him; "you'll have to get up nights to fight itif there is plenty of rain this summer. " And again, "Be careful aboutnot digging too close to the east wall of your terrace. There is aborder of peonies there, splendid pink ones, and you're likely to breakoff 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 ofher mastery of its secrets. 

She laughed. "No, oh no. We've lived right here all the eleven years ofour life in Vermont. But there's another side to the local wirelessinformation-bureau that let me know all about you before you ever gothere. We all know all about everybody and everything, you know. If youlive in the country you're really married to humanity, for better or forworse, 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 timesleaning on my hoe in my own garden, discussing those peonies with oldMrs. Belham who lived there before you. " This seemed to bring up somepicture into her mind at which she looked for a moment, turning from itto the man beside her, with a warmth in her voice which went to hisheart. "It's been forlorn having that dear little old house empty andcold. I can't _tell_ you how glad I am you have come to warm it, andlive in it. "

The wonder of it overcame Mr. Welles like a wave. "I can't believe I'mreally going to!" he cried desperately. "It doesn't seem _possible_!" Hefelt shamed, knowing that he had burst out too violently. What could sheknow of what lay back of him, that he was escaped from! What could shethink of him, but that he was a foolish, bitter old man?

She did not seem to think that, looking at him attentively as though shewanted to make out just what he meant. Perhaps she did make out, for shenow said gently, "I believe you are going to like it, Mr. Welles. Ibelieve 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 thewater coming to his eyes. He was in a foolishly emotional state, thesefirst 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 atthe office was over, the business he had always hated and detested, andthe long, hateful slavery at the flat finished at last, and that he hadcome 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 hewas. But he did not dare trust himself to speak again. 

Now Vincent's voice rose. What a length of time Vincent had beensilent, --he who never took a back seat for anybody! What had he beendoing all this time, sitting there and staring at them with thoseawfully brilliant eyes of his? Very likely he had seen the silly weaktears so near the surface, had caught the sentimental twitch of themouth. Yes, quite certainly, for, now he was showing his tact bychanging the subject, changing it with a vengeance. "Mrs. Crittenden, "he was saying, "my curiosity has been touched by that very finephotograph over there. I don't recognize the castle it shows. "

"That's in Bayonne, " she said, and paused, her eyes speculatively onhim. 

"No, Heavens no! You don't need to tell me that it's not Bayonne, NewJersey!" he answered her unspoken question violently. This made herlaugh, opening her long eyes a little. He went on, "I've been as far asPau, but never went into the Basque country. "

"Oh, Pau. " She said no more than this, but Welles had the impressionthat these words somehow had made a comment on Vincent's information. Vincent seemed to think so too, and curiously enough not to think it avery favorable comment. He looked, what he almost never looked, a littlenettled, and spoke a little stiffly. "It's a very fine specimen, " hesaid briefly, looking again at the photograph. 

"Oh, it looks very much finer and bigger in the photograph than itreally is, " she told them. "It's only a bandbox of a thing compared withCoucy or Pierrefonds or any of the northern ones. It was built, youknow, like the Cathedral at Bayonne, when the Plantagenets still heldthat country, but after they were practically pretty near English, andboth the château and the Gothic cathedral seem queer aliens among thesouthern natives. I have the photograph up there on the wall onlybecause of early associations. I lived opposite it long ago when I was alittle girl. "

This, to Mr. Welles, was indistinguishable from the usual talk of peoplewho have been "abroad. " To tell the truth they always sounded to himmore or less "showing-off, " though he humbly tried to think it was onlybecause he could never take any part in such talk. He certainly did notsee anything in the speech to make Vincent look at her, almost with hisjaw dropped. He himself paid little attention to what she was nowsaying, because he could not keep his mind from the lingering sweetintonations of her voice. What difference did it make where she hadlived as a little girl? She was going to live next door to him now; whatan awfully nice woman she was, and quite a good-looking woman too, witha very nice figure, although not in her very first youth, of course. Howold could she be? Between thirty and forty of course, but You couldn'ttell where. His personal taste was not for such a long face as hers. Butyou didn't notice that when she smiled. He liked the way she did herblack hair, too, so smooth and shining and close to her head. It lookedas though she'd really combed and brushed it, and most women's hairdidn't. 

She turned to him now, again, and said, "Is this your very first call inAshley? Because if it is, I mustn't miss the opportunity to cut in aheadof all the other gossips, and give you a great deal of information. Youmight just as well have it all in one piece now, and get it straight, astake it in little snippets from old Mrs. Powers, when she comes to bringyour milk, this evening. You see I know that you are to get your milk ofthe Powers, and that they have plucked up courage to ask you eight centsa 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 courseyou must be introduced to the Powers, _in toto_ too. Old Mrs. Powers, avery lively old widow, lives on her farm nearly at the foot of DeerHollow. 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 justnow, on lumbering business. He is Neale Crittenden, a Williams man, whoin his youth had thoughts of exploring the world but who has turned outhead of the 'Crittenden Manufacturing Company, ' which is thehigh-sounding name of a smallish wood-working business on the other sideof the field next our house. You can see the buildings and probably hearthe saws from your garden. Properly speaking, you know, you don't livein Ashley but in 'Crittenden's' and your house constitutes one quarterof all the residences in that settlement. There are yours, and ours, themill-buildings, the house where an old cousin of mine lives, and thePowers' house, although that is so far away, nearly half a mile, that itis really only a farm-house in the country. _We_, you see, are thesuburb 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. Partof the mill-building is pre-Revolutionary, and very picturesque. In thelife-time of my husband's uncle, it still ran by water-power with abeautiful, 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 itswaste of slabs, mostly. All sorts of small, unimportant objects aremanufactured there, things you never heard of probably. Backs ofhair-brushes, wooden casters to put under beds and chairs, rollers forcotton mills. As soon as my husband returns, I'll ask him to take youthrough it. That and the old church are the only historic monuments intown. "

She stopped and asked him meditatively, "What else do you suppose I needto forestall old Mrs. Powers on? My old Cousin Hetty perhaps. She has alast name, Allen--yes, some connection with Ethan Allen. I am, myself. But everybody has always called her Miss Hetty till few people rememberthat 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 allher saga. You can't see her house from here, but it is part ofCrittenden's all the same, although it is a mile away by the main roadas you go towards the Dug-Way. But you can reach it in six or sevenminutes 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. Vincentwas always throwing challenges, at everything. But by this time he hadlearned how to dodge them. "No, I don't know, and I don't care if Idon't, " he answered happily. 

It pleased him that Mrs. Crittenden found this amusing, so that shelooked at him laughing. How her eyes glistened when she laughed. It madeyou laugh back. He risked another small attempt at facetiousness. "Go onwith the census of Crittenden's, " he told her. "I want to know all aboutmy 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 thereare the three children, Paul, Elly, and Mark, . . . " She paused hererather abruptly, and the whimsical accent of good-humored mockerydisappeared. For an instant her face changed into something quitedifferent from what they had seen. Mr. Welles could not at all make outthe expression which very passingly had flickered across her eyes with asmoke-like vagueness and rapidity. He had the queerest fancy that shelooked somehow scared, --but of course that was preposterous. 

"Your call, " she told them both, "happens to fall on a day which marks aturning-point in our family life. This is the very first day in tenyears, since Paul's birth, that I have not had at least one of thechildren beside me. Today is the opening of spring term in our countryschool, and my little Mark went off this morning, for the first time, with his brother and sister. I have been alone until you came. " Shestopped for a moment. Mr. Welles wished that Vincent could get over hishabit of staring at people so. She went on, "I have felt very queerindeed, all day. It's as though . . . You know, when you have been walkingup and up a long flight of stairs, and you go automatically putting onefoot up and then the other, and then suddenly . . . Your upraised footfalls back with a jar. You've come to the top, and, for an instant, youhave a gone feeling without your stairs to climb. "

It occurred to Mr. Welles that really perhaps the reason why some niceladies did not like Vincent was just because of his habit of looking atthem so hard. He could have no idea how piercingly bright his eyeslooked when he fixed them on a speaker like that. And now Mrs. Crittenden was looking back at him, and would notice it. _He_ couldunderstand how a refined lady would feel as though somebody were almosttrying to find a key-hole to look in at her, --to have anybody pounce onher so, with his eyes, as Vincent did. She couldn't know, of course, that Vincent went pouncing on ladies and baggagemen and office boys, andold friends, just the same way. He bestirred himself to think ofsomething 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 oldwoman . . . The old lady . . . Who let us in the door. "

At the sound of his voice Mrs. Crittenden looked away from Vincentquickly and looked at him for a perceptible moment before she heard whathe had said. Then she explained, smiling, "Oh, she would object verymuch to being labeled with the finicky title of 'lady. ' That was Touclé, our queer old Indian woman, --all that is left of old America here. Shebelongs to our house, or perhaps I should say it belongs to her. She wasborn here, a million years ago, more or less, when there were still afew basket-making Indians left in the valley. Her father and mother bothdied, 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 bridehere, and Touclé just stayed on. She always makes herself useful enoughto pay for her food and lodging. And when his wife died an elderlywoman, Touclé still just stayed on, till he died, and then she wentright on staying here in the empty house, till my husband and I gothere. We were married in Rome, and made the long trip here withoutstopping at all. It was dawn, a June morning, when we arrived. We walkedall the way from the station at Ashley out to the old house, here atCrittenden's. And . . . I'll never forget the astounded expression on myhusband's face when Touclé rose up out of the long grass in the frontyard and bade me welcome. She'd known me as a little girl when I used tovisit here. She will outlive all of us, Touclé will, and be watchingfrom her room in the woodshed chamber on the dawn of Judgment Day whenthe stars begin to fall. "

Mr. Welles felt a trifle bewildered by this, and showed it. Sheexplained further, "But seriously, I must tell you that she is aperfectly harmless and quite uninteresting old herb-gatherer, althoughthe children in the village are a little afraid of her, because she isan Indian, the only one they have ever seen. She really _is_ an Indiantoo. She knows every inch of our valley and the mountains better thanany lumberman or hunter or fisherman in Ashley. She often goes off anddoesn'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 hercapacity for monumental silence. It gives her very occasional remarks anoracular air, even though you know it's only because she doesn't oftenopen her lips. She helps a little with the house-work, too, although shealways looks so absent-minded, as though she were thinking of somethingvery far away. She's quite capable of preparing a good meal, for all shenever seems to notice what she's up to. And she's the last member of ourfamily except the very coming-and-going little maids I get once in awhile. Ashley is unlike the rest of the world in that it is hard to getdomestic servants here. 

"Now let me see, whom next to introduce to you. You know all yourimmediate neighbors now. I shall have to begin on Ashley itself. Perhapsour minister and his wife. They live in the high-porticoed, tall-pillared white old house next door to the church in the village, onthe opposite side from the church-yard. They are Ashleyans of the oldestrock. 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 youstraight to them, this minute. There's nothing Mr. Bayweather doesn'tknow about the place or the people. He has a collection of Ashleyana ofall sorts, records, deeds, titles, old letters, family trees. And forthe 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 inwhich 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 herlap, as she added, "I think going to church is a _refining_ influence inchildren's lives, don't you?"

To Mr. Welles' horror this provoked from Vincent one of his greatlaughs. And this time he was sure that Mrs. Crittenden would takeoffense, for she looked up, distinctly startled, really quite as thoughhe _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 toogood 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 readingthe titles of your books and glancing over your music before you camein. And I can put two and two together. Who are you making fun of toyourself? Who first got off that lovely speech about the refininginfluence of church?"

She laughed a little, half-uneasily, a brighter color mounting to hersmooth 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 hedid not want to risk offending Mrs. Crittenden. He stood up. "Thank youvery much for telling us about the minister and his wife, Mrs. Crittenden. I think we'll go right along down to the village now, andpay a call on them. There'll be time enough before dinner. " Vincent ofcourse got up too, at this, saying, "He's the most perfect oldhousekeeper, you know. He's kept the neatest flat for himself and thataged 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 noenthusiasm that his eyes were extremely bright, that he smiled almostincessantly, that he stepped with an excess of his usual bounce. Evidently something had set him off into one of his fits of wild highspirits. You could almost feel the electricity sparkle from him, as itdoes from a cat on a cold day. Personally, Mr. Welles preferred not totouch 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 hernow, and something about his expression made Mr. Welles think again ofglossy fur emitting sparks. He said, "I'll lay you a wager, Mrs. Crittenden, that there is one thing your Ashley underground news-servicehas not told you about us, and that is, that I've come up not only tohelp Mr. Welles install himself in his new home, but to take a somewhatprolonged rest-cure myself. I've always meant to see more of thispicturesque part of Vermont. I've a notion that the air of this lovelyspot will do me a world of good. "

As Mr. Welles opened his mouth, perhaps rather wide, in the beginning ofa remark, he cut in briskly with, "You're worrying aboutSchwatzkummerer, I know. Never you fear. I'll get hold of his address, all right. " He explained briefly to Mrs. Crittenden, startled by theportentous name. "Just a specialist in gladiolus seeds. "

"_Bulbs!_" cried Mr. Welles, in involuntary correction, and knew as hespoke that he had been switched off to a side-track. 

"Oh well, bulbs be it, " Vincent conceded the point indulgently. He tookoff his hat in a final salutation to Mrs. Crittenden, and grasping hiselderly 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 onsetting the table, " she told the children, and ran across the side-yardto the hedge. She leaned over this, calling, "Mr. Welles! Mr. Welles!"and when he came to the door, "The children and I are just celebratingthis first really warm day by having lunch out of doors. Won't you andMr. Marsh come and join us?"

By the time the explanations and protestations and renewals of theinvitation were over and she brought them back to the porch, Paul andElly had almost finished setting the table. Elly nodded acountry-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 oldman and her little boy. 

"Elly, don't you want me to sit by you?" asked Marsh with a playfulaccent. 

Elly looked down at the plate she was setting on the table. "If you wantto, " she said neutrally. 

Her mother smiled inwardly. How amusingly Elly had acquired as only achild could acquire an accent, the exact astringent, controlled brevityof the mountain idiom. 

"I think Elly means that she would like it very much, Mr. Marsh, " shesaid laughingly. "You'll soon learn to translate Vermontese intoordinary talk, if you stay on here. "

She herself went through the house into the kitchen and began placingon the wheel-tray all the components of the lunch, telling them over toherself to be sure she missed none. "Meat, macaroni, spinach, hotplates, bread, butter, water . . . A pretty plain meal to invite citypeople to share. Here, I'll open a bottle of olives. Paul, help me getthis through the door. "

As he pulled at the other end of the wheeled tray, Paul said that Markhad gone upstairs to wash his hands, ages ago, and was probably stillfooling around in the soap-suds, and like as not leaving the soap in thewater. 

"Paul the responsible!" thought his mother. As they passed the foot ofthe stairs she called up, "Mark! Come along, dear. Lunch is served. Allready, " she announced as they pushed the tray out on the porch. 

The two men turned around from where they had been gazing up at themountain. "What is that great cliff of bare rock called?" asked Mr. Marsh. 

"Those are the Eagle Rocks, " explained Marise, sitting down andmotioning them to their places. "Elly dear, don't spread it on yourbread so _thick_. If Mr. Bayweather were here he could probably tell youwhy they are called that. I have known but I've forgotten. There's somesort of tradition, I believe . . . No, I see you are getting ready to hearit called the Maiden's Leap where the Indian girl leaped off to escapean unwelcome lover. But it's not that this time: something or otherabout 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, Isee, " she surmised. 

"_I_ found it very interesting, " said Mr. Welles, loyally. "Thoughperhaps he does try to give you a little too much at one sitting. "

"Mr. Welles, " said Paul, with his mouth full, "fishing season begins inten days. "

Marise decided that she would really have to have a rest from tellingPaul not to talk with food in his mouth, and said nothing. 

Mr. Welles confessed that he had never gone fishing in his life, andasked if Paul would take him. 

"Sure!" said Paul. "Mother and I go, lots. "

Mr. Marsh looked at Marise inquiringly. "Yes, " she said, "I'm aconfirmed fisherman. Some of the earliest and happiest recollections Ihave, 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, " sheexplained. "I spent part of my childhood and youth here with my dear oldcousin. The place is full of associations for me. Will you have yourspinach 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'sversion of creamed chicken, which is always a little too lady-like forme. "

"It's a _blanquette de veau_, and you may be sure I learned to make itin one of the French incarnations, not a Vermont one. "

Paul stirred and asked, "Mother, where _is_ Mark? He'll be late forschool, if he doesn't hurry. "

"That's so, " she said, and reflected how often one used that phrase inresponse to one of Paul's solid and unanswerable statements. 

Mark appeared just then and she began to laugh helplessly. His handswere wetly, pinkly, unnaturally clean, but his round, rosy, sunny littleface 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. "Idon't get microbes off my face into my food, " he said calmly. "And youbet there aren't any microbes left on my hands. " He went on, looking atthe 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, " correctedMarise, half-heartedly, thinking that she herself did not like theinsipid phrase "very good" nor did she consider the way a fork was heldso very essential to salvation. "How much of life is convention, any wayyou arrange it, " she thought, "even in such an entirely unconventionalone as ours. "

"It _is_ good, " said Mark, taking his first mouthful. Evidently he hadnot taken the remarks about his face at all seriously. 

"See here, Mark, " his mother put it to him as man to man, "do you thinkyou 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, " hesaid. Marise gave him a quick approving glance. That was the best sideof Paul. You could say what you pleased about the faults of American andFrench 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 weekthat 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'tknow whether you're used to children. If you're not, you must be feelingas 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 thecake, as he stood in the door, I thought, 'I wish _I_ could have had alittle son like that!'"

"We'll share him with you, Mr. Welles. " Marise was touched by thewistfulness of his tone. She noticed that Mr. Marsh had made no commenton the children. He was perhaps one of the people who never looked atthem, unless they ran into him. Eugenia Mills was like that, quitesincerely. 

"May I have a little more of the _blanquette_, if I won't be considereda glutton?" asked Mr. Marsh now. "I've sent to the city for aninvaluable factotum of mine to come and look out for us here, and whenhe comes, I hope you'll give him the recipe. "

The little boys clattered back and began to eat again, in haste withfrequent demands for their mother to tell them what time it was. Inspite of this precaution, the clock advanced so relentlessly that theywere 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 Mariseinterpreted as relief. "Strenuous, three of them at once, aren't they?"she said. "A New York friend of mine always says she can take thevibration-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 withthe latest fads in cures as Eugenia does. You may meet her there thissummer, by the way. She usually spends a part of the summer with us. Sheis 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 thatthe 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 sophisticatedcosmopolitanism, an expert on all sorts of esoteric, aesthetic andphilosophic matters, book-binding, historic lace, the Vedanta creed, Chinese porcelains, Provençal poetry, Persian shawls . . . "

"What nationality is she, herself?" inquired Mr. Welles with somecuriosity. 

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 thanthe 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 peoplethan I ever found them. It may be obtuseness on my part, but I nevercould see that people who lived in the Basses-Pyrénées are any morecultivated or had any broader horizons than people who live in the GreenMountains. My own experience is that when you actually live with people, day after day, year after year, you find about the same range ofpossibilities in any group of them. But I never advance this theory toEugenia, who would be horrified to know that I find a strong familylikeness between her New York circle and my neighbors here. "

She had been aware that Marsh was looking at her as she spoke. What asingular, piercing eye he had! It made her a little restive, as at atoo-intimate contact, to be looked at so intently, although she wasquite aware that there was a good deal of admiration in the look. Shewondered what he was thinking about her; for it was evident that he wasthinking about her, as he sent out that penetrating gaze. 

But perhaps not, after all; for he now said as if in answer to her lastremark, "I have my own way of believing that, too, that all people aremade of the same stuff. Mostly I find them perfectly negligible, tooutterly without savor even to glance at. Once in a thousand years, itseems to me, you come across a human being who's alive as you are, whospeaks 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 aboutthe quality of his voice made Marise flash a quick glance at him. Hiseyes met hers with a sudden, bold deepening of their gaze. Marise'sfirst impulse was to be startled and displeased, but in an instant aquick 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 withpeople-of-the-world for a year now. That's the sort of thing they gettheir amusement from. It would make him laugh to have it resented. "Aloud she said, rather at random, "I usually go down once a season tothe city for a visit to this old friend of mine, and other friendsthere. 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 upall your energy on other things, from what Mrs. Powers tells me aboutthe big chorus you always lead here in winters. "

"That does take up a lot of time, " she admitted. "But it's a generatorof 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 asI gather you do . . . Heavens! You must pour out your energy andpersonality as though you'd cut your arteries and let the red floodcome. "

"You pour it out all right, " she agreed, "but you get it back a thousandtimes over. " She spoke seriously, the topic was vital to her, her eyesturned inward on a recollection. "It's amazing. It's enough to make amystic out of a granite boulder. I don't know how many times I'vedragged myself to a practice-evening dog-tired physically with work andcare of the children, stale morally, sure that I had nothing in me thatwas profitable for any purpose, feeling that I'd do anything to beallowed 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 notalone, touched and stirred with a breath from those evenings. 

"Well . . . ?" prompted Mr. Marsh. She wondered if she were mistaken inthinking he sounded a little irritable. 

"Well, " she answered, "it has not failed a single time. I have nevercome back otherwise than stronger, and rested, the fatigue and stalenessall gone, buried deep in something living. " She had a moment ofself-consciousness here, was afraid that she had been carried away toseem high-flown or pretentious, and added hastily and humorously, "Youmustn't think that it's because I'm making anything wonderful out of mychorus of country boys and girls and their fathers and mothers. It's nonotable success that puts wings to my feet as I come home from thatwork. It's only the music, the hearty satisfying singing-out, byordinary people, of what too often lies withering in their hearts. "

She was aware that she was speaking not to sympathizers. Mr. Welleslooked vague, evidently had no idea what she meant. Mr. Marsh's facelooked closed tight, as though he would not open to let in a word ofwhat she was saying. He almost looked hostile. Why should he? When shestopped, a little abashed at having been carried along by her feelings, Mr. Marsh put in lightly, with no attempt at transition, "All that'svery well. But you can't make me believe that by choice you live up herall the year around. You must nearly perish away with homesickness forthe big world, you who so evidently belong in it. "

"Where is the big world?" she challenged him, laughing. "When you'reyoung you want to go all round the globe to look for it. And when you'vegone, don't you find that your world everywhere is about as big as youare?"

Mr. Marsh eyed her hard, and shook his head, with a little scornfuldownward thrust of the corners of his mouth, as though he were an augurwho refused to lend himself to the traditional necessity to keep up theappearance of believing in an exploded religion. "_You_ know where thebig world is, " he said firmly. "It's where there are only people whodon't have to work, who have plenty of money and brains and beautifulpossessions and gracious ways of living, and few moral scruples. " Hedefined it with a sovereign disregard for softening phrases. 

She opposed to this a meditative, "Oh, I suppose the real reason why Igo less and less to New York, is that it doesn't interest me as it usedto. Human significance is what makes interest for me, and when you'reused to looking deep into human lives out of a complete knowledge ofthem as we do up here, it's very tantalizing and tormenting and after awhile gets boring, the superficial, incoherent glimpses you get in sucha smooth, glib-tongued circle as the people I happen to know in NewYork. It's like trying to read something in a language of which you knowonly a few words, and having the book shown to you by jerks at that!"

Mr. Marsh remarked speculatively, as though they were speaking of somequite abstract topic, "It may also be possibly that you are succumbingto habit and inertia and routine. "

She was startled again, and nettled . . . And alarmed. What a rude thingto say! But the words were no sooner out of his mouth than she had felta scared wonder if perhaps they were not true. She had not thought ofthat possibility. 

"I should think you would like the concerts, anyhow, " suggested Mr. Welles. 

"Yes, " said Marise, with the intonation that made the affirmation almosta negative. "Yes, of course. But there too . . . Music means so much tome, so very much. It makes me sick to see it pawed over as it is amongpeople who make their livings out of it; used as it so often is as abackground for the personal vanity or greed of the performer. Take anordinary afternoon solo concert given by a pianist or singer . . . Italways seems to me that the music they make is almost an unconsideredby-product with them. What they're really after is something else. "

Marsh agreed with her, with a hearty relish, "Yes, musicians are anunspeakable bunch!

"I suppose, " Marise went on, "that I ought not to let that part of itspoil concert music for me. And it doesn't, of course. I've had somewonderful times . . . People who play in orchestra and make chamber-musicare the real thing. But the music you make yourself . . . The music wemake up here . . . Well, perhaps my taste for it is like one's liking(some people call it perverse) for French Primitive painting, or thesomething so awfully touching and heart-felt that was lost when theRenaissance came up over the Alps with all its knowingness. "

"You're not pretending that you get Vermonters to make music?" protestedMarsh, highly amused at the notion. 

"I don't know, " she admitted, "whether it is music or not. But it issomething alive. " She fell into a muse, "Queer, what a spider-web oftenuous complication human relationships are. I never would havethought, probably, of trying anything of the sort if it hadn't been fora childhood recollection. . . . French incarnation this time, " she saidlightly to Marsh. "When I was a little girl, a young priest, just ayoung parish priest, in one of the poor hill-parishes of the Basquecountry, began to teach the people of his parish really to sing some ofthe 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 hasreached out to touch this cornet of America. By the time I was a younglady, he had two or three big country choruses under his direction. Weused 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 completeexpression of beauty in all my life. It seemed to me the very soul ofmusic; those simple people singing, not for pay, not for notoriety, outof the fullness of their hearts. It has been one of the things I neverforgot, a standard, and a standard that most music produced on platformsbefore costly audiences doesn't come up to. "

"I've never been able to make anything out of music, myself, " confessedMr. 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 aman. Silent as a granite rock too, as far as small talk goes. But heturns out to have a bass voice that is my joy. It's done something forhim, too, I think, really and truly, without sentimental exaggeration atall. He suffered a great injustice some six or seven years ago, thatturned him black and bitter, and it's only since he has been singing inour winter choir that he has been willing to mix again with anyone. "

She paused for a moment, and eyed them calculatingly. It occurred to herthat she had been talking about music and herself quite enough. Shewould change the subject to something matter-of-fact. "See here, you'llbe sure to have to hear all that story from Mr. Bayweather in relentlessdetail. It might be your salvation to be able to say that I had toldyou, without mentioning that it was in a severely abridged form. He'dwant to start back in the eighteenth century, and tell you all aboutthat discreditable and unreconstructed Tory ancestor of mine who, whenhe was exiled from Ashley, is said to have carried off part of the towndocuments with him to Canada. Whether he did or not (Mr. Bayweather hasa theory, I believe, that he buried them in a copper kettle on Peg-TopHill), the fact remains that an important part of the records of Ashleyare missing and that has made a lot of trouble with titles to landaround here. Several times, unscrupulous land-grabbers have takenadvantage of the vagueness of the titles to cheat farmers out of theirinheritance. The Powers case is typical. There always have been Powersesliving right there, where they do now; that big pine that towers up soover their house was planted by 'Gene's great-grandfather. And theyalways owned an immense tract of wild mountain land, up beyond the EagleRock range, along the side of the Red-Brook marsh. But after payingtaxes on it for generations all during the time when it was too far awayto make it profitable to lumber, it was snatched away from them, sevenyears ago, just as modern methods and higher prices for spruce wouldhave made it very valuable. A lawyer from New Hampshire named Lowderturned the trick. I won't bother you going into the legal details--aquestion of a fake warranty deed, against 'Gene's quit-claim deed, whichwas 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 ityet, because his claim is pretty flimsy; but flimsy or not, the lawregards it as slightly better than 'Gene's. The result is that 'Genecan't sell it and daren't cut it for fear of being involved in alaw-suit that he couldn't possibly pay for. So the Powers are poorfarmers, scratching a difficult living out of sterile soil, instead ofbeing well-to-do proprietors of a profitable estate of wood-land. Andwhen we see how very hard they all have to work, and how soured andgloomy it has made 'Gene, and how many pleasures the Powers' childrenare denied, we all join in when Mrs. Powers delivers herself of herwhite-hot opinion of New Hampshire lawyers! I remember perfectly thatMr. Lowder, --one of the smooth-shaven, thin-lipped, fish-mouthedvariety, with a pugnacious jaw and an intimidating habit of talking hisNew Hampshire dialect out of the corner of his mouth. The poor Powerswere as helpless as rabbits before him. "

It all came up before her as she talked, that horrid encounter withcommercial ruthlessness: she saw again poor 'Gene's outraged face ofhelpless anger, felt again the heat of sympathetic indignation she andNeale had felt, recognized again the poison which triumphantunrighteousness leaves behind. She shook her head impatiently, to shakeoff the memory, and said aloud, "Oh, it makes me sick to remember it! Wecouldn't believe, any of us, that such bare-faced iniquity couldsucceed. "

"There's a good deal of bare-faced iniquity riding around prosperouslyin high-powered cars, " said Mr. Welles, with a lively accent ofbitterness. "You have to get used to it in business life. It's verylikely that your wicked Mr. Lowder in private life in New Hampshire is agood husband and father, and contributes to all the charitableorganizations. "

"I won't change _my_ conception of him as a pasty-faced demon, " insistedMarise. 

It appeared that Mr. Marsh's appetite for local history was so slight asto be cloyed even by the very much abbreviated account she had giventhem, for he now said, hiding a small yawn, with no effort to concealthe 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-partyby letting us hear it?"

Marise was annoyed by his _grand seigneur_ air of certainty of his ownimportance, and piqued that she had failed to hold his interest. Bothimpressions were of a quicker vivacity than was at all the habit of hermaturity. She told herself, surprised, that she had not felt this littlesharp sting of wounded personal vanity since she was a girl. What didshe care whether she had bored him or not? But it was with all herfaculties awakened and keen that she sat down before the piano andcalled out to them, "What would you like?"

They returned the usual protestations that they would like anything shewould play, and after a moment's hesitation . . . It was always a leap inthe dark to play to people about whose musical capacities you hadn't thefaintest idea . . . She took out the Beethoven Sonata album and turned tothe Sonata Pathétique. Beethoven of the early middle period was thesafest guess with such entirely unknown listeners. For all that shereally 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 hewas capable of saying off-hand, that he was really bored by allmusic--and conveying by his manner that it was entirely the fault of themusic. 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 worthof her old friend . . . Was there ever such a friend as that rough oldGerman who had died so long before she was born? No one could say thehuman race was ignoble or had never deserved to live, who knew hisvoice. In a moment she was herself again. 

Those well-remembered opening chords, they were by this time not merelymusical sounds. They had become something within her, of her own being, rich with a thousand clustered nameless associations, something thatthrilled and sang and lived a full harmonious life of its own. Thatfirst pearling down-dropping arabesque of treble notes, not only herfingers played those, but every fiber in her, answering like thevibrating wood of a violin, its very cells rearranged in the patternwhich the notes had so many times called into existence . . . By the timeshe had finished she had almost forgotten that she had listeners. 

And when, sitting for a moment, coming back slowly from Beethoven'sexistence to her own, she heard no sound or stir from the porch, shehad only a quiet smile of tolerant amusement. Apparently she had notguessed right as to their tastes. Or perhaps she had played them tosleep. 

As for herself, she was hungry for more; she reached out her handtowards that world of high, purified beauty which miraculously wasalways 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 asthe Beethoven movement had done. It was always like that, she thought asshe played, the sound of the first note, the first chord struck when onehad not played for a day or so; it was having one's closed eyes unsealedto the daylight anew, an incredulous rapture. But after that, though youdidn't go on quaking and bowing your head, though you were no longersurprised to find music still there, better than you could possiblyremember it, though you took it for granted, how deeply and solidly andsteadfastly you lived in it and on it! It made you like the child in theWordsworth sonnet, "A beauteous evening, calm and free"; it took you into worship quite simply and naturally at the Temple's inner shrine; andyou adored none the less although you were not "breathless withadoration, " like the nun; because it was a whole world given to you, nota mere pang of joy; because you could live and move and be blessedly andsecurely at home in it. 

She finished the last note of the Largo and sat quiet for a moment. Thenshe knew that someone had come into the room behind her. She turnedabout, facing with serene, wide brows whatever might be there. 

The first meeting with the eyes of the man who stood there moved her. Sohe too deeply and greatly loved music! His face was quite other from thehawk-like, intent, boldly imperious countenance which she had seenbefore. Those piercing eyes were softened and quietly shining. Thearrogant 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, asthough now they understood each other with no more need for words. "Goon . . . Go on!" was all he said, very gently and softly. He sank down inan 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 sympathyin 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 withthe other children, Paul and Mark, and Addle and Ralph Powers. And asusual somehow she was ever so far behind them, so far that there wasn'tany use trying to catch up. Paul was hurrying to go over and see thatnew old man next door, as usual. She might as well not try, and justgive 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 towalk along just as slow as you wanted to, and feel your rubber bootssquizzle into the mud. How _good_ it did seem to have real mud, afterthe 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-wayin the sun, as they tumbled along downhill. And it was nice to smellthat smell . . . What _was_ that sort of smell that made you know thesugaring-off had begun? You couldn't smell the hot boiling sap all theway from the mountain-sides, but what you did smell made you think ofthe little bark-covered sap-houses up in the far woods, with smoke andwhite steam coming out from all their cracks, as though there wassomebody inside magicking charms and making a great cloud to cover it, like Klingsor or the witch-ladies in the Arabian Nights. There was apiece of music Mother played, that was like that. You could almost seethe white clouds begin to come streeling out between the piano-keys, anddrift 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 offher woolen cap. Why, yes, it was plenty warm enough. Oh, how good itfelt! How _good_ it did feel! Like somebody actually touching your hairwith a warm, soft hand. And the air, that cool, cool air, all damp withthe thousand little brooks, it felt just as good to be cool, when youtossed your hair and the wind could get into it. How _good_ it did feelto be bare-headed, after all that long winter! Cool inside your hair atthe roots, and warm outside where the sun pressed on it. Cool wind andwarm sun, two different things that added up to make one lovely feel fora little girl. The way your hair tugged at its roots, all streamingaway; every single little hair tied tight to your head at one end, andyet so wildly loose at the other; tight, strong, firm, and yet light andlimber and flag-flapping . . . It was like being warm and cool at the sametime, 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 appreciationof their faithful, dutiful service, and with affection at the rubberboots. 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 hethought Elly oughtn't to be allowed to look so queer. It made him almostashamed of his sister, he said. But Mother had somehow . . . What _had_she said to fix it? . . . Oh well, something or other that left her herrubber boots and yet Paul wasn't mad any more. 

And what could she _do_ without rubber boots, when she wanted to wadethrough 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 thisone did? Oo . . . Ooh . . . Ooh! how queer it did feel, to be standing mostup to your knees this way, with the current curling by, all cold andsnaky, feeling the fast-going water making your boot-legs shake likeAunt 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, asthough they were magicked? That was a _real_ difference, even more thanthe wind cool inside your hair and the sun warm on the outside; or yourhair tied tight at one end and all wobbly loose at the other. But thiswasn't a nice difference. It didn't add up to make a nice feeling, but asort of queer one, and if she stood there another minute, staring downinto that swirly, snatchy water, she'd fall right over into it . . . Itseemed to be snatching at _her!_ Oh gracious! This wasn't much better!on the squelchy dead grass of the meadow that looked like real groundand yet you sank right into it. Oh, it was _horridly_ soft, liketouching the hand of that new man that had come to live with the oldgentleman next door. She must hurry as fast as she could . . . It felt asthough it was sucking at her feet, trying to pull her down altogetherlike the girl with the red shoes, and she didn't have any loaves ofbread to throw down to step on . . . 

Well, there! this was better, as the ground started uphill. There wasfirm ground under her feet. Yes, not mud, nor soaked, flabbymeadow-land, but solid earth, _solid, solid!_ She stamped on it withdelight. It was just as nice to have solid things _very_ solid, as itwas to have floaty things like clouds _very_ floaty. What was horrid wasto have a thing that _looked_ solid, and yet was all soft, like gelatinepudding when you touched it. 

Well, for goodness' sake, where was she? Where had she come to, withoutthinking a single thing about it? Right on the ridge overlooking AuntHetty's house to be sure, on those rocks that hang over it, so you couldalmost throw a stone down any one of the chimneys. She might just aswell go down and make Aunt Hetty a visit now she was so near, and walkhome by the side-road. Of course Paul would say, nothing could keep himfrom saying, that she had planned to do that very thing, right along, and when she left the school-house headed straight for Aunt Hetty'scookie-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 fromone ledge to another, and presently stopped altogether, facing a beechtree, its trunk slowly twisted into a spiral because it was so hard tokeep alive on those rocks. She was straight in front of it, staring intoits gray white-blotched bark. Now if _Mother_ asked her, of course she'dhave to say, yes, she had planned to, _sort of_ but not quite. Motherwould understand. There wasn't any use trying to tell things how theyreally were to Paul, because to him things weren't eversort-of-but-not-quite. They either were or they weren't. But Motheralways knew, both ways, hers and Paul's. 

She stepped forward and downward now, lightened. Her legs stretched outto carry her from one mossed rock to another. "Striding, " that was whatshe was doing. Now she knew just what "striding" meant. What fun it wasto _feel_ what a word meant! Then when you used it, you could feel itlie down flat in the sentence, and fit into the other words, like apiece 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'sback yard!

Hello! Here at the bottom was some snow, a great big drift of it stillleft, all gray and shrunk and honey-combed with rain and wind, with alittle trickle of water running away softly and quietly from underneathit, like a secret. Well, think of there being still _snow_ left anywhereexcept on top of the mountains! She had just been thinking all theafternoon how _good_ it seemed to have the snow all gone, and here sheran right into some, as if you'd been talking about a person, saying howsick and tired you were of everlastingly seeing him around, and there hewas, 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 thatwinter, sleighing and snow-shoeing and ski-running and sliding downhill. And when she remembered how _glad_ she'd been to see the first snow, howshe and little Mark had run to the window to see the first flakes, andhad hollered, Oh goody, _goody!_ And here was all there was left, justone 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 itcompassionately, and presently, stooping over, gave it a friendly, comforting pat with one mittened hand. 

Then she was pierced with an arrow of hunger, terrible, devouringstarvation! Why was it she was always so _much_ hungrier just as she gotout of school, than ever at meal-times? She did hope this wouldn't beone of those awful days when Aunt Hetty's old Agnes had let thecookie-jar get empty!

She walked on fast, now, across the back yard where the hens, just ashappy as she was to be on solid ground, pottered around dreamily, theireyes half-shut up. . . . Elly could just think how good the sun must feelon their feathers! She could imagine perfectly how it would be to havefeathers 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 inthe room, looming up like a wash-tub. She lifted the old cracked platekept on it for cover. _Oh_, it was _full_, --a fresh baking! And raisinsin them! The water ran into her mouth in a little gush. Oh _my_, howgood and cracklesome they looked! And how beautifully the sugarsprinkled 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 afreshly baked cookie; even through your mitten you could _know_, withyour eyes shut, it was a cookie. She took hold of one, and stoodperfectly still. She could take that, just as easy! Nobody would missit, with the jar so full. Aunt Hetty and Agnes were probablyhouse-cleaning, like everybody else, upstairs. Nobody would ever know. The water of desire was at the very corners of her mouth now. She felther insides surging up and down in longing. _Nobody_ would know!

She opened her hand, put the cookie back, laid the plate on the top ofthe 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 forlornlyand drew her mitten across her nose. She _had_ wanted it so! And she wasjust _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 forherself. 

"Yis, " came back a faint voice, very thin and high, the way old people'svoices sounded when they tried to call loud. "Up in the east-winggarret. "

She mounted the stairs heavily, pulling herself along by those spindlingold red balustrades, just like so many old laths, noticing that herrubber boots left big hunks of mud on the white-painted stairs, but toomiserable to care. 

The door to the east-wing garret was open. Aunt Hetty was there, bossingAgnes, and they were both "dudsing, " as Elly called it to herself, leaning over trunks, disappearing in and out of closets, turning insideout 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. AuntHetty 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 thelittle girl. 

"No, " said Elly, shaking her head. 

"Don't you feel well?" asked Aunt Hetty, laying one wrinkled, shaky oldhand on her shoulder. 

"No, Aunt Hetty, " said Elly, her eyes large and sad. 

"Maybe she's hungry, " suggested Agnes, in a muffled voice from thedepths 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 thehouse or not, " she said, "we've been so busy house-cleaning. Agnes, didyou bake any cookies this morning?"

Elly was struck into stupor at this. Think of not _knowing_ if therewere any cookies in the house!

Agnes appeared, tiny and old and stooped and wrinkled, like hermistress. 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 everyWednesday, " 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 camphorchest. 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. Theywon't hurt you. There's no egg in our recipe. "

Elly was there again, in the empty pantry, before the cookie-jar. Shelifted the cracked plate again. . . . But, oh! how differently she didfeel now! . . . And she had a shock of pure, almost solemn, happiness atthe sight of the cookies. She had not only been good and done as Motherwould 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 ifhe was let to have four! Which ones had the most raisins? She knew ofcourse it wasn't _so very_ nice to pick and choose that way, but sheknew Mother would let her, only just laugh a little and say it was apity 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 thestairs! What a perfectly sweet old thing Aunt Hetty was! And what a niceold house she had, though not so nice as home, of course. What prettymahogany balusters, and nice white stairs! Too bad she had brought inthat mud. But they were house-cleaning anyhow. A little bit more toclean up, that was all. And what _luck_ that they were in the east-roomgarret, the one that had all the old things in it, the hoop-skirts andthe shells and the old scoop-bonnets, and the four-poster bed and thosefascinating old cretonne bags full of treasures. 

She sat down near the door on the darling little old hair-covered trunkthat had been Great-grandfather's, and watched the two old women atwork. The first cookie had disappeared now, and the second was well onthe way. She felt a great appeasement in her insides. She leaned backagainst 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 tellme. Funny thing, a city man coming up here to live. He'll never stick itout. The summer maybe. But that's all. You just see, come autumn, if hedon't light out for New York again. "

Elly made no comment on this. She often heard her elders say that shewas not a talkative child, and that it was hard to get anything out ofher. That was because mostly they wanted to know about things shehadn't once thought of noticing, and weren't a bit interested when shetried to talk about what she _had_ noticed. Just imagine trying to tellAunt Hetty about that poor old gray snow-bank out in her woods, alllonely and scrumpled up! She went on eating her cookie. 

"How does he like it, anyhow?" asked Aunt Hetty, bending the upper partof her out of the window to shake something. "And what kind of a critteris 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 thetime to visit. I like him all right. The old man seems to like it hereall 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'sjust come to get Mr. Welles settled, and to make him a visit. His nameis Mr. Marsh. "

"Well, what's _he_ like?" asked Aunt Hetty, folding together the oldwadded petticoat she had been shaking. 

"Oh, he's all right too, " said Elly. She wasn't going to say anythingabout that funny softness of his hands, she didn't like, because thatwould be like speaking about the snow-drift; something Aunt Hetty wouldjust laugh at, and call one of her notions. 

"Well, what do they _do_ with themselves, two great hulking men set offby themselves?"

Elly tried seriously to remember what they did do. "I don't see them, ofcourse, much in the morning before I go to school. I guess they get upand have their breakfast, the way anybody does. "

Aunt Hetty snorted a little, "Gracious, child, a person needs acorkscrew to get anything out of you. I mean all day, with no chores, orfarmin', or _any_thing. "

"I don't _know_, " Elly confessed. "Mr. Clark, of course, he's busycooking and washing dishes and keeping house, but . . . "

"Are there _three_ of them?" Aunt Hetty stopped her dudsing in herastonishment. "I thought you said two. "

"Oh well, Mr. Marsh sent down to the city and had this Mr. Clark come upto work for them. He doesn't call him 'Mr. Clark'--just 'Clark, ' shortlike that. I guess he's Mr. Marsh's hired man in the city. Only he cando 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 didnot tell Aunt Hetty that she sort of wanted to make up to him for beingsomebody's servant and being called like one. It made her mad and shewanted to show he could be a mister as well as anybody. She began on thethird cookie. What else could she say to Aunt Hetty, who always wantedto know the news so? She brought out, "Well, _I_ tell you, in theafternoon, when I get home, mostly old Mr. Welles is out in his garden. "

"_Gardin_!" cried Aunt Hetty. "Mercy on us, making garden the fore-partof April. Where does he think he's living? Florida?"

"I don't believe he's exactly making garden, " said Elly. "He just sortof pokes around there, and looks at things. And sometimes he sits downon the bench and just _sits_ there. He's pretty old, I guess, and hewalks kind of tired, always. "

"Does the other one?" asked Aunt Hetty. 

This made Elly sit up, and say very loud, "No, _indeedy_!" She reallyhadn't thought before how very _un_tired Mr. Marsh always seemed. Sheadded, "No, the other one doesn't walk tired, nor he doesn't poke aroundin the garden. He takes long tramps way back of the mountains, overBurnham 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 Touclé totell him about the back trails, too. "

"Well, he's a smart one if he can get a word out of Touclé. "

"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 alwaysseemed 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 herfeel. 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 andwishing 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 tothink 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, " saidAunt Hetty casually. "I remember how she used to sit right there onFather's hair-trunk and eat them and watch me just like you now. "

At this statement Elly could feel her thoughts getting bigger and longerand higher, like something being opened out. "And the heaven was removedas a scroll when it is rolled up. " That sentence she'd heard in churchand never understood, and always wondered what was behind, what they hadseen when the scroll was rolled up. . . . Something inside her now seemedto roll up as though she were going to see what was behind it. How muchlonger 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 AuntHetty remembered her sitting there, right there, maybe come in fromwalking across that very meadow, and down those very rocks. _What hadshe been thinking about, that other little girl who had been Mother?_"Why" . . . Elly stopped eating, stopped breathing for a moment. "Why, sheherself would stop being a little girl, and would grow up and be aMother!" 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 someday another little girl would sit there, and be just as surprised toknow that _her_ mother had been really and truly a little girl too, andwould feel queer and shy at the idea, and all the time her mother hadbeen only _Elly_. But would she _be_ Elly any more, when she was grownup? What would have happened to Elly? And after that little girl, another; and one before Mother; and back as far as you could see, andforwards as far as you could see. It was like a procession, all half inthe dark, marching forward, one after another, little girls, mothers, mothers and little girls, and then more . . . What for . . . Oh, _whatfor?_

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 cando here today. Elly, you'd better run along home. The sun'll be downbehind 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 facemade Aunt Hetty say, "Well, you look as though you'd most dropped tosleep there in the sun. It does make a person feel lazy this first warmMarch sun. I declare this morning I didn't want to go to workhouse-cleaning. I wanted to go and spend the day with the hens, singingover that little dozy ca-a-a-a they do, in the sun, and stretch one legand one wing till they most broke off, and ruffle up all my feathersand let 'em settle back very slow, and then just _set_. "

They had started downstairs before Aunt Hetty had finished this, thelittle girl holding tightly to the wrinkled old hand. How peaceful AuntHetty 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 whitestairs, but she never said a word. Elly squeezed her hand a littletighter. 

What was it she had been thinking about on the hair-trunk that made herso 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 thatAunt Hetty had been awfully good to her, and that Mother loved AuntHetty 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 wantyou should be late for supper. " She tipped her head to look around theedge of the top of the door and said, "Well, I declare, just see thatmoon showing itself before ever the sun gets down. "

She walked down the path a little way with Elly, who still held herhand. They stood together looking up at the mountain, very high and blueagainst the sky that was green . . . Yes, it really was a pale, cleargreen, at the top of the mountain-line. People always said the sky wasblue, except at sunset-time, like now, when it was filling the Notchright 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 liveanywhere else. 

"Well, good-bye, " said Aunt Hetty. It did not occur to her to kiss thelittle girl. It did not occur to Elly to want a kiss. They squeezedtheir hands together a little bit more, and then Elly went down theroad, walking very carefully. 

Why did she walk so carefully, she wondered? She felt as though she werecarrying a cup, full up to the brim of something. And she mustn't let itspill. What was it so full of? Aunt Hetty's peacefulness, maybe. 

Or maybe just because it was beginning to get twilight. That always madeyou feel as though something was being poured softly into you, that youmustn't spill. She was glad the side-road was so grass-grown. You couldwalk 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 somuch to walk on. It was just such a comfort to feel him. Father was likethe solid ground and Mother was like the floaty clouds. Why, yes, theywere _every_ way like what she had been thinking about. . . . Father wasthe 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_ youcouldn't lose it, and Mother was the end that streamed out like flags inthe wind. But they weren't either of them like that slinky, swirlywater, licking at you, in such a hurry to get on past you and get whatit 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 upthe way she and Aunt Hetty had, at the sky and the mountains. He wasquite close now. Why . . . Why, he didn't know she was there. He had goneright by her and never even saw her and yet had been so close she couldsee his face plainly. He must have been looking very hard at themountains. But it wasn't hard the way he was looking, it was soft. Howsoft his face had looked, almost quivery, almost. . . . But that was sillyto think of . . . Almost as though he felt like crying. And yet allshining and quiet, too, as if he'd been in church. 

Well, it _was_ a little bit like being in church, when you could see thetwilight come down very slow like this, and settle on the tree-tops andthen down through them towards you. You always felt as though it wasgoing 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 wasplaying the piano. But not for either of the boys. It was grown-up musicshe was playing. Elly hesitated on the flagged stones. Maybe she wasplaying 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 intowards the piano. 

Elly made a wide circuit under the apple-trees, and went in theside-door. Touclé was only just setting the table. Elly would haveplenty of time to get off her rubber boots, look up her old feltslippers, and put them on before supper time. Gracious! Her stockingswere wet. She'd have to change them, too. She'd just stay upstairs tillMr. 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 theliving-room made her blink, after all that outdoor twilight and theindoor 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, busythoughts stopped for the first time that day. She felt as you do whenyou've been rowing a boat a long time and finally, almost where youwant to go, you stop and let her slide in on her own movement, quiet andsoft and smooth, and reach out your hand to take hold of thelanding-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, andup and down the spokes. But now she was at the center where all thespokes 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, andchanged 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 toneed less sleep than in the city. Long hours in bed had been one of thelonged-for elements of the haven of rest which his retiring from theoffice was to be. Especially as he had dragged himself from bed to stopthe relentless snarl of his alarm-clock, had he hoped for late morningsleeps in his new home, when he could wake up at seven, feel himselfstill heavy, unrefreshed, unready for the day, and turn on the pillow totake another dose of oblivion. 

But here, after the first ten days of almost prostrate relaxation, hefound himself waking even before the dawn, and lying awake in his bed, waiting almost impatiently for the light to come so that he could riseto another day. He learned all the sounds of the late night and earlymorning, and how they had different voices in the dark; the faintwhisper of the maple-branches, the occasional stir and muffled chirp ofa bird, the hushed, secret murmur of the little brook which ran betweenhis garden and the Crittenden yard, and the distant, deeper note of theNecronsett River as it rolled down the Ashley valley to The Notch. Hecould almost tell, without opening his eyes, when the sky grew lightover the Eagle Rocks, by the way the night voices lifted, and carriedtheir sweet, muted notes up to a clearer, brighter singing. 

When that change in the night-voices came, he sat up in bed, turninghis face from the window, for he did not want any mere partial glimpsefor his first contact with the day, and got into his clothes, movingcautiously not to waken Vincent, who always sat up till all hours andslept till ten. Down the stairs in his stocking-feet, his shoes in hishand; a pause in the living-room to thread and fasten shoe-laces; andthen, his silly old heart beating fast, his hand on the door-knob. Thedoor slowly opened, and the garden, his own shining garden, offereditself to him anew, so fresh in the dew and the pale gold of theslanting morning sun-rays, that he was apt to swallow hard as he firststepped out into it and stood still, with bare head lifted, drawing onelong breath after another. 

He was seldom alone in those early hours, although the house sleptprofoundly behind him; a robin, the only bird whose name he was sure of, hopped heavily and vigorously about on the sparkling grass; a littlebrown bird of whose name he had not the slightest notion, but whosevoice he knew very well by this time, poured out a continuous cascade ofquick, high, eager notes from the top of the elm; a large toad squattedpeaceably in the sun, the loose skin over its forehead throbbingrhythmically with the life in it; and over on the steps of theCrittendens' kitchen, the old Indian woman, as motionless as the toad, fixed her opaque black eyes on the rising sun, while something abouther, he could never decide what, throbbed rhythmically with the life inher. Mr. Welles had never in all his life been so aware of the risingsun, had never so felt it like something in himself as on those morningswhen he walked in his garden and glanced over at the old Indian. 

Presently, the Crittenden house woke, so to speak, with one eye, andtook on the aspect of a house in which someone is astir. First came thefox-terrier, inevitable precursor of his little master, and then, stepping around Touclé as though she were a tree or a rock, came hislittle partner Paul, his freckled face shining with soap and theearliness of the hour. Mr. Welles was apt to swallow hard again, whenhe 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 whatPaul invariably said first. "I can't seem to wake up as early as you andTouclé. "

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 CousinHetty'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 toanswer Paul in his own prudent idiom. Then they set off, surrounded andencompassed by the circles of mad delight which Médor wove about them, rushing at them once in a while, in a spasm of adoration, to leap up andlick Paul's face. 

Thus on one of these mornings in April, they were on the back-road toCousin Hetty's, the right-hand side solemn and dark with tall pines, where the ground sloped up towards the Eagle Rocks; jungle-like withblackberry brambles and young pines on the left side where it had beenlumbered some years ago. Paul pointed out proudly the thrifty growth ofthe new pines and explained it by showing the several large trees leftstanding at intervals down the slope towards the Ashley valley. "Fatheralways has them do that, so the seeds from the old trees will seed upthe bare ground again. Gosh! You'd ought to hear him light into thechoppers when they forget to leave the seed-pines or when they cut undersix inches butt diameter. "

Mr. Welles had no more notion what cutting under six inches buttdiameter meant than he had of the name of the little brown bird who sangso sweetly in his elm; but Paul's voice and that of the nameless birdgave him the same pleasure. He tightened his hold of the tough, sinewylittle fingers, and looked up through the glorious brown columns of thegreat pines towards where the sky-line showed, luminous, far up theslope. 

"That's the top of the Eagle Rocks, where you see the sky, " explainedhis small cicerone, seeing the direction of his eyes. "The Powerses losta lot of sheep off over them, last year. A dog must ha' started runningthem down in the pasture. And you know what fools sheep are. Once theyget scared they can't think of anything to do except just to keepa-running till something gets in their way. About half of the Powersflock just ran themselves off the top of the Rocks, although the dog hadstopped chasing them, way down in the valley. There wasn't enough ofthem left, even to sell to the butcher in Ashley for mutton. RalphPowers, he's about as old as I am, maybe a little bit older, well, hisfather had given him a ewe and two twin lambs for his own, and didn'tthey all three get killed that day! Ralph felt awful bad about it. Hedon't ever seem to have any luck, Ralph don't. "

. . . How sweet it was, Mr. Welles thought to himself, how awfully sweetto be walking in such pine-woods, on the early morning, preceded by sucha wildly happy little dog, with a little boy whose treble voice ran onand on, whose strong little hand clasped yours so tightly, and whoturned up to you eyes of such clear trust! Was he the same man who forsuch endless years had been a part of the flotsam cast out every morninginto the muddy, brawling flood of the city street and swept along towork which had always made him uneasy and suspicious of it?

"There's the whistle, " said Paul, holding up a finger. "Father has thefirst one blown at half-past six, so's the men can have time to gettheir things ready and start; and not have to hurry. "

At this a faint stirring of interest in what the child was saying brokethrough the golden haze of the day-dream in which Mr. Welles waswalking. "Where do they come from anyhow, the men who work in yourfather's mill?" he asked. "Where do they live? There are so few homes atCrittenden's. "

"Oh, they live mostly over the hill in the village, in Ashley. There arelots of old houses there, and once in a while now they even have tobuild a new one, since the old ones are all filled up. Mr. Bayweathersays that before Father and Mother came here to live and really run themill, that Ashley Street was all full of empty houses, without a lightin them, that the old folks had died out of. But now the men have boughtthem up and live in them. It's just as bright, nights! With windowslighted up all over. Father's had the electric current run over therefrom the mill, now, and that doesn't cost anything except . . . "

Mr. Welles' curiosity satisfied, he fell back into his old shimmer ofcontent and walked along, hearing Paul's voice only as one of themorning 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 themen's short-cut. "

This proved to be a hard-trodden path, lying like a loosely thrown-downstring, over the hill pasture-land which cut Ashley village off fromCrittenden's mill. It was to get around this rough tract that the roadhad to make so long a detour. 

"Oh, I see, " said Mr. Welles. "I'd been thinking that it must botherthem 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 iteasy in twelve or fifteen minutes. There they come now, the first ofthem. " He nodded backward along the path where a distant dark line ofmen came treading swiftly and steadily forward, tin pails glistening intheir hands. 

"Some of those in that first bunch are really choppers by rights, " Pauldiagnosed them with a practised eye, "but of course nobody does muchchopping come warmer weather. But Father never lays off any men unlessthey want to be. He fixes some jobs for them in the lumber-yard or inthe mill, so they live here all the year around, same's the regularhands. "

The two stood still now, watching the men as their long, powerfulstrides brought them rapidly nearer. Back of them the sun rose upsplendid in the sparkling, dustless mountain air. The pasture grass oneither side of the sinuous path lay shining in the dew. Before them thepath led through a grove of slim, white birches, tremulous in a palecloud 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 quitesmooth. "

A detachment of the file of tall, strongly built, roughly dressed menhad now reached them, and with friendly, careless nods and greetings toPaul, they swung by, smoking, whistling, calling out random remarks andjokes 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, usefulto the world, strong for labor. He must needs stand back with the child. 

With entire unexpectedness, he felt a wistful envy of those men, stillvalid, still fit for something. For a moment it did not seem as sweet ashe had thought it would always be, to feel himself old, old anduseless. 

II

April 12. 

He was impatient to be at the real work of gardening and one morningapplied seriously to Mrs. Crittenden to be set at work. Surely this mustbe late enough, even in this "suburb of the North Pole, " as Vincentcalled Vermont. Well, yes, Mrs. Crittenden conceded to him, stopping herrapid manipulation of an oiled mop on the floor of her living-room, ifhe was in such a hurry, he could start getting the ground ready for thesweet peas. It wouldn't do any harm to plant them now, though it mightnot do any good either; and he mustn't be surprised to find occasionalchunks of earth still frozen. She would be over in a little while toshow 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 atMrs. Crittenden's direction days and days ago) leaning against the wall. The sun was strong and sweet on his bared white head, the cool earthalive under his feet, freed from the tension of frost which had held itlike stone when he had first trod his garden. He leaned against thestone wall, laid a century ago by who knew what other gardener, andlooked down respectfully at the strip of ground along the stones. Thereit lay, blank and brown, shabby with the litter of broken, sodden stemsof 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 thejoyful tangle of fresh green vines, the pearly many-colored flesh of thepetals, their cunning, involved symmetry of form--all sprung from ahandful of wrinkled yellow seeds and that ugly mixture of powdered stoneand rotten decay. 

It was a wonderful business, he thought. 

Mrs. Crittenden emerged from her house now, in a short skirt, roughheavy shoes, and old flannel shirt. She looked, he thought, ever so trigand energetic and nice; but suddenly aware that Vincent was gazing idlyout of an upper window at them, he guessed that the other man would notadmire the costume. Vincent was so terribly particular about how ladiesdressed, 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, " hetold her, laughing shamefacedly. "I don't suppose you'll believe me, buthonestly I never had a pick-mattock in my hand till I went down to thestore to buy one. I might as well go the whole hog and confess I'd nevereven heard of one till you told me to get it. Is this the way you useit?" He jabbed ineffectually at the earth with the mattock, using ashort tight blow with a half-arm movement. The tool jarred itself halfan 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 shewere aware of the idle figure at the upper window, she gave no sign ofit. 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 theground isn't very hard, you don't need to use any strength at all on thedownward stroke. Let Old Mother Gravity do the work. If you aim itright, its own weight is enough for ordinary garden soil, that's not insod. 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 Irelax and just let it fall, " and bending with the downward rush of theblade, drove it deep into the brown earth. A forward thrust of the longhandle ("See, you use it like a lever, " she explained), a smallearthquake 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 springbreeze, an odor unknown to the old man and thrilling. 

He stooped down, thrust his hand into the open breast of earth, and tookup a handful of the soil which had lain locked in frost for half a yearand was now free for life again. Over it his eyes met those of thebeautiful woman beside him. 

She nodded. "Yes, there's nothing like it, the smell of the first earthstirred 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 emergefrom 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 mehave the mattock, " he said, taking it out of Mrs. Crittenden's hands, "Iwant to try it myself. "

He felt an anticipatory impatience of Vincent's everlasting talk, towhich Mrs. Crittenden always had, of course, to give a polite attention;and imitating as well as he could, the free, upward swing of hisneighbor, he began working off his impatience on the unresisting earth. But he could not help hearing that, just as he expected, Vincent plungedat once into his queer, abrupt talk. He always seemed to think he wasgoing right on with something that had been said before, but really, forthe most part, as far as Mr. Welles could see, what he said had nothingto 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 ananswer ready. 

Vincent, shaking his head, and looking hard at Mrs. Crittenden's roughclothes and the handful of earth in her fingers, said with an air ofenforced patience with obvious unreasonableness, "You're on the wrongtrack, you know. You're just all off. Of course with you it can't bepose as it looks when other people do it. It must be simplymuddle-headed thinking. "

He added, very seriously, "You infuriate me. "

Mr. Welles, pecking feebly at the ground, the heavy mattock apparentlyinvested with a malicious life of its own, twisting perversely, heavilylop-sided in his hands, thought that this did not sound like a politething to say to a lady. And yet the way Vincent said it made it soundlike a compliment, somehow. No, not that; but as though it were awfullyimportant to him what Mrs. Crittenden did. Perhaps that counted as acompliment. 

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 couldbe so serious as he sounded. The only part he really heard was when sheended, ". . . Oh, if we are ever going to succeed in forcing order on thenatural disorder of the world, it's going to take everybody's shoulderto 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 tomanage that swing which Mrs. Crittenden did so easily, took less thanhis usual small interest in the line of talk which Vincent was so fondof springing on their neighbor. He heard him say, with his air of alwaysstating a foregone conclusion, something so admitted that it needed noemphasis, "It's Haroldbellwrightism, pure and simple, to imagine thatanything you can ever do, that anybody can ever do, will help bringabout the kind of order _you're_ talking about, order for everybody. Theonly kind of order there ever will be, is what you get when you grab alittle of what you want out of the chaos, for your own self, whilethere's still time, and hold on to it. That's the only way to getanywhere for yourself. And as for doing something for other people, theonly satisfaction you can give anybody is in beauty. "

Mr. Welles swam out of the breakers into clear water. Suddenly he caughtthe knack of the upward swing, and had the immense satisfaction ofbringing 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 foran 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 hisdotage. 

Mr. Welles never cared very much whether he seemed to Vincent like anold imbecile or not, and certainly less than nothing about it today, intoxicated as he was with the air, the sun, and his new mastery overthe soil. He set his hands lovingly to the tool and again and againswung it high over his head, while Vincent and Mrs. Crittenden strolledaway, 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 wellwhat she was about, that Marise startled herself almost as much as hercallers by turning over that leaf in the photograph album quickly andsaying with abruptness, "No, never mind about that one. It's nothinginteresting. "

Of course this brought out from Paul and little Mark, hanging over hershoulder and knee, the to-be-expected shouts of, "Oh, let's see it! Whatis it?"

Marise perceived that they scented something fine and exciting such asMother was always trying to keep from them, like one man choking anotherover the edge of a cliff, or a woman lying on her back with the bloodall running from her throat. Whenever pictures like that were in any ofthe magazines that came into the house, Marise took them away from thelittle boys, although she knew helplessly that this naturally made themextremely 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 soexciting in this old album of dull snapshots and geographicalpicture-postcards of places and churches and ruins and things thatFather and Mother had seen, so long ago. But you never could tell. Theway Mother had spoken, the sound of her voice, the way she had flappeddown the page quick, the little boys' practised ears and eyes hadidentified all that to a certainty with the actions that accompaniedpictures 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 wasextremely annoyed. She was glad that Elly was the only one who waslooking at her, because, of course, dear old Mr. Welles' unobservanteyes didn't count. She was glad that Mr. Marsh kept his gaze downward onthe photograph marked "Rome from the Pincian Gardens, " although throughthe top of his dark, close-cropped head she could fairly feel theracing, inquiring speculations whirling about. Nor had she any right toresent that. She supposed people had a right to what went on in theirown heads, so long as they kept it to themselves. And it had beenunexpectedly delicate and fine, the way he had come to understand, without a syllable spoken on either side, that that piercing look of hismade her uneasy; and how he had promised her, wordlessly always, to bendit on her no more. 

_Why_ in the world had it made her uneasy, and why, a thousand timeswhy, had she felt this sudden unwillingness to look at the perfectlycommonplace photograph, in this company? Something had burst up from thesubconscious and flashed its way into action, moving her tongue to speakand 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 herin!

The little boys had succeeded with the inspired tactlessness of childrenin emphasizing and exaggerating what she had wished could be passed overunnoticed, 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, turnthe leaf back, and _let_ them see it. And then refute them by insistingon 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 titleas he had been doing for the other photographs, "'View of the Campagnafrom the top of the cable-railway at Rocca di Papa. Rome in thedistance. '"

She had to sustain, for an instant, an astonished and disconcerted lookfrom all those eyes. It made her quite genuinely break into a laugh. Itwas 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 aplain and not even a single person or donkey in it, and gaveup the riddle. Mother certainly _had_ spoken to them in thathide-it-away-from-the-children voice, and yet there was nothing there. 

Marise knew that they felt somehow that Mother had unfairly slipped outbetween their fingers, as grown-ups are always doing. Well, it wasn'tfair. She hated taking advantage of them like that. It was a sort of sinagainst their awakening capacity to put two and two together and make ahuman total, and understand what went on about them. 

But it hadn't been against _their_ capacity to put two and two togetherthat she had instinctively thrown up that warding-off arm, which hadn'tat all warded off attention, but rather drawn it hard and scrutinizing, in spite of those down-dropped sharp eyes. Well, there was no sum hecould do with only two, and slight probability he would ever get theother two to put with it . . . Whatever the other two might be. 

Mr. Welles' pleasant old voice said, "It's a very pretty picture, I'msure. They certainly have very fine views about the Eternal City. I envyyou your acquaintance with all those historic spots. What is the nextone?"

Dear old Mr. Welles! What a restful presence! How unutterably sweet anduncomplicated life could be with a good big dose of simplicity holdingeverything in a clear solution, so that it never occurred to you thatwhat things seemed was very different from what they were. 

"Ready to turn over, dears?" she asked the little boys. This time shewas in her usual control of the machine, regulated what she did fromthe first motion to the last, made her voice casual but not elaboratelyso, and put one arm around Mark's slim little shoulder with just theright degree of uninterest in those old and faded photographs. 

Very deep down, at the edge of consciousness, something asked her, "Whydid you try to hide that photograph?"

She could not answer this question. She didn't know why, any more thanthe little boys did. And it wouldn't do now, with the need to bemistress-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 brushingher hair . . . Oh, probably she'd find as you so often did, when you wentafter the cause of some unexpected little feeling, that it came from ameaningless fortuitous association of ideas, like Elly's hatred ofgrape-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 onoccasion. He said nothing. 

Elly stirred and looked toward the doorway. Touclé stood there, hershoe-button eyes not blinking in the lamp-light although she probablyhad been sitting on the steps of the kitchen, looking out into thedarkness, in the long, motionless vigil which made up Touclé's evenings. As they all turned their faces towards her, she said, "The cereus isgoing to bloom tonight, " and disappeared. 

Marise welcomed this diversion. Ever since that absurd little gestureabout the photograph, she had felt thickening about her . . . What? Whatyou call "depression" (whatever that meant), the dull hooded apparitionthat came blackly and laid its leaden hand on your heart. This news wasjust the thing. It would change what was threatening to stand stagnantand charge it with fresh running currents. She got up briskly to herfeet. 

"Come on, children, " she said. "I'll let you sit up beyond bed-timetonight. Scatter quick, and put on your things. We'll all go down theroad to the Powers house and see the cereus in bloom. "

The children ducked quickly out of the room, thudding along softly intheir felt slippers. Scramblings, chatterings, and stamping sounded backfrom the front hall, as they put on their boots and wraps. 

"Wouldn't you like to come, too?" she asked the men, rescuing them fromthe rather high-and-dry position in which this unexpected incident hadleft them. It was plainly, from their faces, as inexplicable asunexpected. She explained, drawing a long, plain, black silk scarfclosely about her head and shoulders, "Why, yes, do come. It's anoccasion as uniquely Ashleyian as pelota is Basque. You, Mr. Marsh, withyour exhaustive inquiries into the habits and manners of Vermontmountaineers, your data won't be complete unless you've seen NellyPowers' night-blooming cereus in its one hour of glory. Seriously, Iassure you, you won't encounter anything like it, anywhere else. "

As Marsh looked at her, she noted with an inward amusement that herwords had lighted a smouldering glow of carefully repressed exasperationin his eyes. It made her feel quite gay and young to be teasing somebodyagain. She was only paying him back in his own coin. He himself wasalways telling everybody about his deep interest in the curious quaintways of these mountaineers. And if he didn't have a deep interest intheir curious quaint ways, what else could he give as a reason forstaying on in the valley?

The men turned away to get their hats. She settled the folds of herheavy black silk mantilla more closely about her head, glancing atherself in the mirror. She smiled back with sympathy at the smiling faceshe saw there. It was not so often since the war that she saw her ownface 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, whata hateful, little-villagey, prudish, nasty-minded idea!" she cried toherself. "Who would have thought that narrowness and priggishness couldrub off on a person's mind like that! Mrs. Bayweather could have thoughtthat! Mercy! As if one civilized being can't indulge in a light touch ortwo in human intercourse with another!"

The two men were ready now and all the party of six jostled each othercheerfully as they went out of the front door. Paul had secured the handof old Mr. Welles and led him along with an air of proprietaryaffection. 

"Don't you turn out the lamp, or lock the door, or _any_thing?" askedthe old man, now. 

"Oh no, we won't be gone long. It's not more than half a mile to thePowers'. There's not a soul in the valley who would think of going inand 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 blacknight, and the light shining in that empty room. "

Elly looked back too. She slipped her hand out of her mother's and rantowards the house. She darted up to the door and stood there, poisedlike a swallow, looking in. 

"What does she want?" asked Mr. Welles with the naïve conviction of theelderly bachelor that the mother must know everything in the child'smind. 

"I don't know, " admitted Marise. "Nobody ever knows exactly what is inElly's mind when she does things. Maybe she is looking to see that herkitten 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 werehaving a good rest from us. "

"Oh, listen to the frogs!" screamed Mark, out of the darkness where hehad run to join Touclé. 

Elly and Paul sprang forward to join their little brother. 

 * * * * *

"What in the world are we going to see?" asked Marsh. "You forget youhaven't given us the least idea. "

"You are going to see, " Marise set herself to amuse them, "you're goingto see a rite of the worship of beauty which Ashley, Vermont, hascreated out of its own inner consciousness. "

She had succeeded in amusing at least one of them, for at this Mr. Marshgave her the not disagreeable shock of that singular, loud laugh of his. It was in conversation like something-or-other in the orchestra . . . Thecymbals, that must be it . . . Made you jump, and tingle with answeringvibrations. 

"Ashleyians in the rôle of worshipers of beauty!" he cried, out of thesoft, moist, dense darkness about them. 

"None so blind as those who won't see, " she persisted. "Just becausethey go to it in overalls and gingham aprons, instead of peplums andsandals. "

"What _is_ a night-blooming cereal?" asked Mr. Welles, patient of theverbose by-play of his companions that never got anybody anywhere. 

What an old dear Mr. Welles was! thought Marise. It was like having thesweetest old uncle bestowed on you as a pendant to dear Cousin Hetty. 

". . . -eus, not -eal, " murmured Marsh; "not that I know any more than youwhat it is. "

Marise felt suddenly wrought upon by the mildness of the spring air, the high, tuneful shrillness of the frogs' voices, the darkness, sweetand thick. She would not amuse them; no, she would really tell them, move them. She chose the deeper intonations of her voice, she selectedher words with care, she played upon her own feeling, quickening it intogenuine 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'speculiar sense of beauty which you won't acknowledge. It is as ugly tolook at, the plant is, all spines and thick, graceless, fleshy pads; asugly as Ashley life looks to you. And this crabbed, ungainlyplant-creature is faithfully, religiously tended all the year around bythe wife of a farmer, because once a year, just once, it puts forth awonderful exotic flower of extreme beauty. When the bud begins to showits color she sends out word to all her neighbors to be ready. And weare all ready. For days, in the back of our minds as we go about ourdull, routine life, there is the thought that the cereus is near tobloom. Nelly and her grim husband hang over it day by day, watching itslowly prepare for its hour of glory. Sometimes when they cannot decidejust the time it will open, they sit up all through a long night, hourafter hour of darkness and silence, to make sure that it does not bloomunseen. When they see that it is about to open, they fling open theirdoors, wishing above everything else to share that beauty with theirfellows. Their children are sent to announce, as you heard Touclé saytonight, 'The cereus is going to bloom. ' And all up and down this end ofthe valley, in those ugly little wooden houses that look so mean anddreary to you, everywhere people tired from their day's struggle withthe earth, rise up and go their pilgrimage through the night . . . Forwhat? To see something rare and beautiful. "

She stopped speaking. On one side of her she heard the voice of theolder man say with a quiver, "Well, I can understand why your neighborslove 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 herarm. 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 windowalight, the great pine somber and high before it. The children andTouclé were waiting at the door. They all went in together, shakinghands 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 shiningblonde head, the presence of the two strangers whom Marise presented toher. What an inscrutable fascination Nelly's silence gave to her! Younever knew what strange thoughts were going on behind that proudtaciturnity. She showed the guests to chairs, of which a great many, mostly already filled, stood about the center table, on which sprawledthe great, spiny, unlovely plant. Marise sat down, taking little Mark onher knees. Elly leaned against her. Paul sat close beside old Mr. Welles. Their eyes were on the big pink bud enthroned in theuncomeliness 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 motherlooked at her, tenderly aware that the child was storing away animpression to last her life long. Dear, strangely compounded littleElly, with her mysticism, and her greediness and her love of beauty alljumbled together! A neighbor leaned from her chair to say to Mrs. Crittenden, "Warm for this time of year, ain't it?" And anotherremarked, looking at Mark's little trousers, "That material come outreal good, didn't it? I made up what I got of it, into a dress forPearl. " They both spoke in low tones, but constrained or sepulchral, forthey smiled and nodded as though they had meant something else anddeeper than what they had said. They looked with a kindly expression formoment at the Crittenden children and then turned back to their gaze onthe 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 ababy, fast asleep, its round bonneted head tucked in the hollow of itsmother's gingham-clad shoulder. They sat down, nodding silent greetingsto the other neighbors. In turning to salute them, Marise caught aglimpse of Mr. Marsh, fixing his brilliant scrutiny first on one andthen on another of the company. At that moment he was gazing at NellyPowers, "taking her in" thought Marise, from her beautiful hair to thosepreposterously high-heeled shoes she always would wear on her shapelyfeet. His face was impassive. When he looked neutral like that, thecurious irregularity of his features came out strongly. He looked likethat 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 lookingneither at the people nor the plant. His arm was around his favoritePaul, but his gaze seemed turned inward, as though he were thinking ofsomething very far away. He looked tired and old, it seemed to her, andwithout that quietly shining aspect of peace which she found sotouching. Perhaps he was tired. Perhaps she ought not to have broughthim out, this evening, for that long walk over rough country roads. Howmuch 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 fromElly. Marise saw everyone's eyes turn to the center of the room andlooked back to the plant. The big pink bud was beginning visibly toswell. 

A silence came into the room. No one coughed, or stirred, or scraped achair-leg. It was as though a sound would have wounded the flower. Allthose human souls bowed themselves. Almost a light shone upon them . . . Aphrase from Dante came to Marise's mind . . . "_la mia menta fu percossada un fulgore_ . . . "

With a quick involuntary turn she looked at Marsh, fearing his mockeryof her, "quoting the _Paradiso_, about Vermont farmers!" as though hecould know, for all those sharp eyes of his, what was going on hidden inher 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 thetip. From that moment on, she saw nothing, felt nothing but the openingflower, lived only in the incredibly leisurely, masterful motion withwhich the grotesquely shaped protecting petals curled themselves backfrom the center. Their motion was so slow that the mind was lost indreaminess 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 greatmarveling aspiration, and heard everyone about her do the same. Theyturned to each other with inarticulate exclamations, shaking their headswonderingly, their lips a little apart as they drew long breaths. 

Two very old women, rubbing their age-dimmed eyes, stood up, tiptoed tothe table, and bent above the miraculously fine texture of the flowertheir worn and wrinkled faces. The petals cast a clear, rosy reflectionupon their sallow cheeks. Some of the younger mothers took their littlechildren over to the table and lifting them up till their round shiningeyes were on a level with the flower, let them gaze their fill at themysterious splendor of stamen and pistil. 

"Would you like to go quite close and look at it, children?" Mariseasked 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 Touclé's knee. The old woman put her dark hand down gently on the child's soft hair andsmiled at her. How curious it was to see that grim, battered old visagesmile! Elly was the only creature in the world at whom the old Indianever smiled, indeed almost the only thing in the house which thoseabsent old eyes ever seemed to see. Marise remembered that Touclé hadsmiled when she first took the baby Elly in her arms. 

 * * * * *

A little murmur of talk arose now, from the assembled neighbors. Theystood up, moved about, exchanged a few laconic greetings, and beganputting their wraps on. Marise remembered that Mr. Welles had seemedtired and as soon as possible set her party in motion. 

"Thank you so much, Nelly, for letting us know, " she said to thefarmer's wife, as they came away. "It wouldn't seem like a year in ourvalley if we didn't see your cereus in bloom. "

She took Elly's hand in one of hers, and with Mark on the other sidewalked 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 littleboy's voice came back, "Yes, with Touclé, we're ahead. " The two menwalked behind. 

Elly's hand was hot and clasped her mother's very tightly. Marise bentover 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 herclose in a wild embrace. Little Mark, on the other side, yawned andstaggered sleepily on his feet. Elly gave her mother a last kiss, andran 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 gazingadmiringly up at the huge pine-tree, divining its bulk and mass againstthe 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 reallythere? A handful of dull, insensitive, primitive beings, hardened andcalloused by manual toil and atrophied imaginations, so starved for anyvariety in their stupefyingly monotonous life that they welcomeanything, anything at all as a break . . . Only if they could choose, theywould infinitely prefer a two-headed calf or a bearded woman to yourflower. The only reason they go to see that is because it is acuriosity, not because of its beauty, because it blooms once a yearonly, at night, and because there is only one of them in town. Alsobecause everybody else goes to see it. They go to look at it onlybecause there aren't any movies in Ashley, nor anything else. And youknow all this just as well as I do. "

"Oh, Mr. Welles, " Marise appealed to him, "do you think that is thetruth 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 truthabout it. The truth's pretty big for any one person to tell. Isn't itall 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'vebeen called 'nice. ' That ought to please any good American. "

"I wonder, Mr. Welles, " Marise said in an ostentatiously casual tone, "Iwonder if Mr. Marsh had been an ancient Greek, and had stood watchingthe procession going up the Acropolis hill, bearing the thank-offeringsfrom field and loom and vineyard, what do you suppose he would haveseen? Dullness and insensitiveness in the eyes of those Grecianfarmer-lads, no doubt, occupied entirely with keeping the oxen in line;a low vulgar stare of bucolic curiosity as the country girls, bearingtheir woven linen, looked up at the temple. Don't you suppose he wouldhave thought they managed those things a great deal more artistically inPersia?"

"Well, I don't know much about the ancient Greeks, " said Mr. Wellesmildly, "but I guess Vincent would have been about the same wherever helived. "

"Who is satisfied with the verdict now?" triumphed Marise. 

But she noticed that Marsh's attack, although she considered that shehad refuted it rather neatly, had been entirely; efficacious indestroying the aura of the evening. Of the genuine warmth of feelingwhich the flower and the people around it had roused in her heart, notthe faintest trace was left. She had only a cool interested certaintythat her side had a perfectly valid foundation for arguing purposes. Mr. Marsh had accomplished that, and more than that, a return from thoseother 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 elsethere than your eccentric plant and the vacancy of mind of those sons oftoil, cursed, soul-destroying toil. For one thing, I saw a woman ofvery 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 howsplendidly handsome Nelly Powers is. Their taste doesn't run to thestatuesque, you know. They call that grand silent calm of her, stupidness! Ever since 'Gene brought her here as a bride, a year afterwe came to live in Crittenden's, I have gone out of my way to look ather. You should see her hanging out the clothes on a windy day. Onesculptured massive pose after another. But even to see her walk acrossthe room and bend that shining head is thrilling. "

"I saw something else, too, " went on Marsh, a cool voice speaking out ofthe darkness. "I saw that her black, dour husband is furiously in lovewith her and furiously jealous of that tall, ruddy fellow with anexpressive face, who stood by the door in shirt-sleeves and never tookhis eyes from her. "

Marise was silent, startled by this shouting out of something she hadpreferred not to formulate. 

"Vincent, you see too much, " said Mr. Welles resignedly. The phrase ranfrom his tongue as though it were a familiar one. 

Marise said slowly, "I've sometimes thought that Frank Warner did go tothe 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?" askedMarsh 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 lovea fine, ardent, _living_ man, better than that knotty, dead branch of ahusband? A beautiful woman and a living, strong, vital man, they belongtogether. Whom God hath joined . . . Don't try to tell me that yourjudgment is maimed by the Chinese shoes of outworn ideas, such as thebinding nature of a mediaeval ceremony. That doesn't marry anybody, andyou know it. If she's really married to her husband, all right. But ifshe loves another man, and knows in her heart that she would live athousand 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 againsthim. "Upon my word, who's idealizing the Yankee mountaineer now?" shecried, laughing out as she spoke at the idea of her literal-mindedneighbors dressed up in those trailing rhetorical robes. "I thought yousaid they were so dull and insensitive they could feel nothing but aninterest in two-headed calves, and here they are, characters in anItalian opera. I only wish Nelly Powers were capable of understandingthose grand languages of yours and then know what she thought of youridea of what's in her mind. And as for 'Gene's jealousy, I'll swear thatit amounts to no more than a vague dislike for Frank Warner's 'all thetime hanging around and gassin' instead of stickin' to work. ' And youforget, in your fine modern clean-sweep, a few old-fashioned facts likethe 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 antimacassarhome-and-mother stuff on me. Ask Bernard Shaw, ask Freud, ask Mrs. Gilman, how good it is for children's stronger, better selves, to livein the enervating, hot-house concentration on them of an unbalanced, undeveloped woman, who has let everything else in her personalityatrophy except her morbid preoccupation with her own offspring. That'sreally the meaning of what's sentimentally called 'mothering. ' Probablyit would be the best thing in the world for the Powers children iftheir mother ran away with that fine broth of a lad. "

"But Nelly loves her children and they love her!" Marise brought thisout abruptly, impulsively, and felt, as she heard the words, that theyhad a flat, naïve 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 knowsthat the only sincere relation possible between the young and the old(after the babies are weaned) is hostility. We hated our elders, becausethey got in our way. And they'll hate us as soon as they get thestrength to, because we'll be in their way. And we will hate thembecause they will want to push us off the scene. It's impossible toignore the gulf. Most human tragedies come from trying to pretend it'snot 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'sthe fashion. I'm so old that I've seen a good many fashions in talk comeand go. I never could see that people _acted_ any differently, no matterwhich way they talk. " As he finished, he drew a long sigh, which hadobviously no connection with what he had been saying. With the sigh, came an emanation from him of dispirited fatigue. Marise wished shedared draw his hand upon her arm and ask him to lean on her as theywalked. 

Nothing more was said for a time. Marise lost herself in the outdoorwideness of impression that always came to her under a night sky, whereshe felt infinity hovering near. She was aware of nothing but the faintvoice of the pines, the distant diminuendo of the frog's song, the firmelastic quality of the ground under her feet, so different from the ironrigidity of the winter earth, and the cool soft pressure of thenight-air on her cheeks, when, like something thrust into her mind fromthe outside, there rose into her consciousness, articulate and complete, the reason why she had shrunk from looking at the photograph of Rocca diPapa. It was because it was painful to her, intimately painful andhumiliating to remember how she and Neale had felt there, the wild, highthings they had said to each other, that astounding flood of feelingwhich 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 likeNeale, yes, all that; but oh! the living flood had been ebbing, ebbingout of their hearts. They were not _alive_ as they had been alive whenthey had clung to each other, there on that age-old rock, and felt thetide 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 rôle of mother and mistress-of-the-house inservantless America, with the primitive American need to do so much withher own hands, she had not even had the time to know the stupid, tragicthing that was happening to her . . . That she was turning into a slow, vegetating plant instead of a human being. And now she understood themeaning of the strange dejection she had felt the day when little Markwent off to school with the others. How curiously jaded and apprehensiveshe had felt that morning, and when she had gone downstairs to see thecallers 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 asword-flash. And the first reaction to it, involuntary and reflex, wasto crush it instantly down, lest the man walking at her side should beaware of it. It had come to her with such loud precision that it seemedit must have been audible. 

As she found herself still on the dark country road, cloaked andprotected by the blackness of the starless night, she was struck withwonder, as though she had never thought of it before, at the human body, its opaque, inscrutable mystery, the locked, sealed strong-box ofunimaginable secrets which it is. There they were, the three of them, stepping side by side, brushing each other as they moved; and as remotefrom each other as though they were on different stars. What were thethoughts, powerful, complex, under perfect control, which were beingmarshaled 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 (shetold 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 Toucléhad preceded them. Paul was laughing and saying, "Elly's the looniestkid! 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'slength, continued, "She said Father was like the end of her hair that'sfastened 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 wayit is in the spring. "

Elly, half crying, came to her mother. "Mother, it's nasty-horrid inPaul to tell when I didn't want him to. "

Marise began taking off the little girl's coat. "It wasn't very kind inPaul, 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 totell her, "to be compared with such a remarkably nice thing as a brookin spring-time. I didn't suppose any young lady would ever have such apoetic 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 theback, he can manage the rest. I must set a bread-sponge before I goupstairs. "

They clung to her imploringly. "But you'll be upstairs in time to kissus good-night in our beds, " begged Elly and Mark together. Paul alsovisibly hung on his mother's answer. 

Marise looked down into their clear eyes and eager faces, reaching outto 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, kissingthem indiscriminately. "Yes, of course, I will . . . And give you an extrakiss 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 barefeet!"

She thought to herself that she supposed this was the sort of thingMarsh meant when he spoke about hot-house enervating concentration. Shehad been more stung by that remark of his than she had been willing toacknowledge to Marsh or to herself. 

But for the moment, any further reflection on it was cut short by theaspect of Mr. Welles' face. He had sunk into a chair near the lamp, withan attitude and an expression of such weariness, that Marise movedquickly to him. "See here, Mr. Welles, " she said impulsively, "you havesomething on your mind, and I've got the mother-habit so fastened on methat I can't be discreet and pretend not to notice it. I want to makeyou say what the trouble is, and then flu it right, just as I would forone of mine. "

The old man looked up at her gratefully and reaching out one of hiswrinkled hands took hers in it. "It does me good to have you so nice tome, " he said, "but I'm afraid even you can't fix it right. I've had arather distressing letter today, and I can't seem to get it out of mymind. "

"Schwatzkummerer can't send the gladioli, " conjectured Marsh. 

For the first time since he had entered the house, Marise felt a passingdislike for him. She had often felt him to be hard and ruthless, but shehad 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 littlegirl, though she must be somewhere near my age, now. She has been ateacher in a school for Negroes, down in Georgia, for years, most of herlife. But I had sort of lost track of her, till I had to send her somelittle family trinkets that were left after my old aunt died. Herletter, that I received today, is in answer to that. And while she waswriting, she gave me her news, and told me a good deal about conditionsdown there. Pretty bad, I should think it, pretty bad. "

A little spasm crossed his face. He shook his head, as though to shakeoff a clinging filament of importunate thought. 

"What's the trouble? Do they need money, the school?" asked Marise witha vague idea of getting up a contribution. 

"No, my cousin didn't say anything about that. It's not so simple. It'sthe 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, tillher letter came, was how every day, every minute of every day, they'resubject to indignity that they can't avoid, how they're made to feelthemselves outsiders and unwelcome in their own country. She says theSouthern white people are willing to give them anything that will makegood day-laborers of them, almost anything in fact except the thing theycan't rise without, ordinary human respect. It made a very painfulimpression on my mind, her letter, very. She gave such instances. Ihaven't been able to get it out of my mind. For instance, one of thesmall things she told me . . . It seems incredible . . . Is that Southernwhite people won't give the ordinary title of respect of Mr. Or Mrs. OrDr. Even to a highly educated Negro. They call them by their firstnames, like servants. Think what an hourly pin-prick of insult that mustbe. Ever since her letter came, I've been thinking about it, the thingsshe told me, about what happens when they try to raise themselves andrefine themselves, how they're made to suffer intimately for trying tobe what I thought we all wanted all Americans to be. " He looked atMarise with troubled eyes. "I've been thinking how it would feel to be aNegro myself. What a different life would be in front of your littleElly if she had Negro blood!"

Marise had listened to him in profound silence. Sheer, unmixedastonishment filled her mind, up to the brim. Of all the totallyunexpected 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, thatshe knew exactly what was in that old white head. And all the time ithad been this. Who could have made the faintest guess at that? Itoccurred 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 ofsubject. It was as though she had been gazing down through a powerfulmagnifying glass, trying to untangle with her eyes a complicated twistof moral fibers, inextricably bound up with each other, the moralfibers that made up her life . . . And in the midst of this, someone hadroughly 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 hereyes. And the rock was so far away. And she had such a dim sense of thepeople who might be endangered by it. And the confusion here, under themicroscope of her attention, was so vital and immediate, needing to beunderstood and straightened before she could go on with her life. 

She looked at the old man in an astonishment which she knew must seemfairly stupid to him, but she could not bring out anything else. Whatwas it to her, whether a Negro physician was called Dr. Or "Jo"?

Mr. Welles patted her hand, released it, smiled at her kindly, and stoodup. "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 theolder man's. "I'll tuck you up, my old friend, with a good hot toddyinside you, and let you sleep off this outrageously crazy daylightnightmare you've cooked up for yourself. And don't wake up with the fateof the Japanese factory-hand sitting on your chest, or you'll get hardto live with. "

Mr. Welles answered this with literal good faith. "Oh, the Japanesefactory-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 itreach clear down to the Georgia Negroes, how do I know where he's goingto 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 couldgrow one like it? It would be something to look forward to, to have theflower open in your own house. "

To Marise he looked so sweet and good, and like a tired old child, thatshe longed to kiss him good-night, as she had her own. But even as shefelt the impulse, she had again a startled sense of how much more goeson 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'sthat 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 hehad touched her. What an extraordinarily living presence he was, so thata word from him was almost like an actual personal contact. But she tookcare not to show this. She looked down casually at the soft, opaquefolds of her wrap. "Oh, this is a thousand years old. It dates from theBayonne days. It's Basque. It's their variation, I imagine, on theSpanish mantilla. They never wear hats, the Basque women. The littlegirls, when they have made their first communion, wear a scarf of lightnet, or open transparent lace. And when they marry they wear this. It'smade of a special sort of silk, woven just for this purpose. As far awayas you can see a woman in the Basque country, if she wears this, youknow 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. Onschool mornings the clock dominated their every instant. Marise oftenthought that the swinging of its great pendulum was as threatening asthe Pendulum that swung in the Pit. Back and forth, back and forth, bringing nearer and nearer the knife-edge of its dire threat that nineo'clock would come and the children not be in school. Somehow they mustall manage to break the bonds that held them there and escape from thedeath-trap before the fatal swinging menace reached them. The stroke ofnine, booming out in that house, would be like the Crack o' Doom to thechildren. 

Marise told Paul not to eat so fast, and said to Elly, who was finishingher lessons and her breakfast together, "I let you do this, this onetime, Elly, but I don't want you to let it happen again. You had plentyof time yesterday to get that done. "

She stirred her coffee and thought wistfully, "What a policeman I mustseem 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 mouthfull 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, thetension of his attitude, his preoccupied expression, and had a quickinner vision of a dirty, ragged, ignorant, gloriously free little boy ona raft on the Mississippi river, for whom life was not measured out bythe clock, in thimbleful doses, but who floated in a golden liberty onthe very ocean of eternity. "Why can't we bring them up like HuckleberryFinns!" she thought, protestingly, pressing her lips together. 

Then she laughed inwardly at the thought of certain sophisticatedfriends and their opinion of her life. "I daresay we do seem to bebringing them up like Huckleberry Finns, in the minds of any of the NewYork friends, Eugenia Mills for instance!" She remembered with a passinggust of amusement the expression of slightly scared distaste whichEugenia had for the children. "Too crudely quivering lumps oflife-matter for Eugenia's taste, " she thought, and then, "I wonder whatMarsh's feeling towards children really is, children in general. Heseems to have the greatest capacity to ignore their existence at all. Ordoes he only seem to do that, because I have grown so morbidly consciousof their existence as the only thing vital in life? That's what hethinks, evidently. Well, I'd like to have him live a mother's life andsee how he'd escape it!"

"Mother, " said Paul seriously, "Mother, Mark isn't even awake yet, andhe'll never be ready for school. "

"Oh, his teacher had to go to a wedding today. Don't you remember? Hedoesn't have any school till the afternoon session. "

She thought to herself, "What a sense of responsibility Paul has! He isgoing to be one of the pillars of the earth, one of those miraculoushuman beings who are mixed in just the right proportions, so that theyaren't pulled two ways at once. _Two_ ways! Most of us are pulled athousand ways! It is one of the injustices of the earth that such peoplearen't loved as much as impulsive, selfish, brilliant natures like dearlittle Mark's. Paul has had such a restful personality! Even when hewas a baby, he was so straight-backed and robust. There's no yellowstreak in Paul, such as too much imagination lets in. I know all aboutthat yellow streak, alas!"

The little boy reached down lovingly, and patted the dog, sitting in arigid attitude of expectancy by his side. As the child turned the lightof his countenance on those adoring dog eyes, the animal broke from histenseness into a wriggling fever of joy. 

"'Oh, my God, my dear little God!'" quoted Marise to herself, watchinguneasily the animal's ecstasy of worship. "I wish dogs wouldn't take usso seriously. We don't know so much more than they, about anything. " Shethought, further, noticing the sweetness of the protecting look whichPaul gave to Médor, "All animals love Paul, anyhow. Animals know morethan humans about lots of things. They haven't that horrid perversestreak in them that makes humans dislike people who are too often in theright. Paul is like my poor father. Only I'm here to see that Paul isloved as Father wasn't. Médor is not the only one to love Paul. _I_ lovePaul. I love him all the more because he doesn't get his fair share oflove. And old Mr. Welles loves him, too, bless him!"

"Roanoke River, Staunton River, Dan River, " murmured Elly, swallowingdown her chocolate. She stroked a kitten curled up on her lap. 

"What shall I have for lunch today?" thought Marise. "There are enoughpotatoes left to have them creamed. "

Like a stab came the thought, "Creamed potatoes to please our palatesand thousands of babies in Vienna without milk enough to _live_!" Sheshook the thought off, saying to herself, "Well, would it make anydifference to those Viennese babies if I deprived my children ofpalatable food?" and was aware of a deep murmur within her, saying onlyhalf-articulately, "No, it wouldn't make any literal difference to thosebabies, but it might make a difference to you. You are taking anotherstep along the road of hardening of heart. "

All this had been the merest muted arpeggio accompaniment to the steadypractical advance of her housekeeper's mind. "And beefsteak . . . Marklikes that. At fifty cents a pound! What awful prices. Well, Nealewrites that the Canadian lumber is coming through. That'll mean a fairprofit. What better use can we put profit to, than in buying the bestfood 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. Perhapspart of their little Ralph's queerness and abnormality comes from lackof proper food. And those white-cheeked little Putnam children in thevalley. They probably don't taste meat, except pork, more than once aweek. " 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, askingherself defiantly, "Oh, what has all this to do with _us_?" And wasaware of the answer, "It has everything to do with us, only I can'tfigure it out. "

Impatiently she proposed to herself, "But while I'm trying to figure itout, wouldn't I better just go ahead and have beefsteak today?" andwearily, "Yes, of course, we'll have beefsteak as usual. That's the wayI always decide things. "

She buttered a piece of toast and began to eat it, thinking, "I'm alovely 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 liftedhim bodily from his seat. Elly did not hear, her eyes fixed dreamily onher kitten, stroking its rounded head, lost in the sensation of thesoftness of the fur. 

Her mother put out a reluctant hand and touched her quietly. "Come, dearElly, 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 theroom, 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 notrecognize, began clawing at her. She pushed it off, scornfully, andturned to Elly, who got up from the table and began collecting her booksinto her school-bag. Her face was rosy and calm with the sweet ineffableconfidence of a good child who has only good intentions. As she packedher books together, she said, "Well, I'm ready. I've done my grammar, indefinite pronouns, and I can say all those river-tributariesbackwards. So now I can start. Good-bye, Mother dear. " Marise bent tokiss the shining little face. "Good-bye, Elly. "

To herself she thought, as her face was close to the child's, "I wonderif I look to my little girl as Cousin Hetty used to look to me?" andstartled and shocked that the idea kept recurring to her, assuming animportance 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 cleanhandkerchief? Oh, _Elly_, look at your nails! Here, hand me thenail-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, theideas flicked through her mind like quick, darting flames. "Whatmediaeval nonsense we do stuff into the school-children's head. What aninfamous advantage we take of the darlings' trust in us and theirdocility to our purposes! My dear little daughter with her bright faceof desire-to-do-her-best! What wretched chaff she is getting for thatquick, imaginative brain of hers! It's not so bad for Paul, but . . . Oh, even for him what nonsense! Rules of grammar, names of figures ofspeech . . . Stuff left over from scholastic hair-splitting! And thetributaries of rivers . . . !" She glanced up for an instant and was struckinto remorse by the tranquil expression of peace in the little girl'sclear eyes, bent affectionately on her mother. "Oh, my poor, darlinglittle daughter, " she thought, "how _can_ you trust anything in thisweak and wicked world as you trust your broken reed of a mother? I don'tknow, dear child, any more than you do, where we are going, nor how weare 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 wecan 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 likeeverything if anybody's late. " She repeated in a rapid murmur, "Thetributaries of the Delaware on the left bank are . . . "

Her mother's mind went back with a jerk to the question ofriver-tributaries. "And what's the use of cramming her memory with factsshe could find in three minutes in any Atlas if by any strange chanceshe 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 ispoppy-cock?"

 * * * * *

An inner dialogue flashed out, lunge, parry, riposte, like rapier bladesat play. "Because if I told her it is nonsense, that would undermine herfaith in her teacher and her respect for her. "

"But why _should_ she respect her teacher if her teacher does notdeserve that sort of respect? Ought even a little child to respectanything or anybody merely because of a position of authority and notbecause of intrinsic worth? No, of course not. "

"Oh, you know that's only wild talk. Of course you couldn't send thechild to school, and keep her under her teacher, unless you preserve theform of upholding the teacher's authority. "

"Yes, but in Heaven's name, why _do_ we send her to school? She couldlearn 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. Shemight suffer from it as she grew up, might desire more than anything inthe 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. Iwas 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 herselfon 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 werebefore, even, when you were so worried about Father in France. I'drather you'd scold me than look serious. "

Paul came around the table, and shouldered his way against Elly up to aplace where he touched his mother. "Is that masculine jealousy, or realaffection?" she asked herself, and then, "Oh, what a _beast_! To beanalyzing my own children!" And then, "But how am I ever going to knowwhat they're like if I don't analyze them?"

The dog, seeing the children standing up, half ready to go out, beganbarking and frisking, and wriggling his way to where they stood allintertwined, stood up with his fore-paws against Paul. The kitten hadbeen startled by his approach and ran rapidly up Marise as though shehad 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 downinto the dark all the razor-edged questions. "Oh, children! children!take the kitten off my back!" she said, laughing and squirming. "She'stickling me with her whiskers. Oh, _ow_!" She was reduced to helplessmirth, stooping her head, reaching up futilely for the kitten, who hadretreated to the nape of her neck and was pricking sharp littlepin-pointed claws through to the skin. The children danced about chimingout peals of laughter. The dog barked excitedly, standing on hishind-legs, and pawing first at one and then at another. Then Paul lookedat the clock, and they all looked at the clock. The children, flushedwith fun, crammed on their caps, thrust their arms into coats, bestowedindiscriminate kisses on their mother and the kitten, and vanished forthe morning, followed by the dog, pleading with little whines to betaken 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 thatis like no other, the silence that comes when the children have justgone. Through it, heavy-footed and ruthless, Marise felt somethingadvancing on her, something which she dreaded and would not look at. 

From above came a sweet, high, little call, "Mo-o-o-ther!" Oh, arespite--Mark was awake!

His mother sprang upstairs to snatch at him as he lay, rosy and smilingand sleepy. She bent over him intoxicated by his beauty, by theflower-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. Thechild-habit, the drug-habit, the baby-habit, the morphine habit . . . Twodifferent ways of getting away from reality. " That was what Marsh hadsaid one day. What terribly tarnishing things he did say. How they didmake 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 toherself, "What nonsense that was, that came into my head, out on theroad in the dark, the other night, that Neale and I had let theflood-tide of emotion ebb out of our hearts! What could have put such anotion into my head?" What crazy, fanciful creatures women are! Alwaysreaching out for the moon. Yes, that must have been the matter with herlately, that Neale was away. She missed him so, his strength and courageand 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-cladbody, but he kept the other hand and arm around his mother's neck, andheld her close where he had pulled her to him in his little bed. As hespoke 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 amother-cat does her kitten. He laughed delightedly, and wriggled toescape 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 bodyagainst her breast, as he thrashed about. The silent house rang withtheir laughter and cries. 

They were both flushed, with lustrous eyes, when the little boy finallysquirmed himself with a bump off the bed and slid to the floor. 

At this point the kitten came walking in, innocent-eyed and grave. Markscrambled towards her on his hands and knees. She retreated with a comicseries 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 hairback 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 getinto your clothes. "

"Oh, Mother, _you_ dress me!" he begged, rolling over to look up at herpleadingly. 

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 takecold. "

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 thoseback buttons. And I always get my drawer-legs twisted up with my bothlegs 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 asingle thing you can do yourself. "

The child obediently unbuttoned his pajamas and stepping out of themreached for his undershirt. His mother, looking at him, fell mentally onher knees before the beautiful, living body. "Oh, my son, the straight, strong darling! My precious little son!" She shook with that foolishaching anguish of mothers, intolerable. . . . "Why must he stop being sopure, so _safe_? How can I live when I am no longer strong enough toprotect him?"

Mark remarked plaintively, shrugging himself into the sleeves of hisshirt, "I've roden on a horse, and I've roden on a dog, and I've evenroden 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 andPaul have, and a elephant too. "

"Well, you're big enough to be taken to the circus this year, " hismother promised him. "This very summer we'll take you. "

"But I want to go _now_!" clamored Mark, with his usual disregard ofpossibilities, 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 thenewspaper under her hand, on the table, and picked it up. She had onlyglanced at the head-lines yesterday. It took a lot of moral courage toread the newspapers in these days. As she read, her face changed, darkened, set. 

The little boy, struggling with his underwear, looked at her and decidednot to ask for help. 

She was thinking as she read, "The Treaty muddle worse than ever. GreatBritain sending around to all her colonies asking for the biggest navyin the world. Our own navy constantly enlarged at enormous cost. Constantinople to be left Turkish because nobody wants anybody else tohave it. Armenian babies dying like flies and evening cloaks advertisedto sell for six hundred dollars. Italy land-grabbing. France frankly foranything except the plain acceptance of the principles we thought thewar was to foster. The same reaction from those principles starting on agrand scale in America. Men in prison for having an opinion . . . What ahideous bad joke on all the world that fought for the Allies and for theholy principles they claimed! To think how we were straining every nervein a sacred cause two years ago. Neale's enlistment. Those endlessmonths of loneliness. That constant terror about him. And homes likethat all over the world . . . With _this_ as the result. Could it havebeen 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 fromexperience what was on its way, fought desperately to ward it off, reading hurriedly a real-estate item in the newspaper, an account of aflood in the West, trying in vain to fix her mind on what she read. Butshe could not stop the advance of what was coming. She let the newspaperfall with a shudder as the thought arrived, hissing, gliding withvenomous swiftness along the familiar path it had so often taken to herheart . . . "suppose this reactionary outburst of hate and greed andintolerance and imperialistic ambitions all around, means that the'peace' is an armed truce only, and that in fifteen years the wholenightmare will start over. "

She looked down at the little boy, applying himself seriously to hisbuttons. "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 throughanother. To see them all go, husband and sons! Not another war! Let melive quickly, anyhow, somehow, to get it over with . . . And die before itcomes. "

The little boy had been twisting himself despairingly, and now said in asmall voice, "Mother, I've tried and I've tried and I can't do that backbutton. "

His mother heard his voice and looked down at him uncomprehendingly fora 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, andthen, leaning back, looked down moodily at her feet. The little boybegan silently to put on and lace up his shoes. 

Marise was aware of a dimming of the light in the inner room of herconsciousness, as though one window after another were being darkened. Ahushed, mournful twilight fell in her heart. Melancholy came and satdown with her, black-robed. What could one feel except Melancholy at thesight of the world of humanity, poor world, war-ridden, broken inhealth, ruined in hope, the very nerves of action cut by the betrayal ofits desperate efforts to be something more than base. 

 * * * * *

Was that really Melancholy? Something else slid into her mind, somethingwatchful. She sat perfectly still so that no chance movement shoulddisturb that mood till it could be examined and challenged. There wascertainly something else in her heart beside sorrow over the miseries ofthe after-war world. 

She persisted in her probing search, felt a cold ray of daylight strikeinto that gloom and recognized with amazement and chagrin what else itwas! Disgusting! There in the very bottom of her mind, lay still thatdiscomfort at beginning to look like Cousin Hetty! And so that wound toher vanity had slowly risen again into her consciousness and clotheditself in the ampler, nobler garments of impersonal Melancholy. . . . "_Oh_, " she cried aloud, impatiently, contemptuous of herself, "whatpicayune creatures human beings are! I'm ashamed to be one!"

She started up and went to the window, looking out blankly at themountain 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. Goclear through with this thing, " she exhorted herself. "There _must_ bemore in it than mere childish, silly vanity. " She probed deep andbrought up, "Yes, there is more to it. In the first place I was priggishand hypocritical when I tried to pretend that it was nothing to me whenI looked in the glass and saw for the first time that my youth has begunto leave me. That was Anglo-Saxon pretense, trying to seem to myselfmade of finer stuff than I really am. It's really not cheerful for anywoman, no matter on what plane, to know that the days of her physicalflowering 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 morethan that. There was more than that. What was it?" She leaned her ear asif 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 wasthe counsel of despair about everything, the pressure on us all to thinkthat all efforts to be more than base are delusions. We were so terriblyfooled with our idealistic hopes about the war . . . Who knows but that weare 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 ofthe senses is the best . . . Those are _real_ pleasures, at least. Whoknows if there is anything else?"

Something like a little, far-away tolling said to her, "There wassomething else. There was something else. "

This time she knew what it was. "Yes, there was that other aspect of theloss of physical youth, when you think that the pleasures of the sensesare perhaps all there are. There was the inevitable despairing wonder ifI 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 nowshe 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. Touclé was saying, "Have you got one of yourheadaches? The mail carrier just went by. Here are the letters. "

She took down her hands, and opened her eyes. She felt that somethingimportant hung on there being a letter from Neale. She snatched at thehandful of envelopes and sorted them over, her fingers trembling. Yes, there it was, the plain stamped envelope with Neale's firm regularhandwriting. 

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 thewater. She tore open the envelope and read, "Dearest Marise. " It was asthough she had heard his voice. 

She drew in a great audible breath and began to read. What a relief itwas to feel herself all one person, not two or three, probing hatefullyinto each other!

 * * * * *

But there was something she had not done, some teasing, unimportantthing, she ought to finish before going on with the letter. She lookedup vacantly, half-absently, wondering what it was. Her eyes fell onTouclé. Touclé was looking at her, Touclé who so seldom looked atanything. She felt a momentary confusion as though surprised by anotherperson in a room she had thought empty. And after that, uneasiness. Shedid not want Touclé 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 porridgefor 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-litkitchen. "I'm _real_ glad you felt to come to one of our dances. They'reold-fashioned, but _we_ like 'em. " She closed the door behind them andadded cordially, "Now Mr. Welles is going to live here, he'll have tolearn to shake his feet along with the rest of us. "

Mr. Welles was frankly terrified at the idea. "Why, I never dreamed ofdancing in all my life!" he cried. "I only came to look on. " Hehesitated to divest himself of his overcoat, panic-struck and meditatingflight. Vincent fell upon him from one side and the lively old womanfrom the other. Together they stripped the older man of his wraps. "Never too late to learn, " old Mrs. Powers assured him briskly. "Youdance with _me_ and I'll shove ye around, all right. There ain't aquadrille ever danced that I couldn't do backwards with my eyes shut, assoon as the music strikes up. " She motioned them towards the door, "Stepright 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 todance 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 knowany 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. Theycame now into the dining-room and caught beyond that a glimpse of theliving-room. Both wore such an unusual aspect of elegance and grace thatVincent stared, stopping to look about him. "Looks queer, don't it, "said Mrs. Powers, "with the furniture all gone. We always move outeverything we _can_, up garret, so's to leave room for dancing. "

Oh yes, that was it, Vincent thought; the shinily varnished cheapfurniture had almost disappeared, and the excellent proportions of theold rooms could be seen. Lamps glowed from every shelf, their goldenlight softened by great sprays of green branches with tender youngleaves, which were fastened everywhere over the doors, the windows, banked in the corner The house smelled like a forest, indescribablyfresh and spicy. 

"There ain't many flowers yet; too early, " explained Mrs. Powersapologetically, "so we had to git green stuff out'n the woods to kind ofdress us up. 'Gene he _would_ have some pine boughs too. He's crazyabout pine-trees. I always thought that was one reason why he took it sohard when we was done out of our wood-land. He thinks as much of thatbig pine in front of the house as he does of a person. And tonight he'sgot the far room all done up with pine boughs. "

They arrived in the living-room now, where the women and childrenclustered on one side, and the men on the other, their lean boldlymarked faces startlingly clear-cut in the splendor of fresh shaves. Thewomen were mostly in light-colored waists and dark skirts, their haircarefully dressed. Vincent noticed, as he nodded to them before takinghis place with the men, that not a single one had put powder on herface. Their eyes looked shining with anticipation. They leaned theirheads together and chatted in low tones, laughing and glancing sidewaysat the group of men on the other side of the room. Vincent wondered atthe presence of the children. When she arrived, he would ask Mariseabout that. At the inward mention of the name he felt a little shock, which was not altogether pleasurable. He narrowed his eyes and shook hishead slightly, as though to toss a lock of hair from his forehead, agesture which was habitual with him when he felt, with displeasure, anunexpected emotion not summoned by his will. It passed at once. 

On joining the dark-suited group of men he found himself next to youngFrank Warner, leaning, loose-jointed and powerful, against the wall, andnot joining in the talk of weather, pigs, roads, and spring plowingwhich rose from the others. Vincent looked at him with approval. He feltstrongly drawn to this splendid, primitive creature, and knew perfectlywell why. He liked anybody who had pep enough to have an originalfeeling, not one prescribed by the ritual and tabu of his particulartribe. 

"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, andnodded. Together they stepped out of the front door, unused by theguests, who all entered by the kitchen. At first it was as though theyhad plunged into black velvet curtains, so great was the contrast withthe yellow radiance of the room they had left. They looked back throughthe unshaded windows and saw the room as though it were an illustrationin a book, or a scene in a moving-picture play, the men grouped in adark mass on one side, the women, smiling, bending their heads towardseach other, the lamps glowing on the green branches and on the shiningeyes 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 alarge tray full of cups. She braced herself against the weight of theearthenware and balancing herself with a free swinging motion on herhigh-heeled shoes walked with an accentuation of her usual vigorouspoise. 

"By George, she's a beauty!" cried Vincent, not sorry to have anopportunity to talk of her with his companion. 

Frank made no comment. Vincent laughed to himself at the enormouscapacity for silence of these savages, routing to the imagination of acivilized being. He went on, determined to get some expression from theother, "She's one of the very handsomest women I ever saw anywhere. "

Frank stirred in the darkness as though he were about to speak. Vincentcocked his ear and prepared to listen with all the prodigious sharpnessof which he knew himself capable. If he could only once make this yokelspeak 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 onwhat he wanted to know. He laughed again at his own discomfiture. Therewere the two extremes, the super-sophisticated person who could controlhis voice so that it did not give him away, and the utter rustic whosevoice had such a brute inexpressiveness that his meaning was aseffectively hidden. He would try again. He said casually, "She's anenough-sight better-looking specimen than her husband. However does ithappen that the best-looking women are always caught by that sort ofchimpanzees? How did she ever happen to marry 'Gene, anyhow?"

The other man answered, literally. "I don't know how she did happen tomarry him. She don't come from around here. 'Gene was off working in amill, down in Massachusetts, Adams way, and they got married there. Theyonly come back here to live after they'd had all that trouble withlawyers 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 thefarm. "

At this point they saw, looking in at the lighted dumb-show in thehouse, that new arrivals had come. Vincent felt a premonitory clap ofhis heart and set his teeth in his cigarette. Yes, Marise had come, nowappeared in the doorway, tall, framed in green-leafed branches, thesmooth pale oval of her face lighted by the subtle smile, those darklong eyes! By God! What would he not give to know what went on behindthat smile, those eyes!

She was unwinding from her head the close, black nun-like wrap thatthose narrow primitive country-women far away on the other side of theglobe 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 herlong, thick, white throat. What a woman! What she could be in anycivilized setting!

She was talking to Nelly Powers now, who had come back and stood facingher in one of those superb poses of hers, her yellow braids heavy asgold. 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'sglorious Renaissance stunt at showing what an endlessly desirable womanhe could make if he put his mind on it. 

"What say, we go in, " suggested Frank, casting away the butt of hiscigarette. "I think I hear old Nate beginning to tune up. "

They opened the door and stepped back, the laughing confusion of theirblinking entrance, blinded by the lights, carrying off the first momentsof greeting. In the midst of this, Vincent heard the front door openand, startled to think that anyone else had used that exit, turned hishead, and saw with some dismay that 'Gene had followed them in. Hownear had he been to them in the black night while they talked of hiswife's mismated beauty? He walked past them giving no sign, his stronglong arms hanging a little in front of his body as he moved, hisshoulders stooped apparently with their own weight. From the dining-roomcame a sound which Vincent did not recognize as the voice of anyinstrument he had ever heard: a series of extraordinarily rapid staccatoscrapes, playing over and over a primitively simple sequence of notes. He stepped to the door to see what instrument was being used and saw anold 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, pattingwith one thick boot. Under his chin was a violin, on the strings ofwhich he jiggled his bow back and forth spasmodically, an infinitesimallength of the horse-hair being used for each stroke, so that there wasno sonority in the tones. Vincent gazed at him with astonishment. He hadnot 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 withNelly Powers' hand on his arm, "Frank, you call off, wun't ye?"

Instantly the young man, evidently waiting for the signal, sent out along clear shout, "First sets _fo-orming!_"

Vincent was startled by the electrifying quality of the human voice whennot hushed to its usual smothered conversational dullness. 

"Two sets formed in the living-room! Two in the dining-room! One in thefar room!" chanted Frank. He drew a deep breath which visibly swelledhis great chest and sang out, resonantly, "Promenade _to_ your places!"

He set the example, marching off through the throng with Nelly by hisside. 

"Frank, he generally calls off, " explained old Mrs. Powers. "It's inhis family to. His father always did before him. " She looked around her, discerned something intelligible in what looked like crowding confusionto Vincent and told him hurriedly, "Look-y-here, we'll have to git amove on, if we git into a set. They're all full here. " Frank appeared inthe doorway, alone, and lifted a long high arm. "_One_ couple needed inthe far room!" he proclaimed with stentorian dignity and seriousness. 

"Here we are!" shouted old Mrs. Powers, scrambling her way through thecrowd, and pulling Vincent after her. He could see now that the couplesabout him were indeed in their places, hand in hand, facing each other, gravely elate and confident. The younger ones were swinging their bodiesslightly, in time to the sharply marked beat of the fiddle, and in theolder 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 withpine-boughs, fastened to the walls. The odor was as strange anaccompaniment to dancing as was that furiously whirling primitiveiteration of the fiddle. 

"Over here!" cried Mrs. Powers, dragging masterfully at her partner. Shegave a sigh of satisfaction, caught at his hand and held it high. "Allready, 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 heldhigh. Vincent felt his blood move more quickly at the spectacle theymade. On one side stood Marise Crittenden, her fingers clasped by thehuge knotted hand of 'Gene Powers, and on the other was rounded, rosyold Mr. Bayweather holding by the hand the oldest Powers child, a prettyblonde 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 withhis 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 othersdo. "

As she spoke she was holding out her skirts and dipping to a courtesy. Alittle later, he caught at the idea and sketched a bow such as to hisastonishment he saw the other men executing. Was he in old Versailles orVermont?

He felt his hand seized by the old woman's. Such a hearty zest was inher every action that he looked at her amazed. 

"Balance to the corners, right!" chanted Frank, sending his voice outlike a bugle so that it might be heard in all the rooms. 

With perfect precision, and poise, the men and women of the couplesseparated, stepped swayingly, each towards the nearest of the couple totheir 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 andthe little girl. They met in the middle, poised an instant on the topwave of rhythm and stepped back, every footfall, every movement, theirvery breathing, in time to the beat-beat-beat of the fiddle's air whichfilled the room as insistently as the odor of the pines. 

Mrs. Powers nodded her white head to it and tapped her foot. Marsh hadnot ventured to remove his eyes from the weaving interplay of thedancers in his own set. Now, for an instant, he glanced beyond them intothe next room. He received an impression of rapid, incessant, intricateshifting to and fro, the whole throng of dancers in movement as swiftand disconcerting to the eyes as the bits of glass in a kaleidoscope. Itmade him literally dizzy to see it, and he turned his eyes back to hisown set. 

The air changed, but not the rhythm, and all the men broke out in ahoarse 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 thefigure went through labyrinthine manoeuvers, forward and back, dividingand reuniting. The old clergyman held out his hand to Mrs. Crittenden, laughing as he swung her briskly about. 'Gene bent his great bulksolemnly to swing his own little daughter. Then with neat exactitude, onthe stroke of the beat, they were all back in their places. 

"_Second_ couple forward and back!" sang out Frank, prolonging thesyllables in an intoned chant like a muezzin calling from a tower. Vincent felt himself being pushed and shoved by Mrs. Powers through theintricate 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 thebeat of the rhythm that it sang itself through to the motor-centers andset them throbbing. Vincent found himself holding Nelly Powers at arm'slength and swinging her till his head whirled. She was as light assea-foam, dreamy, her blue eyes shining. 

"_Grand_ right and left!" shouted Frank. 

Vincent's hand was seized by the little Powers girl. She swung himcompetently and passed him on to her mother, who swam past him like agoddess, a golden aroma of health and vivid sensual seduction trailingfrom her as she moved. 

Then it was Marise's hand in his . . . How strange, how strange . . . Thathand which knew the secrets of Debussy's heart. . . . She grasped hisfingers firmly and looked at him full, laughingly, her face as open asa child's . . . The many-sided tantalizing creature! She pulled him aboutand 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 brilliantprecision. 

"_All_ promenade!" cried Frank, this time his voice exultant that theend 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 herinstantly, made a strange, stiff little bow, and turned away. The setwas over. 

"There!" said Mrs. Powers, breathing quickly. "'Twan't so hard as youthought 'twas goin' to be, was it?"

"Good-evening, " said Mr. Bayweather on the other side, wiping the pinkroll at the back of his neck. "What do you think of our aboriginalfolk-dancing? I'll warrant you did not think there was a place in theUnited States where the eighteenth century dances had had anuninterrupted existence, did you?"

"I assure you I had never thought about the subject at all, " saidVincent, edging away rapidly towards escape. 

"Fascinating historical phenomenon, I call it, " said the clergyman. "Analogous to the persistence of certain parts of old English speechwhich is to be observed in the talk of our people. For instance in theeighteenth century English vocabulary, the phrase . . . "

His voice died away in the voices of the people Vincent had putresolutely between them shoving his way through the crowd, recklessly. He was struck by the aspect of the people, their blood warmed, theirlips moist, their eyes gleaming. The rooms were growing hot, and theodor 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 intoken of accepting his invitation. Vincent had a passing fancy that shedid not care at all with whom she danced, that the motion itself wasenough for her. But he reflected that it was probably that she did notcare at all whether she danced with _him_. 

From the other end of the room came Frank's deep-mouthed shout, "The setis forming! Promenade _to_ your places!"

Nelly moved swiftly in that direction and again Vincent found himselfopposite Frank, dancing this time with Marise Crittenden. 

The music broke out into its shaking, quavering iteration of the pulseof the dance. 

"Salute your partners!"

This time Vincent knew what to do, and turning, bowed low to Nelly, whomade him a deep courtesy, her toe pointed, instep high, her eyesshining, looking straight at him but evidently not seeing him. The musicseemed to float her off on a cloud. 

"Chassay _to_ the corners, right!"

Vincent untangled the difference between "chassay" and "balance" andacquitted himself. Now that his first panic of astonishment was over, heobserved that the figures of the dance were of great simplicity, all butthe central part, the climax. 

When the preliminary part was over, the music changed and again the menbroke 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, alerthuman figures, he encountered Marise, coming on her suddenly, andfinding her standing stock-still. 

"_Around_ me!" she commanded, imperatively, nodding and laughing. "Justas the song says. "

 "The gent around the lady, "

sang the men. 

Frank was circling about Nelly, his eyes on hers, treading lightly, histall body apparently weighing no more than thistle-down. It was asthough 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 withone 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 atthe tops of their voices, and beat time heavily. Under cover of thisrolling 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 voicerose, resounding, "_Pro_menade all!"

Nelly abandoned herself to his arms, in the one brief moment of closephysical 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 wasbreathing rapidly. Nelly put up a hand to touch her hair. Vincent, reflecting that he would never acquire the native-born capacity forabstaining 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 thefragrant branches, and remarked, clearly and dispassionately, "I don'tlike the smell. "

Vincent was interested. He continued, "Well, you must have a great dealof it, whether you like it or not, from that great specimen by yourfront door. "

She looked at him calmly, her eyes as blue as precious stones. "The oldpine-tree, " she said, "I wish it were cut down, darkening the house theway it does. " She spoke with a sovereign impassivity, no trace offeeling in her tone. She turned away. 

Vincent found himself saying almost audibly, "Oh _ho_!" He had thesensation, very agreeable to him, of combining two clues to make acertainty. He wished he could lay his hands on a clue to put with MariseCrittenden's shrinking from the photograph of the Rocca di Papa. 

He had not spoken to Marise that evening, save the first greetings, andhis impudent shout to her in the dance, and now turned to find her. Onthe other side of the room she was installed, looking extraordinarilyyoung and girl-like, between Mr. Welles and Mr. Bayweather, fanningfirst one and then the other elderly gentleman and talking to them withanimation. They were both in need of fanning, puffing and panting hard. Mr. Welles indeed was hardly recognizable, the usual pale quiet of hisface broken into red and glistening laughter. 

"I see you've been dancing, " said Vincent, coming to a halt in front ofthe group and wishing the two old gentlemen in the middle of next week. 

"Old Mrs. Powers got me, " explained Mr. Welles. "You never saw anythingso absurd in your life. " He went on to the others, "You simply can'timagine how remarkable this is, for me. I never, _never_ danced and I nomore thought I ever _would_ . . . "

Mr. Bayweather ran his handkerchief around and around his neck in anendeavor 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 youevery week. You look like a boy, and you've been looking rather tiredlately. " She had an idea and added, accusingly, "I do believe you'vegone on tormenting yourself about the Negro problem!"

"Yes, he has!" Mr. Bayweather unexpectedly put in. "And he's not theonly person he torments about it. Only yesterday when he came down tothe rectory to see some old deeds, didn't he expatiate on that subjectand succeed in spoiling the afternoon. I had never been forced to thinkso 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 stationto which it has pleased God to place us? I believe in leaving suchinsoluble problems to a Divine Providence. "

Marise was evidently highly amused by this exposition of one variety ofministerial principle, and looked up at Vincent over her fan, her eyessparkling with mockery. He savored with an intimate pleasure hercertainty that he would follow the train of her thought; and he decidedto 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-willor predestination, or capital and labor. Mr. Welles suffers from aduty-complex, inflamed to a morbid degree by a life-long compliance to amediaeval conception of family responsibility. "

Mr. Bayweather's eyes became rounder than ever at this, and Vincent wenton, much amused, "Mr. Welles has done his duty with discomfort tohimself so long that he has the habit. His life at Ashley seems toounnaturally peaceful to him. I'd just as soon he took it out withworrying about the Negroes. They are so safely far away. I had been onthe point of communicating to him my doubts as to the civic virtues ofthe Martians, as a safety valve for him. "

Marise laughed out, as round a peal as little Mark's, but she evidentlythought they had gone far enough with their fooling, for she now broughtthe talk back to a safe, literal level by crying, "Well, there's onething sure, Mr. Welles can't worry his head about _any_ of thealways-with-us difficulties of life, as long as he is dancing art Ashleyquadrille. "

Mr. Welles concurred in this with feeling. "I'd no idea I would everexperience 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, " shelaid her hand on his arm. "This is leap-year. I solemnly engage you todance 'The Whirlwind' with me. " She made the gesture of the little-boyathlete, 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 upthe asparagus bed with a spading-fork. I can shove you around as well asold Mrs. Powers, if I do say it who shouldn't. "

Vincent looked down at her, bubbling with light-hearted merriment, andthought, "There is no end to the variety of her moods!"

She glanced up at him, caught his eyes on her and misinterpreted theirwondering expression. "You think I'm just silly and childish, don'tyou?" she told him challengingly. "Oh, don't be such an everlastingadult. Life's not so serious as all that!"

He stirred to try to protest, but she went on, "It's dancing that setsme off. Nelly Powers and I are crazy about it. And so far as myobservation of life extends, our dances here are the only socialfunctions left in the world, that people really _enjoy_ and don't go tomerely because it's the thing to. It always goes to my head to seepeople enjoy themselves. It's so sweet. "

Mr. Welles gave her one of his affectionate pats on her hand. Vincentasked her casually, "What's the idea of making a family party of it andbringing the children too?"

She answered dashingly, "If I answer you in your own language, I'd saythat it's because their households are in such a low and lamentablyprimitive condition that they haven't any slave-labor to leave thechildren with, and so bring them along out of mere brute necessity. If Ianswer you in another vocabulary, I'd say that there is a close feelingof family unity, and they _like_ to have their children with them whenthey are having a good time, and find it pleasant to see mothers dancingwith their little boys and fathers with their little girls. "

 * * * * *

Without the slightest premonition of what his next question was to bringout, 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 theexclamation which he inwardly added, "If you only knew what a relief itis to see you for once, without that intrusive, tiresome bunch ofchildren!"

"Why, sometimes I do, " she answered in a matter-of-fact tone. "But Ijust had a telegram from my husband saying that he is able to get home alittle 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 brightand early to see him. "

Vincent continued looking down on her blankly for an instant, after shehad finished this reasonable explanation. He was startled by the wave ofanger which spurted up over him like flame. 

He heard Mr. Welles make some suitable comment, "How nice. " He himselfsaid, "Oh really, " in a neutral tone, and turned away. 

 * * * * *

For a moment he saw nothing of what was before him, and then realizedthat he had moved next to Frank Warner, who was standing by NellyPowers, and asking her to dance with him again. She was shaking herhead, and looking about the room uneasily. Vincent felt a gust of angeragain. "Oh, go _to_ it, Frank!" he said, in a low fierce tone. "Take herout 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 withhim. 

"They're the handsomest couple in the room, " said Vincent, at random toa farmer near him, who looked at him astonished by the heat of hisaccent. And then, seeing that Nelly's husband was in possible earshot, Vincent raised his voice recklessly. "They're the handsomest couple inthe room, " he repeated resentfully. "They ought always to dancetogether. "

If 'Gene heard, he did not show it, the granite impassivity of his harshface unmoved. 

Vincent went on towards the door, his nerves a little relieved by thisoutburst. He would go out and have another cigarette, he thought, andthen take his old man-child home to bed. What were they doing in thisabsurd place?

The music began to skirl again as he stepped out and closed the doorbehind him. 

He drew in deeply the fresh night-air, and looking upward saw that theclouds had broken away and that the stars were out, innumerable, thick-sown, studding with gold the narrow roof of sky which, rising fromthe mountains on either side, arched itself over the valley. He stoodstaring before him, frowning, forgetting what he had come out to do. Hetold himself that coming from that yelling confusion inside, and theglare of those garish lamps, he was stupefied by the great silence ofthe night. There was nothing clear in his mind, only a turmoil ofeddying sensations which he could not name. He walked down to the hugedark pine, the pine which 'Gene Powers loved like a person, and whichhis wife wished were cut down. What a ghastly prison marriage was, hethought, a thing as hostile to the free human spirit as an ironball-and-chain. 

He looked back at the little house, tiny as an insect before the greatbulk of the mountains, dwarfed by the gigantic tree, ridiculous, despicable in the face of Nature, like the human life it sheltered. Fromits every window poured a flood of yellow light that was drunk up in atwinkling 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 wholebusiness of living!

A thousand ugly recollections poured their venom upon him from his pastlife. Life, this little moment of blind, sensual groping and grabbingfor something worth while that did not exist, save in the stultificationof the intelligence. All that you reached for, so frantically, it wasonly another handful of mud, when you held it. 

Past the yellow squares of the windows, he saw the shapes of thedancers, insect-tiny, footing it to and fro. And in one of thosesilhouettes he recognized Marise Crittenden. 

He turned away from the sight and struck his fist against the rough barkof the tree. What an insane waste and confusion ruled everywhere inhuman life! A woman like that to be squandered . . . An intelligence fineand supple, a talent penetrating and rare like hers for music, a strangepersonal beauty like that of no other woman, a depth one felt likemid-ocean, a capacity for fun like a child's and a vitality ofpersonality, a power for passion that pulsed from her so that to touchher hand casually set one thrilling . . . ! And good God! What was destinydoing with her? Spending that gold like water on three brats incapableof distinguishing between her and any good-natured woman who would puton their shoes and wash their faces for them. Any paid Irish nurse coulddo for them what their mother bent the priceless treasure of hertemperament to accomplish. The Irish nurse would do it better, for shewould not be aware of anything else better, which she might do, andtheir mother knew well enough what she sacrificed . . . Or if she did notknow it yet, she would, soon. She had betrayed that to him, the veryfirst time he had seen her, that astonishing first day, when, breathingout her vivid charm like an aureole of gold mist, she had sat therebefore him, quite simply the woman most to his taste he had even seen. . . _here_! That day when she had spoken about the queerness of herfeeling "lost" when little Mark went off to school, because for thefirst time in years she had had an hour or so free from those ruthlesslittle leeches who spent their lives in draining her vitality. He hadknown, if she had not, the significance of that feeling of hers, thefirst time she had had a moment to raise her eyes from her trivial taskand see that she had been tricked into a prison. That very day he hadwanted to cry out to her, as impersonally as one feels towards abeautiful bird caught in a net, "Now, _now_, burst through, and spreadyour wings where you belong. "

It was like wiping up the floor with cloth of gold. In order that thosethree perfectly commonplace, valueless human lives might be added to theworld's wretched population, a nature as rare as a jewel was beingslowly ground away. What were the treasures to whom she was beingsacrificed? Paul, the greasy, well-intentioned, priggish burgher hewould make; Elly, almost half-witted, a child who stared at you like animbecile when asked a question, and who evidently scarcely knew that hermother existed, save as cook and care-taker. And Mark, the passionate, gross, greedy baby. There were the three walls of the prison where shewas shut away from any life worthy of her. 

And the fourth wall . . . 

 * * * * *

The blackness dropped deeper about him, and within him. There they weredancing, those idiots, dancing on a volcano if ever human beings did, inthe little sultry respite from the tornado which was called theworld-peace. Well, that was less idiotic than working, at least. Howsoon before it would break again, the final destructive hurricane, bornof nothing but the malignant folly of human hearts, and sweep away allthat they now agonized and sweated to keep? What silly weakness to spendthe respite in anything but getting as much of what you wanted as youcould, before it was all gone in the big final smash-up, and the yellowor black man were on top. 

 * * * * *

With a bitter relish he felt sunk deep in one of his rank reactionsagainst life and human beings. Now at least he was on bed-rock. Therewas a certain hard, quiet restfulness in scorning it all sowhole-heartedly as either stupid or base. 

 * * * * *

At this a woman's face hung suddenly there in the blackness. Her longeyes seemed to look directly into his, a full revealing look such asthey had never given him in reality. His hard quiet was broken by anagitation he could not control. No, no, there was something there thatwas 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, atroubling and immortal meaning. 

A frosty breath blew down upon him from the mountains. A long shudderran through him. 

The sensation moved him to a sweeping change of mood, to a furiousresentment as at an indignity. God! What was he doing? Who was thismoping in the dark like a boy?

 * * * * *

The great night stood huge and breathless above him as before, but nowhe saw only the lamp-lit house, tiny as an insect, but vibrant witheager and joyous life. With a strong, resolute step he went rapidly backto the door, opened it wide, stepped in, and walked across the floor toMarise Crittenden. "You're going to dance the next dance with _me_, youknow, " 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 whitehands, limped over to the manager's desk with a pile of letters to besigned. "There, Captain Crittenden, " he said, pride in his accent. 

Neale was surprised and pleased. "All done, Arthur?" He looked over thework hastily. "Good work, good work. " He leaned back, looking up at theother. "How about it, anyhow, Arthur? Is it going to work out allright?"

The stenographer looked at him hard and swallowed visibly. "I neverdreamed I'd be fit to do anything I like half so well. I thought when Iwas 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 likeit, 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 getthrough early. Mrs. Crittenden's going to bring some visitors to see theplace 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 shewould be there about four. He gave a calculating glance at the stack ofletters. He would never be able to get through those. "We'll have to geta move on, " he remarked. "Things got pretty well piled up while I wasaway. "

He began to dictate rapidly, steadily, the end of a sentence clearly inhis mind before he pronounced the first word. He liked to dictate andenjoyed doing it well. The pale young stenographer bent over hisnote-book, his disfigured face intent and serious. 

"Turned out all right, Arthur has, " thought Neale to himself. "I wasn'tso far off, when I thought of the business college for him. " Then heapplied himself single-mindedly to his dictation, taking up one letterafter another, with hardly a pause in his voice. But for all hisdiligence, he had not come to the bottom of the pile when four o'clockstruck; nor ten minutes later when, glancing out of the window, he sawMarise and the children with Mr. Bayweather and the two other men comingacross the mill-yard. Evidently Mr. Bayweather had dropped in just asthey were going to start and had come along. He stopped dictating andlooked at the group with a certain interest. Marise and the children hadhad 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 asinaccurate as such second-hand impressions were apt to be. The older manwas just like any elderly business man, for all he could see, nothing soespecially attractive about him, although Marise had said in her ardentway that he was "the sort of old American you love on sight, the kindthat 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-breakinglive-wire as they had all said. He walked along quietly enough, and wasevidently as resigned as any of them to letting Mr. Bayweather do allthe talking. On the other hand, none of them had told him what astriking-looking fellow he was, so tall, and with such a bold carriageof that round dark head. 

"Here they come, Arthur, " he remarked. "No more time. But I'll try tosqueeze in a minute or two, while they are here, to finish up these lastones. "

The young man followed the direction of his eyes and nodded. Hecontinued looking at the advancing group for a moment, and as he stoodup, "You could tell that Mr. Marsh is a millionaire by the way hisclothes fit, couldn't you?" he remarked, turning to go back to his deskin 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 hisknees and arms, swept by; and stepped forward to be presented to thenewcomers. They had not crossed the threshold, before his firstimpression 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 saidthat when he looked at you it was like lightning. 

Mr. Bayweather barely waited for the first greetings to be pronouncedbefore he burst out, "Do they say, 'backwards and forwards' or 'back andforth'?"

Neale laughed. Old Bayweather was perennial. "Backwards and forwards, ofcourse, " he said. "English people always say everything the longestpossible way. " He explained to the others, "Mr. Bayweather is animpassioned philologist . . . "

"So I have gathered, " commented Marsh. 

". . . And whenever any friends of his go on travels, they are alwaysasked to bring back some philological information about the region wherethey 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 askedher. (Lord! How good it seemed to get back to Marise!)

Mr. Bayweather cut in hastily, "If I may be permitted to suggest, Ithink a history of the mill would be advisable as a beginning. I will beglad to tell the newcomers about this. I've just been working thesubject up for a chapter in history of Ashley. "

Neale caught an anguished side-glance from Marise and sent back to her ashrugged message of helplessness in the face of Destiny. The man didn'tlive who could head old Bayweather off when he got started on localhistory. And besides, this would give him time to get those last threeletters finished. Aloud he said, "I wouldn't dare say a word abouthistory 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'veheard the history lecture. " He turned to the children, who were tappingon the typewriter. "Look here, kids, you'd be better off where you won'tbreak anything. Get along with you out into the mill-yard and play onthe lumber-piles, why don't you? Paul, you see if you can tell yellowbirch from oak this time!"

He and the children beat a retreat together into the outer office, wherehe bent over Arthur's desk and began to dictate in a low voice, catching, as he did so, an occasional rotund phrase from thedisquisition in the other room. ". . . The glorious spirit of manlyindependence 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 afort. . . . No, _no_, Mr. Marsh, _not_ against the Indians! Our earlysettlers _here_ never had any trouble with the Indians. "

Neale laughed to himself at the clergyman's resentment of any ignoranceof any detail of Ashley's unimportant history. 

". . . As a fort against the York State men in the land-grant quarrelswith New Hampshire and New York, before the Revolution. " Neale, smilinginwardly, bet himself a nickel that neither of the two strangers hadever heard of the Vermont land-grant quarrels, and found himself vastlytickled by the profound silence they kept on the subject. They wereevidently scared to death of starting old Bayweather off on anotherline. They were safe enough, if they only knew it. It was inconceivableto Mr. Bayweather that any grown person should not know all about earlyVermont history. 

At this point Marise came out of the office, her face between laughterand 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 thenI'll go and break him off short. "

Marise went on to the accountant's desk, to ask about his wife, who sangin her winter chorus. 

He dictated rapidly: "No more contracts will go out to you if thisstripping of the mountain-land continues. Our original contract has init the clause which I always insist on, that trees smaller than sixinches through the butt shall not be cut. You will please give yourchoppers definite orders on this point, and understand that logs underthe specified size will not be accepted at the mill. " He held out to thestenographer the letter he was answering. "Here, Arthur, copy the nameand address off this. It's one of those French-Canadian names, hard tospell if you don't see it. "

He paused an instant to hear how far Mr. Bayweather had progressed, andheard him saying, "In the decade from 1850 on, there was a terrible andscandalous devastation of the mountain-land . . . " and said to himself, "Halfway through the century. I'll have time to go on a while. Allready, Arthur. " He dictated: "On birch brush-backs of the modelspecified, we can furnish you any number up to . . . " He wound his wayswiftly and surely through a maze of figures and specifications withoutconsulting a paper or record, and drawing breath at the end, heard Mr. Bayweather pronouncing his own name. ". . . Mr. Crittenden has taught usall a great deal about the economic aspects of a situation with which wehad had years of more familiarity than he. His idea is that thismountainous part of New England is really not fit for agriculture. Farming in the usual sense has been a losing venture ever since theCivil War high prices for wool ceased. Only the bottoms of the valleysare fit for crops. Most of our county is essentially forest-land. Andhis idea of the proper use to make of it, is to have a smallishindustrial population engaged in wood-working, who would use the bits ofarable land in the valleys as gardens to raise their own food. He hasalmost entirely reorganized the life of our valley, along these lines, and I daresay he cannot at all realize himself the prodigious changefrom hopelessness and slow death to energy and forward-looking activitywhich his intelligent grasp of the situation has brought to this cornerof the earth. "

The young stenographer had heard this too, and had caught the frown ofannoyance which the personal reference brought to Neale's forehead. Heleaned forward and said earnestly, "It's so, Captain . . . Mr. Crittenden. It's _so_!"

Mr. Bayweather went on, "There is enough wood in the forests withinreach of the mill to keep a moderate-sized wood-working factory goingindefinitely, cutting by rotation and taking care to leave enough treesfor natural reforestration. But of course that has not been the Americanway of going at things. Instead of that steady, continuous use of thewoods, which Mr. Crittenden has shown to be possible, furnishing good, well-paid work at home for the men who would be otherwise forced offinto cities, our poor mountains have been lumbered every generation orso, on an immense, murderous, slashing scale, to make a big sum of moneyfor somebody in one operation. When old Mr. Burton Crittenden's nephewcame to town it was a different story. Mr. Neale Crittenden's ideal ofthe lumber business is, as I conceive it, as much a service to mankindas a doctor's is. "

Neale winced, and shook his head impatiently. How ministers did put theSunday-school rubber-stamp on everything they talked about--evenlegitimate business. 

"And as Mrs. Crittenden's free-handed generosity with her musicaltalent 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, movingback 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 bythis time, Mr. Bayweather?" He turned to Marsh, "I'm afraid there isvery little to interest you, with your experience of production on agiant scale, in a business so small that the owner and manager knowsevery 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 productionon 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 thatmy father spent his life in helping to build up, but it always ended inmy being shooed out of the office by a rather irritable manager who knewI knew nothing about any of it, and who evidently hated above everythingelse, having amateur directors come horning in on what was no party oftheirs. '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 onsuch a preposterously big scale now. Once in a while, touring, I havecome across one of our branch establishments and have stopped my car tosee the men come out of the buildings at quitting-time. That's as closeas I have ever come. Do you really know their _names_?"

"I can't pronounce all the French-Canadian names to suit them, but Iknow them all, yes. Most of them are just the overflow of the ruralpopulation around here. "

He said to himself in congratulation, "Between us, we pried oldBayweather loose from his soft soap, pretty neatly, " and gave the manbefore him a look of friendly understanding. He was a little startled, for an instant, by the expression in the other's bright eyes, which hefound fixed on him with an intentness almost disconcerting. "Does hethink I'm trying to put something over on him?" he asked himself with apassing 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 atthe other side, for all _I_ care!" he thought indifferently, meeting theother'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 nowremembered 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. Marshwas with him. He wondered a little, as they made their way to thesaw-mill, what Marise saw in either of them to interest her so much. Ohwell, they were a change, of course, from Ashley and Crittenden'speople, and different from the Eugenia Mills bunch, in New York, too. 

He stood now, beside Mr. Welles, in the saw-mill, the ringing highcrescendo scream of the saws filling the air. Marise stood at the otherend talking animatedly to the two she had with her. Marise was a wonderon 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 bigelectrical company about a wood-working business?

His eyes were caught by what one of the men was doing and he yelled athim sharply, "Look out there, Harry! Stop that! What do I have a guardrail there for, anyhow?"

"What was the matter?" asked Mr. Welles, startled. 

"Oh, nothing much. One of the men dodging under a safety device to savehim a couple of steps. They get so reckless about those saws. You haveto 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 theyare all devoted to you. "

Neale looked and felt annoyed. Bayweather and his palaver! "I don't doanything for them, except give them as good wages as the business willstand, 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 himselfheard above the tearing scream of the saws made him sound very abruptand peremptory, more so than he had meant. As he finished speaking hiseyes met those of the older man, and were held by the clarity and candorof the other's gaze. They were like a child's eyes in that old face. Itwas 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 deepweariness. 

Neale smoothed his forehead, a little ashamed of his petulance, and drewhis companion further from the saws where the noise was less. He meantto say something apologetic, but the right phrase did not come to him. And as Mr. Welles said nothing further, they walked on in silence. Theypassed through the first and second floors of the mill, where thehandling of the smaller pieces was done, and neither of them spoke aword. Neale looked about him at the familiar, familiar scene, and foundit too dull to make any comment on. What was there to say? This was theway you manufactured brush-backs and wooden boxes and such-like things, and that was all. The older men bent over their lathes quietly, theoccasional woman-worker smartly hammering small nails into the holesalready bored for her, the big husky boys shoved the trucks around, theelevator droned up and down, the belts flicked as they sped around andaround. Blest if he could think of any explanation to make to a grownman on so simple and everyday a scene. And yet he did not enjoy thissilence because it seemed like a continuation of his grumpiness of a fewminutes ago. Well, the next time the old fellow said anything, he'd fallover himself to be nice in his answer. 

Presently as they came to the outside door, Mr. Welles remarked with agentle dignity, in evident allusion to Neale's cutting him short, "Ionly meant that I was very much interested in what I see here, and thatI would like very much to know more about it. "

Neale felt he fairly owed him an apology. He began to understand whatMarise meant when she had said the old fellow was one you loved onsight. It was her way, emotionally heightened as usual, of saying thathe was really a very nice old codger. "I'll be glad to tell you anythingyou want to know, Mr. Welles, " he said. "But I haven't any idea what itis that interests you. You fire ahead and ask questions and I'll agreeto answer them. "

"That's what I'd like, all right. And remember if I ask anything youdon't want to talk about . . . " He referred evidently to Neale'simpatience of a few minutes ago. 

"There aren't any trade secrets in the wood-working business, " saidNeale, 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. " Theystepped out of the door and started across the mill-yard. 

Mr. Welles said with a very faint smile in the corner of his pale oldlips, "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 adrying-room from a steam-laundry. "

Neale stopped short, and surveyed his companion with amusement andadmiration. "Good for you!" he cried. "Tell the truth and shame thedevil and set an example to all honest men. Mr. Welles, you have myesteem. "

The old man had a shy smile at this. "I don't tell the truth that way toeverybody, " 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 . . . " Hebegan 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, " hesaid, "for I must admit to you that I have fallen a complete victim toMrs. Crittenden. I . . . I love your wife. " He brought it out with aquaint, humorous roundness. 

"You can't get up any discussion with me about that, " said Neale. "I domyself. "

They both laughed, and Mr. Welles said, "But you see, caring such a lotabout her, it was a matter of great importance to me what kind ofhusband she had. I find actually seeing you very exciting. "

"You're the first who ever found it so, I'm sure, " said Neale, amused atthe idea. 

"But it wasn't this I wanted to say, " said Mr. Welles. He went back andsaid again, "Mr. Bayweather said your idea of business is service, likea doctor's?"

Neale winced at the Bayweather priggishness of this way of putting it, but remembering his remorse for his earlier brusqueness, he restrainedhimself to good humor and the admission, "Making allowance forministerial 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, "tospeak right out, that sounded to me like the notion of a niceidealistic woman, who has never been in business. You see I've _been_ ina business office all my life!"

Neale found his liking for the gentle, troubled old man enough for himto 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'mashamed of letting harmless Mr. Bayweather get on my nerves so. "

Mr. Welles started to speak, found no words, and waved an arm as if toimply 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 hishigh-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 anattitude 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, itwasn't so very important whether he did or not. He was only trying tomake a nice tired old man think himself enough respected to be seriouslytalked to. He'd just ramble on, till Marise brought the other visitorsup to them. 

And yet as he talked, he got rather interested in his statement of it. Acomparison of baseball and tennis ethics came into his mind as apposite, and quite tickled him by its aptness. Mr. Welles threw in an occasionalremark. 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 nolonger made any comments. That was what happened, Neale reflected withan inward smile, as he slowed down and prepared to stop, when anybodysucceeded in getting you started on your hobby. They were bored. Theydidn't really want to know after all. It was like trying to tell folksabout your travels. 

But he was astonished to the limit of astonishment by what Mr. Wellesbrought out in the silence which finally dropped between them. The oldman looked at him very hard and asked, "Mr. Crittenden, do you knowanything about the treatment of the Negroes in the South?"

Neale sat up blinking. "Why no, nothing special, except that it's afearful knot we don't seem to get untied, " he said. "I contribute to thesupport of an agricultural school in Georgia, but I'm afraid I nevertake 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 buildingnow, and advanced towards them slowly. Neale and Mr. Welles watchedthem. 

Neale was struck again by Marsh's appearance. As far away as you couldsee him, he held the eye. "An unusual man, your friend Mr. Marsh, " heremarked. "Mrs. Crittenden tells me that he is one of the people whohave been everywhere and done everything and seen everybody. He looksthe part. "

Mr. Welles made no comment on this for a moment, his eyes on theadvancing group. Marise had raised her parasol of yellow silk. It made ashimmering halo for her dark, gleaming hair, as she turned her headtowards Marsh, her eyes narrowed and shining as she laughed at somethinghe said. 

Then the old man remarked, "Yes, he's unusual, all right, Vincent is. Hehas 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 notto 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 distinctimpression that he was going to dislike the mill-owner, and as distincta certainty as to where that impression came from. He had received toomany by the same route not to recognize the shipping label. Not thatVincent had ever said a single slighting word about Mr. Crittenden. Hecouldn't have, very well, since they neither of them had ever laid eyeson him. But Vincent never needed words to convey impressions into otherpeople's minds. He had a thousand other ways better than words. Vincentcould be silent, knock off the ashes from his cigarette, recross hislegs, and lean back in his chair in a manner that slammed an impressioninto your head as though he had yelled it at you. 

But to be fair to Vincent, Mr. Welles thought probably he had been morethan ready to soak up an impression like the one he felt. They'd hadsuch an awfully good time with Mrs. Crittenden and the children, itstood to reason the head of the house would seem to them like abutter-in and an outsider in a happy-family group. 

More than this, too. As they came within hearing of the industrialactivity of the mill, and he felt his heart sink and turn sore andbitter, Mr. Welles realized that Vincent had very little to do with hisdread of meeting the mill-owner. It was not Mr. Crittenden he shrankfrom, it was the mill-owner, the business man . . . Business itself. 

Mr. Welles hated and feared the sound of the word and knew that it hadhim cowed, because in his long life he had known it to be the onlyreality in the world of men. And in that world he had known the onlyreality to be that if you didn't cut the other fellow's throat first hewould cut yours. There wasn't any other reality. He had heardimpractical, womanish men say there was, and try to prove it, only tohave their economic throats cut considerably more promptly than anyothers. He had done his little indirect share of the throat-cuttingalways. He was not denying the need to do it. Only he had never found ita very cheerful atmosphere in which to pass one's life. And now he hadescaped, to the only other reality, the pleasant, gentle, slightlyunreal world of women, nice women, and children and gardens. He was soold now that there was no shame in his sinking into that for what timehe had left, as other old fellows sank into an easy-chair. Only hewished 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 thearm-chair, supported the nice women and children. He wished he hadn'thad to come here, to be forced to remember again that the inevitablefoundation for all that was pleasant and livable in private life was thegrim 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 thepublic. He'd had a vacation from that, and it made him appallinglydepressed to take another dose of it now. He sincerely wished that sweetMrs. Crittenden were a widow with a small income from some impersonalsource with no uncomfortable human associations with it. He recalledwith a sad cynicism the story Mrs. Crittenden had told them about theclever and forceful lawyer who had played the dirty trick on the farmerhere in Ashley, and done him out of his wood-land. She had been verymuch wrought up about that, the poor lady, without having the least ideathat probably her husband's business-life was full of suchknifings-in-the-back, all with the purpose of making a quiet life forher and the children. 

Well, there was nothing for it but to go on. It wouldn't last long, andMr. Welles' back was practised in bowing to weather he didn't like butwhich passed if you waited a while. 

They were going up the hall now, towards a door marked "Office, " thechildren scampering ahead. The door was opening. The tall man who stoodthere, nodding a welcome to them, must be Mr. Crittenden. 

So that was the kind of man he was. Nothing special about him. Just anice-looking American business-man, with a quiet, calm manner and afriendly face. 

To the conversation which followed and which, like all suchconversations, amounted to nothing at all, Mr. Welles made nocontribution. What was the use? Mr. Bayweather and Vincent were there. The conversation would not flag. So he had the usual good chance of thesilent person to use his eyes. He looked mostly at Mr. Crittenden. Well, he wasn't so bad. They were usually nice enough men in personalrelations, business men. This one had good eyes, very nice when helooked at the children or his wife. They were often good family men, too. There was something about him, however, that wasn't just like allothers. What was it? Not clothes. His suit was cut off the same piecewith forty million other American business-suits. Not looks, althoughthere was an outdoor ruddiness of skin and clearness of eye that madehim look a little like a sailor. Oh yes, Mr. Welles had it. It was hisvoice. 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 onone of his historical spiels. Mr. Welles glanced cautiously at Vincentto see if he were in danger of blowing up, and found him lookingunexpectedly thoughtful. He was evidently not paying the least attentionto Mr. Bayweather's account of the eighteenth century quarrel betweenNew 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 toMr. Bayweather's lecture, and enjoyed himself looking at Mrs. Crittenden. She was pretty, Mrs. Crittenden was. He hadn't been surethe first day, but now he had had a chance to get used to her face beingso long and sort of pointed, and her eyes long too, and her blackeyebrows running back almost into her hair, he liked every bit of herface. It looked so different from anybody else's. He noticed with aninward smile that she was fidgety under Mr. Bayweather's historicaltalk. _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 otheroffice as if on an errand. 

Mr. Bayweather took advantage of her absence to tell them a lot abouthow much the Crittendens had done for the whole region and what a goldenthing Mrs. Crittenden's music had been for everybody, and about anoriginal conception of business which Mr. Crittenden seemed to have. Mr. Welles was not interested in music, but he was in business and he wouldhave 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 andprompt, ready to take them around the mill. 

Vincent stood up. They all stood up. Mr. Welles noted that Vincent hadquite come out of his brown study and was now all there. He was as heusually was, a wire charged with a very high-voltage current. 

They went out now, all of them together, but soon broke up into twogroups. He stayed behind with Mr. Crittenden and pretended to look atthe machinery of the saw-mill, which he found very boring indeed, as hehadn't the slightest comprehension of a single cog in it. But there wassomething 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 thefaces of the men as they looked at the boss. 

Mr. Welles, not being a talker, had had a great deal of opportunity tostudy the faces of others, and he had become rather a specialist inexpressions. Part of his usefulness in the office had come from that. He had catalogued in his mind the different looks on human faces, andmost of them connected with any form of business organization wereinfinitely familiar to him, from the way the casual itinerant temporarylaborer looked at the boss of his gang, to the way the star salesmanlooked at the head of the house. 

But here was a new variety to him, these frank and familiar glancesthrown in answer to the nodded greeting or short sentence of the boss ashe walked about. They were not so much friendly (although they were thattoo), as they were familiar and open, as though nothing lay hiddenbehind the apparent expression. It was not often that Mr. Welles hadencountered that, a look that seemed to hide nothing. 

He wondered if he could find out anything about this from Mr. Crittendenand put a question to him about his relations with his men. He tried tomake it tactful and sensible-sounding, but as he said the words, he knewjust how flat and parlor-reformerish they sounded; and it didn'tsurprise him a bit to have the business-man bristle up and snap his headoff. 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 theonly thing that could keep it going was the fear of death in every man'sheart, lest the others get ahead of him and trample him down. 

He decided that he wouldn't say another thing, just endure the temporaryboredom of being trotted about to have things explained to him, which hehadn'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 fromone part of the big, sunshiny shops to another, taking advantage of thisopportunity to look things over for his own purposes. And everywhere hewent, 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 continuoussound. It was clean, too. The hardwood floor was being swept clean ofsawdust and shavings all the time, by a lame old man, who potteredtranquilly about, sweeping and cleaning and putting the trash in a bigbox on a truck. When he had it full, he beckoned to a burly lad, shovinga truck across the room, and called in a clear, natural, friendly voice, "Hey, Nat, come on over. " The big lad came, whistling, pushed the boxoff full, and brought it back empty, still whistling airily. 

There were a good many work-people in sight. Mr. Welles made a guessingestimate that the business must keep about two hundred busy. And therewas not one who looked harried by his work. The big, cluttered placeheaped high with piles of curiously shaped pieces of wood, filled withoddly contrived saws and lathes and knives and buffers for sawing andturning and polishing and fitting those bits of wood, was brooded overas by something palpable by an emanation of order. Mr. Welles did notunderstand a detail of what he was looking at, but from the whole, hismind, experienced in business, took in a singularly fresh impressionthat 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 agray-haired man who was polishing smoothly planed oval bits of board. Hestopped as they talked, ran his fingers over the satin-smoothed surfacewith evident pleasure, and remarked to his employer, "Mighty fine maplewe'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 atits best, and looked at it respectfully. "There's no wood like maple, "he said. Mr. Crittenden answered, "Yep. The Warner land is just rightfor slow-growing trees. " He took it out of the workman's hand, looked itover more closely with an evident intelligent certainty of what to lookfor, and handed it back with a nod that signified his appreciation ofthe 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 hemight not succeed in getting some explanation out of the manufacturer, if he went about it very tactfully. He would wait for his chance. Hebegan to perceive with some surprise that he was on the point of quiteliking Mrs. Crittenden's husband. 

So he tried another question, after a while, very cautiously, and wassurprised to find Mr. Crittenden no longer snappish, but quite friendly. It occurred to him as the pleasantest possibility that he might find hisliking for the other man returned. That _would_ be a new present hung onthe Christmas tree of his life in Vermont. 

On the strength of this possibility, and banking on the friendliness inthe other man's eyes, he drove straight at it, the phrase which theminister had used when he said that Mr. Crittenden thought of businessas an ideal service to humanity as much as doctoring. That had soundedso ignorant and ministerial he hadn't even thought of it seriously, tillafter this contact with the man of whom it had been said. The best waywith Crittenden was evidently the direct one. He had seen that in thefirst five minutes of observation of him. So he would simply tell himhow 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 hopedfor, and Crittenden was telling him really what he had meant. He wassaying in his firm, natural, easy voice, as though he saw nothingspecially to be self-conscious about in it, "Why, of course I don't ranklumbering and wood-working with medicine. Wood isn't as vital to humanlife as quinine, or a knowledge of what to do in typhoid fever. Butafter 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 cando this, get it out of the woods without spoiling the future of theforests, drying up the rivers and all that, and have it transformed intosome finished product that people need in their lives, it's a sort ofplain, everyday service, isn't it? And to do this work as economicallyas it can be managed, taking as low a price as you can get along withinstead of screwing as high a price as possible out of the people whohave to have it, what's the matter with that, as an interesting problemin ingenuity? I tell you, Mr. Welles, you ought to talk to my wife aboutthis. It's as much her idea as mine. We worked it out together, littleby little. It was when Elly was a baby. She was the second child, youknow, and we began to feel grown-up. By that time I was pretty sure Icould make a go of the business. And we first began to figure out whatwe were up to. Tried to see what sort of a go we wanted the business tohave. We first began to make some sense out of what we were doing inlife. "

Mr. Welles found himself overwhelmed by a reminiscent ache at thisphrase and burst out, his words tinged with the bitterness he tried tokeep out of his mind, "Isn't that an awful moment when you first try tomake some sense out of what you are doing in life! But suppose you hadgone on doing it, always, always, till you were an old man, and neversucceeded! Suppose all you seemed to be accomplishing was to be able tohand over to the sons of the directors more money than was good forthem? I tell you, Mr. Crittenden, I've often wished that once, justonce, before I died I could be _sure_ that I had done anything that wasof any use to anybody. " He went on, nodding his head, "What struck me soabout what Mr. Bayweather said is that I've often thought about doctorsmyself, 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 ouroffice just because they could, that a doctor would be put out of hisprofession in no time by public opinion, if he ever tried to screw thelast cent out of everybody, the way business men do as a matter ofcourse. "

Mr. Crittenden protested meditatively against this. "Oh, don't you thinkmaybe 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 ownheads, we kept it pretty dark, I tell you, that we weren't in it onlyfor what money we could make, because we knew how loony we'd seem toanybody else. But don't you see any signs that lately maybe the sameidea is striking lots of people in America?"

"No, I do _not_!" said Mr. Welles emphatically. "With a profiteer onevery 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'sstandard of service? Twenty years ago, would anybody have thought ofdoing anything but uneasily admiring a grocer who made all the money hecould out of his business? 'Why shouldn't he?' people would have thoughtthen. Everybody else did. Twenty years ago, would anybody have dreamedof 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 wenton, "Why, sometimes it looks to me like the difference between what'slegitimate in baseball and in tennis. Every ball-player will try tobluff the umpire that he's safe when he knows the baseman tagged himthree feet from the bag; and public opinion upholds him in his bluff ifhe can get away with it. But like as not, the very same man who lieslike a trooper on the diamond, if he went off that very afternoon toplay tennis would never dream of announcing 'out' if his opponent's ballreally had landed in the court, --not if it cost him the sett andmatch, --whether anybody was looking at him or not. It's 'the thing' totry to get anything you can put over in baseball, anything the umpirecan't catch you at. And it's not 'the thing' in tennis. Most of the timeyou don't even have any umpire. That's it: that's not such a bad way toput it. My wife and I wanted to run our business on the tennis standardand not on the baseball one. Because I believe, ultimately you know, infixing things, --everything, --national life as well, so that we'll needas few umpires as possible. Once get the tennis standard adopted . . . "

Mr. Welles said mournfully, "Don't get started on politics. I'm too oldto have any hopes of that!"

"Right you are there, " said Mr. Crittenden. "Economic organization isthe word. That's one thing that keeps me so interested in my littleeconomic laboratory here. Political parties are as prehistoric as themastodon, 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 toknow 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 toget to. I don't say that that workman back there who was making such abeautiful 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 onlystimulus that's strong enough to stir men up to the prodigious effortthey have to put out to _make_ a go of their business, start the machinerunning. That, and the certainty of all they could get out of theconsumer as a reward. You know it's held that there's a sort of mysticidentity between all you can get out of the consumer and the exactamount of profit that'll just make the business go. "

Mr. Crittenden said comfortably, as though he were talking of somethingthat did not alarm him, "Oh well, the best of the feudal seigneursmournfully believed that a sharp sword and a long lance in their ownhands were the strongholds of society. The wolf-pack idea of businesswill go the same way. " He explained in answer to Mr. Welles' vaguenessas to this term, "You know, the conception that if you're going to gethair brushes or rubber coats or mattresses or what-not enough forhumanity manufactured, the only way is to have the group engaged in itform a wolf-pack, hunting down the public to extract from it as muchmoney as possible. The salesmen and advertisers take care of thisextracting. Then this money's to be fought for, by the people engaged inthe process, as wolves fight over the carcass of the deer they havebrought down together. This is the fight between the directors of laborand the working-men. It's ridiculous to hold that such a wasteful andincoherent system is the only one that will arouse men's energies enoughto 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 bysuch haphazard contracts with public service as helping raise money fora library or heading a movement for better housing of the poor, whenthey don't know anything about the housing of the poor, nor what itought to be. Their opportunity for public service is right in their ownlegitimate businesses, and don't you forget it. Everybody's business ishis best way to public service, and doing it that way, you'd put out ofoperation the professional uplifters who uplift as a business, and can'thelp being priggish and self-conscious about it. It makes me tired theway professional idealists don't see their big chance. They'll take allthe money they can get from business for hospitals, and laboratories, and to investigate the sleeping sickness or the boll-weevil, but thatbusiness itself could rank with public libraries and hospitals as anideal element in the life on the globe . . . They can't open their mindswide enough to take in that. "

Mr. Welles had been following this with an almost painful interest andsurprise. He found it very agitating, very upsetting. Suppose there hadbeen 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. Whyhadn't he thought of it in time? Now it was too late. Too late for himto do anything. Anything? The voice of the man beside him grew dim tohim, as, uneasy and uncertain, his spirits sank lower and lower. Supposeall the time there had been a way out besides beating the retreat to thewomen, the children, and the gardens? Only now it was too late! What wasthe use of thinking of it all?

For a moment he forgot where he was. It seemed to him that there wassomething waiting for him to think of it . . . 

But oddly enough, all that presented itself to him, when he tried tolook, was the story that had nothing to do with anything, which hiscousin had told him in a recent letter, of the fiery sensitive youngNegro doctor, who had worked his way through medical school, andhospital-training, gone South to practise, and how he had been treatedby the white people in the town where he had settled. He wondered if shehadn't exaggerated all that. But she gave such definite details. PerhapsMr. Crittenden knew something about that problem. Perhaps he had an ideaabout 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; "Ihave to kiss you. "

"Oh, you can do as you like, for all of me, " answered the other with anunsparing indifference. 

Marise laughed at the quality of this, taking the shaky old hand in herswith a certainty of affection returned. She went on, "This is a regulardescent on you, Cousin Hetty. I've come to show you off, you and thehouse and the garden. This is Mr. Welles who has settled next door tous, you know, and this is Mr. Marsh who is visiting him for a time. Andhere are the children, and Eugenia Mills came up from the citylast night and will be here perhaps, if she gets up energy afterher afternoon nap, and Neale is coming over from the mill afterclosing hours, and we've brought along a basket supper and, ifyou'll let us, we're going to eat it out in your garden, underGreat-great-grandmother's willow-tree. "

Cousin Hetty nodded dry, though not uncordial greetings to the strangersand said crisply, "You're welcome enough to sit around anywhere you canfind, and eat your lunch here, but where you're going to find anythingto 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 atthe idea. "I want to be let go up to Aunt Hetty's yattic where the swordand '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 theattic stairs and hurt yourselves on the wool-hetchels. "

The fox-terrier, who had hung in an anguish of uncertainty and hope andfear on the incomprehensible words passing between little Mark and thegrown-ups, perceiving now that the children ran clattering towards thestairs, took a few agitated steps after them, and ran back to Marise, shivering, begging with his eyes, in a wriggling terror lest he beforbidden to follow them into the fun. Marise motioned him along up thestairs, saying with a laughing, indulgent, amused accent, "Yes, yes, poor Médor, 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 agreat bound of relief. He whirled with a ludicrous and undignifiedhaste, slipping, his toe-nails clicking on the bare floor, tore acrossthe room and dashed up the stairs, drunk with joy. 

"If strong emotions are what one wants out of life, " commented Mariselightly, to Marsh, "one ought to be born a nervous little dog, givenover to the whimsical tyranny of humans. "

"There are other ways of coming by strong emotions, " answered Marsh, notlightly at all. 

"What in the world are wool-hetchels?" asked Mr. Welles as the grown-upswent along the hall towards the side-door. 

"Why, when I was a girl, and we spun our own wool yarn . . . " began CousinHetty, trotting beside him and turning her old face up to his. 

Marsh stopped short in the hall-way with a challenging abruptness thatbrought Marise to a standstill also. The older people went on down thelong dusky hail to the door and out into the garden, not noticing thatthe other two had stopped. The door swung shut behind them. 

 * * * * *

Marise felt the man's dark eyes on her, searching, determined. They werefar from those first days, she thought, when he had tacitly agreed notto look at her like that, very far from those first days of delicacy andlightness of touch. 

With a determination as firm as his own, she made her face and eyesopaque, and said on a resolutely gay note, "What's the matter? Can't youstand any more information about early times in Vermont? You must havebeen having too heavy a dose of Mr. Bayweather. But _I_ like it, youknow. I find it awfully interesting to know so in detail about any pastperiod of human life; as much so . . . Why not? . . . As researches intowhich 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 willbe telling her old-time stories before we arrive, " she answered, movingtowards the door. 

She felt her pulse knocking loud and swift. Strange how a casualinterchange of words with him would excite and agitate her. But it hadbeen more than that. Everything _was_, with him. 

He gave the sidewise toss of his head, which had come to be so familiarto her, as though he were tossing a lock of hair from his forehead, buthe said nothing more, following her down the long hall in silence. 

It was as though she had physically felt the steel of his blade slidegratingly once more down from her parry. Her mental attitude had been soentirely that of a fencer, on the alert, watchfully defensive againstthe quick-flashing attack of the opponent, that she had an instant'sabsurd fear of letting him walk behind her, as though she might feel athrust in the back. "How ridiculous of me!" she told herself with aninward laugh of genuine amusement. "Women are as bad as fox-terriersfor inventing exciting occasions out of nothing at all. "

Then in a gust of deep anger, instantly come, instantly gone, "Why do Itolerate this for a moment? I was perfectly all right before. Why don'tI simply send him about his business, as I would any other boldmeddler?"

But after this, with an abrupt shift to another plane, "That would beacting preposterously, like a silly, self-consciously virtuous matron. What earthly difference does it make to me what a casual visitor to ourtown says or does to amuse himself in his casual stay, that may end atany moment? And how scarifyingly he would laugh at me, if he knew whatcomic relics of old prudish reflexes are stirred up by the contact withhis mere human livingness. Heavens! How he would laugh to know mecapable of being so 'guindée, ' so personal, fearing like any school-girla flirtation in any man's conversation. He must never see a trace ofthat. No matter how startled I ever am, he mustn't see anything but asmooth, amused surface. It would be intolerable to have him laugh atme. "

Her hand was on the latch, when a deep, muffled murmur from the depthsadmonished her, "Personal vanity . . . That's what's at the bottom of allthat you are telling yourself. It is a vain woman speaking, and fearinga 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 gardenpath, half expecting to have his eyes meet hers with a visible shade ofsardonic mockery, and prepared to meet it halfway with a similaramusement at the absurdity of human beings, herself included. 

 * * * * *

He was not looking at her at all, but straight before him, unconsciousfor an instant that she had turned her eyes on him, and in this instantbefore the customary mask of self-consciousness dropped over his face, she read there, plain and startling to see, unmistakable to her grownwoman's experience of life, the marks of a deep, and painful, andpresent emotion. 

All of her hair-splitting speculations withered to nothing. She did noteven wonder what it was that moved him so strangely and dreadfully. There was no room for thought in the profound awed impersonal sympathywhich with a great hush came upon her at the sight of another humanbeing in pain. 

He felt some intimate emanation from her, turned towards her, and forthe faintest fraction of time they looked at each other through a rentin the veil of life. 

 * * * * *

Cousin Hetty's old voice called them cheerfully, "Over here, this wayunder the willow-tree. "

They turned in that direction, to hear her saying, ". . . That was in 1763and of course they came on horseback, using the Indian trails the menhad learned during the French-and-Indian wars. Great-grandmother (shewas a twelve-year-old girl then) had brought along a willow switch fromtheir home in Connecticut. When the whole lot of them decided to settlehere in the valley, and her folks took this land to be theirs, she stuckher willow switch into the ground, alongside the brook here, and this isthe tree it grew to be. Looks pretty battered up, don't it, like otherold folks. "

Mr. Welles tipped his pale, quiet face back to look up at the greattree, stretching its huge, stiff old limbs mutilated by time andweather, across the tiny, crystal brook dimpling and smiling andmurmuring among its many-colored pebbles. "Queer, isn't it, " hespeculated, "how old the tree has grown, and how the brook has stayedjust as young as ever. "

"It's the other way around between 'Gene Powers' house and hispine-tree, " commented Aunt Hetty. "The pine-tree gets bigger and finerand stronger all the time, seems 'sthough, and the house gets morebattered and feeble-looking. "

Marise looked across at Marsh and found his eyes on her with anexpression she rarely saw in them, almost a peaceful look, as of a manwho has had something infinitely satisfying fall to his lot. He smiledat her gently, a good, quiet smile, and looked away into the extravagantsplendor of a row of peonies. 

Marise felt an inexplicable happiness, clear and sunny like the light inthe old garden. She sat down on the bench and fell into a more relaxedand restful pose than she had known for some time. What a sweet andgracious thing life could be after all! Could there be a lovelier placeon earth than here among Cousin Hetty's flower-children. Dear old CousinHetty, with her wrinkled, stiff exterior, and those bright living eyesof hers. She was the willow-tree outside and the brook inside, that'swhat she was. What tender childhood recollections were bound up with thesight of that quiet old face. 

"And those rose-bushes, " continued the old woman, "are all cuttings mygreat-great-grandmother brought up from Connecticut, and _they_ camefrom cuttings our folks brought over from England, in 1634. If 'twas alittle later in the season, and they were in bloom, you'd see howthey're not nearly so I double as most roses. The petals are bigger andnot so curled up, more like wild roses. "

She sat down beside the others on the long wooden bench, and added, "Inever 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 allthe rest were in me, still alive. "

"Don't you think, " asked Marise of the two men, "that there is somethingawfully sweet about feeling yourself a part of the past generations, like that? As we do here. To have such a familiarity with any corner ofthe earth . . . Well, it seems to me like music, the more familiar it is, the dearer and closer it is . . . And when there are several generationsof familiarity back of you. . . . I always feel as though my life were apart of something much bigger than just _my_ life, when I feel it acontinuation of their lives, as much as of my own childhood. It alwaysseems 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 youwant to know how it really strikes me, I'll have to say it sounds plainsleepy 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 morefamiliar they are. I don't begin to have time in my life for the livingI want to do, my own self! I can't let my grandmothers and grandfatherscome shoving in for another whirl at it. They've had their turn. And myturn isn't a minute too long for me. Your notion looks to me . . . Lots ofold accepted notions look like that to me . . . Like a good big dose ofsoothing syrup to get people safely past the time in their existenceswhen 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 shortas it is!"

He turned hastily to the old lady with an apology. "Why, I _beg_ yourpardon! I didn't realize I had gone on talking aloud. I was justthinking along to myself. You see, your soothing syrup is working on me, the garden, the sun, the stillness, all the grandmothers andgrandfathers sitting around. I am almost half asleep. "

"I'm an old maid, I know, " said Cousin Hetty piquantly. "But I'm not aproper Massachusetts old maid. I'm Vermont, and a swear-word or twodon't scare me. I was brought up on first-hand stories of Ethan Allen'stalk, and . . . "

Marise broke in hastily, in mock alarm, "Now, Cousin Hetty, don't youstart 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 thevoice 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 saidnothing else. 

"Aren't you going to _tell_ us?" asked Mr. Welles with a genuineaggrieved surprise which tickled Cousin Hetty into more laughter. 

"I shall not rest day or night, till I have found someone who knows thatstory, " 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 isher great specialty. "

They all laughed, foolishly, light-heartedly. 

Marise consciously delighted in the laughter, in the silly, light toneof their talk, in the feeling of confidence and security which bathedher as warmly as the new wine of the spring sunshine. She thoughtpassingly, swiftly, with her habitual, satiric wonder at her ownfancifulness, of her earlier notions about steel blades and passes andparries, and being afraid to walk down the hall with her "opponent" backof her. 

Her opponent, this potent, significant personality, lounging on thebench beside her, resting in the interval of a life the intensity ofwhich was out of her world altogether, the life, all power, of a modernrich man in great affairs; controlling vast forces, swaying and shapingthe lives of thousands of weaker men as no potentate had ever done, living in the instants he allowed himself for personal life (she feltagain the pang of her sympathy for his look of fierce, inexplicablepain) with a concentration in harmony with the great scale of his otheractivities. It was, just as the cheap novels called it, a sort, a bad, inhuman, colorful, fascinating sort of modern version of the superman'slife, she reflected. She had been ridiculous to project her villageinsignificance into that large-scale landscape. 

A distant whistle blew a long, full note, filling the valley with itsvibrations. 

"Is that a train, at this hour?" murmured Mr. Welles. His voice was sunkto a somnolent monotone, his hands folded over his waistcoat movedslowly and rhythmically with his breathing. It was evident that he didnot in the least care whether it was a train or not. 

"Oh _no!_" said Marise, severely, disapproving the vagueness andinaccuracy of his observation. "That's the mill-whistle, blowing theclosing-hour. You're no true Ashleyan, not to have learned thedifference between the voices of the different whistles of the day. "

She turned to Marsh, tilting her wings for a capricious flight. "I thinkit's part of the stubborn stiff-jointedness of human imagination, don'tyou, that we don't hear the beauty of those great steam-whistles. Iwonder if it's not unconscious art that gave to our mighty machines suchvoices of qower. "

"Isn't it perhaps ostentatious to call the family saw-mill a 'mightymachine'?" inquired Marsh mildly. He sat at the end of the bench, hisarm along the back behind Mr. Welles, his head turned to the side, hissoft hat pulled low over his forehead, looking at the garden and atMarise out of half-shut, sleepy eyes. 

Marise went on, drawing breath for a longer flight. "When the traincomes sweeping up the valley, trailing its great beautiful banner ofsmoke, I feel as though it were the crescendo announcing something, andat the crossing, when that noble rounded note blares out . . . Why, it'sthe music for the setting. Nothing else could cope with the depth of thevalley, the highness and blackness of its mountain walls, and thesteepness of the Eagle Rocks. "

"I call that going some, 'noble rounded note'!" murmured Marsh, liftinghis 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 asteam-whistle, we won't hear its beauty and grandeur, till somethingelse has been invented to take its place, and then we'll look backsentimentally 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 ofmodern lack of imagination, that you have ever noticed, as an element ofpicturesque power in modern life, the splendid puissance of the trafficcop's presence in a city street. "

They all had a protesting laugh at this, startled for an instant fromtheir 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 moreoutrageous flights of rhetoric. "I could stand for hours on a streetcorner, admiring the completeness with which he is transfigured out ofthe human limitations of his mere personality, how he feels, flamingthrough 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 isnot a human arm, it is the decree of the entire race. And as far as itcan be seen, all those wilful fierce creatures bow themselves to it. Thecurrent boils past him in one direction. He lets it go till he thinksfit to stop it. He sounds his whistle, and raises his arm again in thatinimitable gesture of omnipotence. And again they bow themselves. Nowthat the priest before the altar no longer sways humanity as he did, isthere anywhere else, any other such visible embodiment of might, majesty, and power as . . . "

"Gracious me, Marise!" warned her old cousin. "I know you're onlyrunning on with your foolishness, but I think you're going pretty farwhen you mix a policeman up with priests and altars and things. I don'tbelieve Mr. Bayweather would like that very well. "

"He wouldn't mind, " demurred Marise. "He'd think it an interestinghistorical parallel. "

"Mrs. Bayweather would have a thing or two to say. "

"Right you are. _Mrs. _ Bayweather would certainly say something!" agreedMarise. 

She stood up. "I'm hypnotized into perfect good-for-nothingness like therest of you by the loveliness of the afternoon and the niceness ofeverybody. Here it is almost eating-time and I haven't even opened thebaskets. No, don't you move, " she commanded the others, beginning tostir from their nirvana to make dutiful offers of help. "I'll call thechildren. 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 ofpalpable gold on the three motionless figures in the garden. 

 * * * * *

Then she emerged again, her husband beside her, carrying the largest ofthe baskets, the children struggling with other baskets, a pail, anice-cream-freezer, while the dog wove circles about them, wrought toexaltation by the complicated smell of the eatables. 

"Neale was just coming in the front gate, " she explained, as he noddedfamiliarly to the men and bent to kiss the old woman's cheek. "CousinHetty, 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? Seehere, Mark, who said you could trail that sword out here? That belongsin 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 letme to. Favver, won't you 'trap it tight to me, so's I won't 'traddle itso much. "

"Mother, " said Elly, coming up close to Marise, as she stood unpackingthe dishes, "I was looking inside that old diary, the one in the redleather cover, your grandmother's, I guess, the diary she wrote when shewas a young lady. And she was having a perfectly dreadful time whethershe could believe the Doctrine of the Trinity. She seemed to feel so badabout it. She wrote how she couldn't sleep nights, and cried, andeverything. 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 thingfor a little girl to talk about, right out, so. "

"Mother, _you_ tell me, " said Elly, looking up into her mother's facewith the expression of tranquil trust which was like a visible radiance. Marise always felt scared, she told herself, when Elly looked at herlike that. She made a little helpless shrugged gesture of surrender withher 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, andanyhow I don't understand any more about it than Grandmother did. But Idon't care if I don't. The first quiet minute we have together, I'lltell you enough so you can understand why _she_ cared. "

"All right, when I go to bed tonight I'll remind you to, " Elly made theengagement 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 anotherchair. Marise, have you explained who Eugenia is?"

"Oh là, là, 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 comesand goes in the house at will, " said Neale rapidly. "Cultivated, artistic, and so on. "

"Oh, _Neale_, how slightingly you put it!" cried Marise under herbreath. "She's made herself into one of the rarest and most finishedcreations!"

Neale went on rapidly, in a low tone as the newcomer stepped slowly downthe path, "She toils not, neither does she spin . . . Doesn't have to. Highbrow, very, and yet stylish, very! Most unusual combination. " Headded as final information, "Spinster, by conviction, " as he steppedforward to greet her. 

The other two men stood up to be presented to the newcomer, who, makingeverything to Marise's eyes seem rough and countrified, advanced towardsthem, self-possessed, and indifferent to all those eyes turned on her. In her gleaming, supple dress of satin-like ivory jersey, she lookedsome tiny, finished, jewel-object, infinitely breakable, at which oneought 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 recognitionof this fact, but she was moved to stand closer to her husband, and onceas she moved about, setting the table, to lay her fingers for an instanton his hand. 

"We're going to have ice-cream, Eugenia, " announced Paul, leaning on thearm of her chair after she and all the others were seated again. 

"That's good news, " she said equably. She laid a small, beautiful handon the child's shoulder, and with a smooth, imperceptible movement, sethim a little further from her. Paul did not observe this manoeuver, buthis mother did, with an inward smile. "Paul, don't hang on Eugenia likethat, " 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. Hetoo had seen that gesture. 

"Come here, all you little folks, " ordered Marise, now seriouslybeginning to serve the meal, "and start waiting on the table. "

"Cold lamb!" cried Cousin Hetty with enthusiasm. "I'm so glad. Agneswon't touch mutton or lamb. She says they taste so like a sheep. And sowe 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 itall. "

 * * * * *

From where she sat at the foot of the table, she directed theoperations. The children stepped about, serious, responsible, their rosyfaces translucent in the long, searching, level rays sent up by the sun, low in The Notch. Dishes clicked lightly, knives and forks jingled, cupswere set back with little clinking noises on saucers. All these indoorsounds were oddly diminished and unresonant under the open sky, just asthe chatting, laughing flow of the voices, even though it rose at timesto bursts of mirth which the children's shouts made noisy, never drownedout the sweet, secret talk of the brook to itself. 

Marise was aware of all this, richly and happily aware of thecomplexities of an impression whose total seemed to her, for the moment, felicity itself. It pleased her, all, every bit of it, pleased andamused her; the dear children, Paul worshiping at the shrine ofEugenia's elegancies, Mark the absurd darling with that grotesque swordbetween his legs, Elly devouring her favorite sandwich with impassionedsatisfaction and wondering about the Holy Ghost; Cousin Hetty, ageless, pungent, and savory as one of her herbs; Mr. Welles, the old tireddarling come into his haven, loving Paul as he would his own grandson;Eugenia orchid-like against their apple-blossom rusticity; Marsh . . . Howtremendously more _simpático_ he had seemed this afternoon than everbefore, as though one might really like him, and not just find himexciting and interesting; Neale, dear Neale with his calm eyes intowhich it did everyone good to look. All of them at ease, friendly, enjoying food, the visible world, and each other. Where, after all, werethose traditional, troubling, insoluble intricacies of humanrelationships which had been tormenting her and darkening her sky? Itwas all so good and simple if one could only remain good and simpleoneself. There was no lightning to fear in that lucent sunset air. 

 * * * * *

Presently, as the talk turned on flowers and the dates of theirblooming, Eugenia said to her casually, "Marisette, here we are thefirst of June and past, and the roses here are less advanced than theywere at Tivoli the last of March. Do you remember the day when a lot ofus sat outdoors and ate a picnic dinner, just as we do now? It was theday we climbed Monte Cavo. "

Marise explained, "Miss Mills is a friend who dates back even before myhusband'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 howyou've forgotten about details. We never could have climbed up MonteCavo, the day we went to Tivoli. They don't go on the same excursion, atall. "

"That's true, " agreed Eugenia indifferently, "you're right. Monte Cavogoes with the Rocca di Papa expedition. "

Before she could imagine a possible reason, Marise felt her hands gocold and moist. The sky seemed to darken and lower above her. Eugeniawent on, "And I never went to Rocca di Papa with you, at all, I'm sureof that. That was a trip you took after you had dropped me for Neale. Infact, it was on that very expedition that you got formally engaged, don't you remember? You and Neale walked over from Monte Cavo and onlyjust caught the last car down. "

 * * * * *

Ridiculous! Preposterous! Marise told herself that it was not possiblethat her hands were trembling so. It was merely a physical reaction, such as one had when startled by some trivial sudden event. But shecouldn't make them stop trembling. She couldn't make them stop. 

What nonsense to be so agitated. Nobody could remember the name fromthat evening, weeks and weeks ago. And what if they did? What could theymake of it?

It seemed to her that dusk had fallen in the garden. Where was thatlucent 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 haveforgotten. 

She hazarded a quick glance at Mr. Welles' face and drew a long breathof relief. He had forgotten, that was evident. She looked beyond him toMarsh. He too would certainly have forgotten. 

He was waiting for her eyes. And when they met his, she felt thelightning flash. He had not forgotten. 

II

Marsh suddenly found it unbearable. He wasn't used to keeping the curbon himself like this, and he hadn't the least intention of learning howto do it. A fierce, physical irritability overcame him, and he stoppedshort in the hall, just because he could not stand the silly chatterthat was always flowing from these silly people about their foolishaffairs. If they only knew what he was leaving unsaid!

He had not meant to make Marise halt, too, his movement having been amere unconsidered reflex, but of course she did stop, apparentlysurprised by the brusqueness of his action, and faced him there in thedusky hall-way. She was so close to him that he could see every detailof her face and person, just as he could at night when he closed hiseyes; so close that for an instant he felt her breath on his face. Heground his teeth, minded, that instant, to throw down the trumperylittle wall of convention. It couldn't stand, he knew with anexperienced certainty of his own power that it couldn't stand for aninstant against him. The day he chose to put his shoulder to it, down itwould go in a heap of rubble. 

But the wall was not all. Usually it was all. But with this woman it wasnothing, a mere accident. Beyond it she stood, valid, and looked at himout of those long eyes of hers. _What was in her mind?_ She looked athim now, quietly, just as usual, made some light casual remark, andeffortlessly, as though she had some malign and invincible charm, shehad 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 duringthose weeks and weeks, he had thrown out his net, and had caught enoughfacts, Lord knows. But had he any certainty that he had put themtogether right? He had not yet caught in her any one tone or look orphrase that would give him the unmistakable clue. He had set down wordsand words and words that would tell him what her life really was, if heonly knew the alphabet of her language. He might be making a fool ofhimself with his almost certainty that she was conscious of havingoutgrown, like a splendid tropical tree, the wretched littlekitchen-garden where fate had transplanted her. When he could stamp downhis heat of feeling and let his intelligence have a moment's play, hewas perfectly capable of seeing that he might be misinterpretingeverything he had observed. For instance, that evening over thephotograph-album with her betrayal of some strong feeling of distastefor the place near Rome. It was evident, from her tone, her look, hergesture, that the name of it brought up some acutely distasteful memoryto her, but that could mean anything, or nothing. It might be merelysome sordid accident, as that a drunken workman had said somethingbrutal to her there. Women of her sort, he knew, never forgot thosethings. Or any one of a thousand such incidents. He would never know thesignificance of that gesture of shrinking of hers. 

As he walked behind her, he looked hard at her back, with itsundulating, vase-like beauty, so close to him; and felt her immeasurablydistant. 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 upbeside her. He found that he knew every turn of her head, every poise ofher shoulders and action of her hands, the whole rhythm of her body, asthough 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 hadnever 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 ofinexplicable suffering. 

 * * * * *

What miraculous thing happened then? It seemed to him that her facewavered in golden rays, from the radiance of her eyes. For she did notwithdraw her gaze. She looked at him with an instant, profound sympathyand pity, no longer herself, transfigured, divine by the depth of herhumanity. 

The sore bitterness went out from his heart. 

 * * * * *

A voice called. She turned away. He felt himself following her. Helooked about him, light-headed with relief from pain. The quiet, flowering world shimmered rainbow-like. What a strange power one humanbeing could have with another that a look could be an event!

He walked more slowly, feeling with a curious pleasure the insatiabledesire for possession ebbing from him. Why not let it ebb entirely? Whynot enjoy the ineffable sweetness of what he could have? That was whatwould please her, what she would like, what she would give, freely. Inthis moment of hush, he quite saw how it would be possible, although hehad never for a moment before in his life believed it. Yes, possible andlovely. After all, he must stop sometime, and take the slower pace. Whynot 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 himlaugh, but the next moment he could not have told what she had said. Hemust somehow have been very tired to take such intense pleasure in beingat rest. 

Her husband came, that rough and energetic husband. The children came, the children whose restless, selfish, noisy preying on their motherusually annoyed him so, and still the charm was not broken. Marise, asshe always did when her husband and children were there, retreated intoa remote plane of futile busyness with details that servants should havecared for; answering the children's silly questions, belonging toeveryone, her personal existence blotted out. But this time he feltstill, deep within him, the penetrating sweetness of her eyes as she hadlooked at him. 

A tiresome, sophisticated friend of Marise's came, too, somehowintruding another personality into the circle, already too full, and yethe was but vaguely irritated by her. She only brought out by contrastthe thrilling quality of Marise's golden presence. He basked in that, asin the sunshine, and thought of nothing else. 

Possibilities he had never dreamed of, stretched before him, possibilities of almost impersonal and yet desirable existence. Perhapsthis was the turning-point of his life. He supposed there really wasone, sometime, for everybody. 

 * * * * *

". . . Rocca di Papa . . . " someone had said. Or had he dreamed it? Heawoke with an inward bound, like a man springing up from sleep at asudden noise. His first look was for Marise. She was pale. He had notdreamed 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 beenfriends before her marriage. 

The voice went on. How he listened as though crouched before the keyholeof a door! Only three or four sentences, quite casual and trivial incontent, pronounced in that self-consciously cosmopolitan accent. Thenthe 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, everyfaculty as alert as though he had never been drugged to sleep by thoseweak notions of renunciation. The consciousness of power was like asweet taste in his mouth. The deep, fundamental, inalienable need forpossession stretched itself, titanic and mighty, refreshed, reposed, andstrengthened by the involuntary rest it had had. 

 * * * * *

He fixed his eyes on Marise, waiting for the first interchange of alook. 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 thoseestimates about the popple-wood casters, Neale could follow, more orless closely, as his attention varied, the evening activities of thehousehold. 

First there had been the clinking and laughter from the dining-room andkitchen where Marise and the children cleared off the table and washedthe dishes. How sweet their voices sounded, all light and gay! Everyoccasion for being with their mother was fun for the kids. How happyMarise made them! And how they throve in that happiness like littleplants in the sunshine!

When you really looked at what went on about you, how funny and sillylots of traditional ideas did seem. That notion, solemnly accepted bythe would-be sophisticated moderns, for instance, that a woman of beautyand intelligence was being wasted unless she was engaged in being the"emotional inspiration" of some man's life: which meant in plainEnglish, stimulating his sexual desire to that fever-heat which theycalled impassioned living. As if there were not a thousand other formsof deep fulfilment in life. People who thought that, how narrow andcramped they seemed, and blinded to the bigness and variety of life! Butthen, of course, everybody hadn't had under his eyes a creaturegenuinely rich and various, like Marise, and hadn't seen how allchildren feasted on her charm like bees on honey, and how old peopleadored her, and how, just by being herself, she enriched and civilizedevery life that touched her, and made every place she lived in a homefor the human spirit. And Heaven knew she was, with all that, the realemotional inspiration of a man's life, a man who loved her a thousandtimes more than in his ignorant and passionate youth. 

 * * * * *

Come, this wasn't work. He might as well have stayed out with the familyand helped with the dishes. This was being like Eugenia Mills, whoalways somehow had something to do upstairs when there was any work todo downstairs. Eugenia was a woman who somehow managed to stand fromunder life, anyhow, had been the most successful draft-dodger he knew. No call had been urgent enough to get _her_ to the recruiting station toshoulder her share of what everybody had to do. But what did she get outof her successful shirking? She was in plain process of drying up andblowing away. 

He turned to his desk and drew out the papers which had the figures andestimates on that popple. He would see if the Warner woodlot had as muchpopple and basswood on it as they thought. It would, of course, beeasiest to get it off that lot, if there were enough of it to fill theorder for casters. The Hemmingway lot and the Dornwood lot oughtn't tobe lumbered except in winter, with snow for the sleds. But you couldhaul straight downhill from the Warner lot, even on wheels, using theback lane in the Eagle Rocks woods. There was a period of closeattention to his papers, when he heard nothing at all of what went on inthe rooms next his study. His mind was working with the rapid, trainedexactitude which was a delight to him, with a sure, firm grasp on thewhole problem in all its complicated parts. 

Finally he nodded with satisfaction, pushed the papers away, and lightedhis pipe, contentedly. He had it by the tail. 

He leaned back in his chair, drawing on the newly lighted pipe andruminating again. He thought to himself that he would like to see anyother man in the valley who could make an estimate like that, and besure 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-workand transportation and overhead expenses, and how to market and where, and how to get money and how to get credit and how to manage thesecranky independent Yankees and the hot-tempered irresponsible Canucks. It was all very well for advanced radicals to say that the commonworkmen in a business were as good as the head of the concern. Theyweren'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 runthe business into a hole as deep as hell inside six months. And if youput the whole lot of them at it, it would only be six weeks instead ofsix months before the bust-up. 

There again, what people kept saying about life, things clever peoplesaid and that got accepted as the clever things _to_ say, how awfullybeside the mark they seem to you, when you found out actual facts bycoming up against them. What a difference some first-hand experiencewith what you were talking about, did make with what you said. Whatclever folks ought to say was not that the workmen were as good as thehead or the same sort of flesh and blood, because they weren't; but thatthe head exploited his natural capacities out of all proportion, gettingsuch an outrageous share of the money they all made together, for doingwhat was natural to him, and what he enjoyed doing. Take himself forinstance. If by some freak, he could make more money out of being one ofthe hands, would he go down in the ranks, stand at a machine all day andcut the same wooden shapes, hour after hour: or drive a team day afterday 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 everybodyconcerned, to make him do his job as manager. His real pay was thefeeling of managing, of doing a job he was fitted for, and that wasworth doing. 

How fine it had always been of Marise to back him up in that view ofthe business, not to want him to cheat the umpire, even if he could getaway with it, even though it would have meant enough sight more moneyfor them, even though the umpire didn't exist as yet, except in his ownconscience, in his own idea of what he was up to in his business. Neveronce had Marise had a moment of that backward-looking hankering for moremoney that turned so many women into pillars of salt and their husbandsinto legalized sneak-thieves. 

He pulled out some of the letters from Canada about the Powers case, andfingered them over a little. He had brought them home this evening, andit wasn't the first time either, to try to get a good hour alone withMarise to talk it over with her. He frowned as he reflected that heseemed to have had mighty little chance for talking anything over withMarise since his return. There always seemed to be somebody stickingaround; one of the two men next door, who didn't have anything to do_but_ stick around, or Eugenia, who appeared to have settled downentirely on them this time. Well, perhaps it was just as well to wait alittle longer and say nothing about it, till he had those last finalverifications in his hands. 

What in thunder did Eugenia come to visit them for, anyhow? Their way oflife must make her sick. Why did she bother? Oh, probably her oldaffection for Marise. They had been girls together, of course, andMarise had been good to her. Women thought more of those old-timerelations than men. Well, he could stand Eugenia if she could standthem, 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 lessand less amusing those frequent, small cat-like gestures of hers, picking off an invisible thread from her sleeve, rolling it up to aninvisible ball between her white finger and thumb, and casting itdelicately away; or settling a ring, or brushing off invisible dust witha flick of a polished finger-nail; all these manoeuvers executed withsuch leisure and easy deliberation that they didn't make her seemrestless, and you knew she calculated that effect. A man who had hadyears with a real, living woman like Marise, didn't know whether tolaugh or swear at such mannerisms and the self-consciousness thatunderlay them. 

There she was coming down the stairs now, when she heard Marise at thepiano, 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 waita while, till he had finished his pipe. A pipe beside Eugenia's perfumedcigarettes 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 dothat, with Eugenia fashion-plating herself on the sofa?

He leaned back smoking peacefully, listening to Marise's voice brimmingup all around the children's as they romped through "The raggle-tagglegypsies, oh!"

What a mastery of the piano Marise had, subduing it to the slender pipeof those child-voices as long as they sang, and rolling out sumptuousharmonies in the intervals of the song. Lucky kids! Lucky kids! to havechildhood 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'tstand it!" And Paul answer with that certainty of his always being inthe right, "Aw, Elly, it's not fair. Is it, Mother, fair to have Ellykeep us from singing one of the nicest songs we have, just because she'sso foolish?"

His father frowned. Queer about Paul. He'd do anything for Elly if hethought her in trouble, would stand up for her against the biggest bullyof the school-yard. But he couldn't keep himself from . . . It was perhapsbecause Paul could not _understand_ that . . . Now how could Marise meetthis little problem in family equity, he wondered? Her solutions of thechildren's knots always tickled him. 

She was saying, "Let's see. Elly, it doesn't look to me as though youhad any right to keep Paul from singing a song he likes. And, Paul, itdoesn't seem as though you had any right to make Elly listen to a songthat 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 thekitchen and shut both doors and stand on the back porch. Touclé willprobably be there, looking out, the way she does evenings, so you won'tbe alone. I'll send Mark out to get you when we're through. And becauseit's not very much fun to stand out in the dark, you can stop and getyourself a piece of cocoanut cake as you go through the pantry. "

Neale laughed silently to himself as he heard the doors open and shutand Elly's light tread die away. How perfectly Marise understood herlittle daughter! It wasn't only over the piano that Marise had amastery, but over everybody's nature. She played on them as surely, asrichly as on any instrument. That's what he called real art-in-life. Whywasn't it creative art, as much as anything, her Blondin-like accuracyof poise among all the conflicting elements of family-life, the warringinterests of the different temperaments, ages, sexes, natures? Whywasn't it an artistic creation, the unbroken happiness and harmony shedrew out of those elements, as much as the picture the painter drew outof the reds and blues and yellows on his palette? If it gave an actor ahigh and disinterested pleasure when he had an inspiration, or heardhimself give out a true and freshly found intonation, or make exactlythe 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 samepleasure, and by heck! just as high and disinterested, when she had oncemore turned the trick, had an inspiration, and found a course that allher charges, young and old, could steer together? Well, there was one, anyhow, of Marise's audience who often gave her a silent hand-clap ofadmiration. 

The wailing, lugubrious notes of the negro lament rose now, Paul's voiceloud and clear and full of relish. "It takes a heavy stimulant to givePaul his sensations, " thought his father. "What would take the hideright off of Elly, just gives him an agreeable tingle. " His pipe wentout 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 bloodand listened to see if the old man had come alone. No, of course hehadn't. He never did. 

There was Eugenia's voice saying, "Good-evening, Mr. Marsh. " She wouldmove over for him on the sofa and annex him with a look. Well, let herhave him. He was her kind more than theirs, the Lord knew. Probably hewas used to having that sort of woman annex him. 

Neale moved his head restlessly and shifted his position. His pipe andhis arm-chair had lost their savor. The room seemed hot to him and hegot up to open a window. Standing there by the open sash, looking outinto the blue, misty glory of an overclouded moonlight night, he decidedthat he would not go in at all, and join them. He felt tired and out ofsorts, 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 thattheir speculations on life and human nature were so _far_ off, that itwould be just wasting your breath to try to set them right. He'd stayhere in the study and smoke and maybe doze off a little, till they wentaway. Marise had known he had business figuring to do, and she wouldhave a perfectly valid excuse to give them for his non-appearance. Notthat 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 thatsong. "

Some splendid, surging shouts from the piano and the voices began on"The Battle Hymn of the Republic. " Neale could hear Mr. Welles' shakyold bass booming away this time. He was probably sitting down with Paulon his knees. It was really nice of the old codger to take such a fancyto Paul, and be able to see those sterling qualities of his, throughPaul's surface unloveliness that came mostly from his slowness ofimagination. 

The voices stopped; Elly said, "That song sounds as if it were proud ofitself. " Her father's heart melted in the utter prostration oftenderness he felt for his little daughter. How like Elly! What a quickintelligence animated the sensitive, touching, appealing, defenselessdarling that Elly was! Marise must have been a little girl like that. Think of her growing up in such an atmosphere of disunion andflightiness as that weak mother of hers must have given her. Queer, howMarise didn't seem to have a trace of that weakness, unless it was thatfunny physical impressionableness of hers, that she could laugh atherself, but that still wrought on her, so that if measles were goingthe rounds, she could see symptoms of measles in everything the childrendid or didn't do; or that well-known habit of hers, that even thechildren laughed about with her, of feeling things crawling all over herfor hours after she had seen a caterpillar. Well, that was only theother side of her extraordinary sensitiveness, that made her know howeverybody was feeling, and what to do to make him feel better. She hadoften said that she would certainly die if she ever tried to studymedicine, 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 adoctor, if she'd ever tried it, enough sight better than some callousbrute of a boy with no imagination. 

"One more song before bed-time, " announced Marise. "And we'll let Markchoose. It's his turn. "

A long silence, in which Neale amusedly divined Mark torn between hismany favorites. Finally the high sweet little treble, "Well, let's makeit '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 stirand shifting of chairs. Paul said, "Mother, Mr. Welles and I have fixedit 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 wouldlike it, never had seen any children in their nightgowns except in themovies; Paul saying, "Gracious! We don't wear nightgowns like women. Wewear pajamas!"; Mark's voice crying, "We'll show you how we playfoot-fight on the rug. We have to do that barefoot, so each one cantickle ourselves;" as usual, no sound from Elly probably still revelingin the proudness of "The Battle Hymn of the Republic. "

A clatter of feet on the stairs, the chirping voices muffled by theshutting of a door overhead, and Eugenia's voice, musical and carefullymodulated, saying, "Well, Marisette, you look perfectly worn out withfatigue. You haven't looked a bit well lately, anyhow. And I'm notsurprised. The way those children take it out of you!"

"Damn that woman!" thought Neale. That sterile life of hers had starvedout from her even the capacity to understand a really human existencewhen she saw it. Not that she had _ever_ seemed to have any considerableseed-bed of human possibilities to be starved, even in youth, if hecould judge from his memory, now very dim, of how she had seemed to himin Rome, when he had first met her, along with Marise. He rememberedthat 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 threadhad all been wound off, and there was only the bare wooden spool left. 

"It's not surprising that Mrs. Crittenden gets tired, " commentedMarsh'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 thatpleased him. She must have been at the piano as she spoke, for at oncethere rose, smiting to the heart, the solemn, glorious, hopeless chordsof the last part of the Pathetic Symphony. Heavens! How Marise couldplay!

When the last dull, dreary, beautiful note had vibrated into silence, Eugenia murmured, "Doesn't that always make you want to crawl under thesod and pull the daisies over you?"

"Ashes, ashes, not daisies, " corrected Marsh, dreamily. 

There was, thought Neale listening critically to their intonations, avoluptuous, perverse pleasure in despair which he found verydistasteful. Despair was a real and honest and deadly emotion. Folkswith appetites sated by having everything they wanted, oughtn't to usedespair as a sort of condiment to perk up their jaded zest in life. "Confounded play-actors!" he thought, and wondered what Marise'sreaction to them was. 

He foresaw that it was going to be too much for his patience to listento them. He would get too hot under the collar and be snappish, afterwards. Luckily he was in the library. There were better voices tolisten to. He got up, ran his forefinger along a shelf, and took down avolume of Trevelyan, "Garbaldi and the Thousand. " The well-worn volumeopened of itself at a familiar passage, the description of the battle ofCalatafimi. His eye lighted in anticipation. There was a man's book, hethought. But his pipe was out. He laid the book down to light it beforehe began to read. In spite of himself he listened to hear what they weresaying now in the next room. Eugenia was talking and he didn't like whatshe was saying about those recurrent dreams of Marise's, because he knewit was making poor Marise squirm. She had such a queer, Elly-likeshyness about that notion of hers, Marise had. It evidently meant moreto her than she had ever been able to make him understand. He couldn'tsee why she cared so much about it, hated to have it talked aboutcasually. But he wasn't Eugenia. If Marise didn't want it talked aboutcasually, by George he wasn't the one who would mention it. They'dhardly ever spoken of them, those dreams, even to each other. People hada right to moral privacy, if they wanted it, he supposed, even marriedwomen. There was nothing so ruthless anyhow as an old childhood friend, to whom you had made foolish youthful confidences and who brought themout 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 tellingme about them, years ago, when we were girls together, and nobodyguessed there was anything in dreams. She dreams she is in sometremendous rapid motion, a leaf on a great river-current, or a birdblown by a great wind, or foam driven along by storm-waves, isn't thatit, Marisonne?"

Neale did not need the sound of Marise's voice to know how she hatedthis. She said, rather shortly for her, as though she didn't want to saya word about it, and yet couldn't leave it uncorrected, "Not exactly. Idon't dream I'm the leaf on the current. I dream I _am_ the currentmyself, part of it. I'm the wind, not the bird blown by it; the waveitself; it's too hard to explain. "

"Do you still have those dreams once in a while, Marisette, and do youstill love them as much?"

"Oh yes, sometimes. "

"And have you ever had the same sensation in your waking moments? Iremember so well you used to say that was what you longed for, someexperience in real life that would make you have that glorious sense ofirresistible forward movement. We used to think, " said Eugenia, "thatperhaps 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 outthere 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?" askedEugenia, evidently of Marsh. 

"Why, it sounds simple enough to me, " said Marsh, and Neale was obligedto 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 talkhalf-chewed and wholly undigested nonsense, the way Eugenia did. Nealehad heard enough of his ideas to know that he didn't agree with a wordthe man said, but at least it was a vital and intelligent personalitytalking. 

"Why, it sounds simple enough to me. Americans have fadded the thinginto imbecility, so that the very phrase has become such a bromide onehates to pronounce it. But of course the commonplace that all dreams areexpressions of suppressed desires is true. And it's very apparent thatMrs. Crittenden's desire is a very fine one for freedom and power andmomentum. She's evidently not a back-water personality. Though one wouldhardly need psycho-analysis to guess that!" He changed the subject asmasterfully as Neale could have done. "See here, Mrs. Crittenden, thatTschaikowsky whetted my appetite for more. Don't you feel like playingagain?"

The idea came over Neale, and in spite of his uneasy irritation, ittickled his fancy, that possibly Marsh found Eugenia just as deadly ashe did. 

Marise jumped at the chance to turn the talk, for in an instant thepiano began to chant again, not Tschaikowsky, Neale noted, but some ofthe new people whom Marise was working over lately. He couldn'tunderstand a note of them, nor keep his mind on them, nor even try toremember their names. He had been able to get just as far as Debussy andno further, he thought whimsically, before his brain-channels hardenedin incipient middle-age. 

He plunged into Trevelyan and the heart-quickening ups and downs ofbattle. 

Some time after this, he was pulled back from those critical andglorious hours by the consciousness, gradually forcing itself on him ontwo discomforts; his pipe had gone out and Eugenia was at it again. Hescratched a match and listened in spite of himself to that smooth liquidvoice. She was still harping on psycho-analysis. Wasn't she just thekind of woman for whom that would have an irresistible fascination! Hegathered that Marise was objecting to it, just as sweepingly as Eugeniawas approving. How women did hate half-tones and reasonablequalifications!

"I'm a gardener, " Marise was saying, "and I know a thing or two aboutnatural processes. The thing to do with a manure pile is not to paw itover and over, but to put it safely away in the dark, underground, andnever bother your head about it again except to watch the beauty andvitality of the flowers and grains that spring from the earth it hasfertilized. "

Neale as he held the lifted match over his pipe, shook his head. Thatwas all very well, put picturesquely as Marise always put things; butyou couldn't knock an idea on the head just with an apt metaphor. Therewas a great deal more to be said about it, even if fool half-bakedfaddists like Eugenia did make it ridiculous. In the first place it wasnothing so new. Everybody who had ever encountered a crisis in his lifeand conquered it, had . . . Why, he himself . . . 

He felt his heart beat faster, and before he knew what was coming, hefelt a great, heart-quickening gust of fresh salt air blow over him, andfelt himself far from the book-tainted stagnant air of that indoorroom. He forgot to light his pipe and sat motionless, holding theburning 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 whenhe had gone down to the harbor just as the battered little tramp steamerwas pulling out, bound for China. 

Good God! What an astonishing onslaught that had been! How from somegreat, fierce, unguessed appetite, the longing for wandering, lawlessfreedom had burst up! Marise, the children, their safe, snugmiddle-class life, how they had seemed only so many drag-anchors to cuthimself loose from and make out to the open sea! If the steamer had beenstill close enough to the dock so that he could have jumped aboard, howhe would have leaped! He might have been one of those men whodisappeared mysteriously, from out a prosperous and happy life, and arenever heard of again. But it hadn't been close enough. The green oilywater widened between them; and he had gone back with a burning heart tothat 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 himselfwhat the hell was the matter, and he'd gone after it, as any grown manwould. It hadn't been fun. He remembered that the sweat had run down hisface as though he'd been handling planks in the lumber-yard inmidsummer. 

And what had he found? He'd found that he'd never got over the jolt ithad given him, there on that aimless youthful trip through Italy, withChina and the Eastern seas before him, to fall in love and have allthose 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? Hehadn't pulled any of the moralizing stern-duty stuff; he knew Marisewould rather die than have him doing for her something he hated, out ofstern duty. It was an insult, anyhow, unless it was a positivelyhelpless 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. Sohe hadn't. 

That was the sort of thing Marise had meant, so long ago, when they werefirst 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 promisehad held him straight to what was, after all, the only decent coursewith a woman like Marise, as strong as she was fine. Anything else wouldbe treating her like a child, or a dependent, as he'd hate to have hertreat him, or anybody treat him. 

So this time he'd asked himself right out, what he really wanted andneeded in life, and he'd been ready, honestly ready, to take any answerhe got, and dree his weird accordingly, as the best thing for everybodyconcerned, as the only honest thing, as the only thing that would putany bed-rock under him, as what Marise would want him to do. If it meanttramp-steamers, why it had to be tramp-steamers. Something could bemanaged 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 thetramp-steamer stood for. He guessed everybody wanted that, more or less. But he wanted Marise and the children a damn sight more. And not onlyMarise and the children. He hadn't let himself lay it all on theirbacks, and play the martyr's rôle of the forcibly domesticated wildmale. No, he wanted the life he had, outside the family, his own line ofwork; he wanted the sureness of it, the coherence of it, the permanenceof 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 thenatural resources of the world without exploiting either the naturalresources or the men; he wanted the sense of deserved power over otherhuman beings. That was what he really wanted most of all. You couldcall it smug and safe and bourgeois if you liked. But the plain factremained that it had more of what really counted for him than any otherlife he could see possible. And when he looked at it, hard, with hiseyes open, why the tramp-steamer to China sailed out of school-boytheatrical clouds and showed herself for the shabby, sordid littlesubstitute for a real life she would have been to him. 

He'd have liked to have that too, of course. You'd _like_ to haveeverything! But you can't. And it is only immature boys who whimperbecause you can't have your cake and eat it too. That was all there wasto 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 soflowery and high-falutin. Maybe she would say that what he had done wasexactly what she'd described, to dig it under the ground and let itfertilize and enrich his life. 

Oh Lord! how a figure of speech always wound you up in knots if youtried to use it to say anything definite!

He relighted his pipe, this time with a steady hand, and a cool eye; andturned to Trevelyan and Garibaldi again. He'd take that other side ofhimself out in books, he guessed. 

He had now arrived at the crucial moment of the battle, and lifted hishead and his heart in anticipation of the way Garibaldi met that moment. He read, "To experienced eyes the battle seemed lost. Bixio said toGaribaldi, 'General, I fear we ought to retreat. ' Garibaldi looked up asthough 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 inthe 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 perfectlyabout the hour and place for lunch. But then Mr. Welles was awfully niceabout agreeing. He said, now, "Yes, I believe this would be the bestplace. Here by the pool, on that big rock, as you say. We'll be drierthere. 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 waterall around. The fire couldn't possibly spread. " Paul looked proudly atthe rain-soaked trees and wet soggy leaves which his forethought hadsaved 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 yousit down over there and undo the lunch-basket? I'll make camp. Fathershowed 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 soused to these mountain scrambles as you are. "

"I'll clean the fish, too, " said Paul; "maybe you don't like to. Ellycan't abide it. " He did not say that he did not like it very wellhimself, having always to get over the sick feeling it gave him. 

"I never did it in my life, " confessed Mr. Welles. "You see I alwayslived in towns till now. "

Paul felt very sorry for Mr. Welles, and shook his head pityingly as hewent off for more firewood. 

When he had collected a lot, he began to lay the sticks. He did it justas 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 havea bit of breath left in him, by the time he finally got it going. Andmy, 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 nothinganybody could do which he could not. 

They hung the slimpsy slices of bacon from forked sticks, Paul showingMr. Welles how to thread his on, and began to cook them around the edgesof the fire, while the two little trout frizzled in the frying-pan. "I'mso glad we got that last one, " commented Paul. "One wouldn't have beenvery 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 stillsoft in the thicker places in the center of the slice), and the fish theright brown, and 'most shrunk up to nothing, they each of them put atrout and a piece of bacon on his slice of bread and butter, andgracious! didn't it taste good. 

"You must have done this before, " said Mr. Welles, respectfully; "youseem to know a good deal about camping. "

"Oh, I'm a good camper, all right, " agreed Paul. "Mother and I have goneoff in the woods, lots of times. When I was littler, I used to getspells when I was bad. I do still, even now, once in a while. "

Mr. Welles did not smile, but continued gravely eating his bread andbacon, his eyes on the little boy. 

"I don't know what's the matter. I feel all snarled up inside. And thenthe first thing you know I've done something awful. Mother can tell whenit first gets started in me, the least little teenty bit. _How_ can shetell? And then she takes me off camping. She pretends it's because she'sfeeling snarled up, herself. But it's not. She never is. Why not?"

He considered this in silence, chewing slowly on a vast mouthful ofbread. "Anyhow, we leave the little children with Touclé, if she'sthere, " (he stopped here an instant to inspect Mr. Welles to make surehe was not laughing because he had called Elly and Mark the "littlechildren. " But Mr. Welles was not laughing at him. He was listening, _really_ listening, the way grown-ups almost never did, to hear what youhad to say. He did like Mr. Welles. He went on, ) "or if Touclé's offsomewheres in the woods herself, we leave them down at the Powers' toplay 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, uncorkinga 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 theirsecond round of sandwiches, filled this time with cold ham from home, hesaid, "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 expectI'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, talkingabout looking out for folks makes me think of something that's botheringme like everything lately. I can't make up my mind about whether Iought to go on, looking out for folks, if I know folks that need it. Ikeep hearing from somebody who lives down South, that the colored folksaren't getting a real square deal. I keep wondering if maybe I oughtn'tto go and live there and help her look out for them. "

Paul was so astonished at this that he opened his mouth wide, withoutspeaking. When he could get his breath, he shouted, "Why, Mr. Welles, goaway from Ashley to live!" He stared hard at the old man, thinking hemust have got it twisted. But Mr. Welles did not set him straight, onlystared down at the ground with a pale, bothered-looking face and sort oftwitched his mouth to one side. 

The little boy moved over closer to him, and said, looking up at himwith 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 dotogether. "

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. Wellescouldn't have been in earnest. 

How still it was in the woods that day. Not the least little flutterfrom any leaf. The sunlight looked as green, as green, coming downthrough the trees that way, like the light in church when the sun camein 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 treeacross the brook. Probably it was worried about its nest and didn't liketo have people so near. And yet they sat as still, he and Mr. Welles, asstill as a tree, or the shiny water in the pool. 

Mr. Welles opened his eyes and took the little boy's rough, callousedhand 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 forme to live. And they have. I hadn't any idea anything could be so niceas living next door to you folks in such a place as Crittenden's. Andthen making friends with you. I'd always wanted a little boy, but Ithought I was so old, no little boy would bother with me. "

He squeezed the child's fingers and looked down on him lovingly. For amoment Paul's heart swelled up so he couldn't speak. Then he said, in ahusky voice, "I _like_ to. " He took a large bite from his sandwich andrepeated roughly, his mouth full, "I _like_ to. "

Neither said anything more for a moment. The flicker . . . Yes, it was aflicker . . . In the big beech kept changing her position, flying downfrom a top-branch to a lower one, and then back again. Paul made out thehole in the old trunk of the tree where she'd probably put her nest, andwondered 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 hisexpression that he was trying to think of some simple baby way to saywhat he wanted to. Gracious! didn't he know Paul was in the seventhgrade? "_I_ can understand all right, " he said roughly. 

Mr. Welles said, "Well, all right. If you can, you'll do more than Ican. You know how the colored people got their freedom then. Butsomething 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 ina hurry. And so far, it's been too much for everybody, to get thisstraightened out. The colored people . . . They're made to suffer all thetime for being born the way they are. And that's not right . . . InAmerica . . . "

"Why don't they stand up for themselves?" asked Paul scornfully. He'dlike to see anybody who would make him suffer for being born the way hewas. 

Mr. Welles hesitated again. "It looks to me this way. People can fightfor some things . . . Their property, and their vote and their work. And Iguess the colored people have got to fight for those, themselves. Butthere are some other things . . . Some of the nicest . . . Why, if youfight 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, ifyou 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 anystate of mind to go on being your best. That's a pretty hard job foranybody. "

Paul found this very dull. His attention wandered back to that queerflicker, so excited about something. 

The old man tried to get at him again. "Look here, Paul, Americans thathappen to be colored people ought to have every bit of the same chanceto 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, andsaid so. 

"Well, I couldn't do a great deal, " said the old man sadly, "but morethan if I stayed here. It looks as though they needed, as much asanything else, people to just have the same feeling towards them thatyou have for anybody who's trying to make the best of himself. And Icould do that. "

Paul got the impression at last that Mr. Welles was in earnest aboutthis. It made him feel anxious. "Oh _dear_!" he said, kicking the toe ofhis 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, beatingher wings and calling in a loud scream. The old man, unused to forestsand their inhabitants, noticed this but vaguely, and was surprised byPaul's instant response. "There must be a snake after her eggs, " he saidexcitedly. "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 solemnlybowed itself and with a great roar of branches, whipping and crushingthe trees about, it fell, its full length thundering on the ground, agreat mat of shaggy roots uptorn, leaving an open wound in the stonymountain soil. Then, in a minute, it was all as still as before. 

Paul was scared almost to death. He scrambled back to the rock, hisknees shaking, his stomach sick, and clung to Mr. Welles with all hismight. "What made it fall? There's no wind! What made it fall?" hecried, burying his face in the old man's coat. "It might just as easyhave fallen this way, on us, and killed us! What made it fall?"

Mr. Welles patted Paul's shoulder, and said, "There, there, " till Paul'steeth stopped chattering and he began to be a little ashamed of showinghow it had startled him. He was also a little put out that Mr. Welleshad 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 livedhere more, and heard some of the stories . . . ! Nate Hewitt had his backbroken with a tree falling on him. But he was cutting that one down, andit 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 onthe 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 madethat tree fall. He sat up, and looked back at it, just a mess of brokenbranches and upset leaves, where a minute before there had been a tallliving 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 holein the ground, and almost right away he saw what the reason was. He ranback to tell Mr. Welles. "I see now. The brook had kept sidling overthat way, and washed the earth from under the rocks. It just didn't haveenough ground left to hold on to. "

He felt all right now he knew some simple reason for what had looked socrazy. He looked up confidently at the old man, and was struck into awedsilence by the expression of Mr. Welles' face. 

"Paul, " said Mr. Welles, and his voice wasn't steady, "I guess what Iought to try to be is one more drop of water in the brook. "

Paul stared hard. He did not understand this either, but he understoodthe expression in that tired, old face. Mr. Welles went on, "That wrongfeeling about colored people, not wanting them to be respected as muchas any American, is . . . That's a tree that's got to come down. I'm tooold to take an axe to it. And, anyhow, if you cut that sort of thingdown with an axe, the roots generally live and start all over again. Ifwe can just wash the ground out from under it, with enough peoplethinking differently, maybe it'll fall, roots and all, of its ownweight. If I go and live there and just am one more person who respectsthem when they deserve it, it'll help _that_ much, maybe, don't youthink?"

Paul had understood more what Mr. Welles' face and voice said to himthan the words. He kept on looking into the old man's eyes. Somethingdeep 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 hishand. "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 theold 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 foundthe newly opened spot in the roof of the woods, and it seemed to Paul itpointed a long steady finger down on the fallen beech. 

At first Paul's throat ached, and his eyes smarted. He felt heavy andsore, 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 wasbetter than happy. He laid his head against Mr. Welles' shoulder andlooked up into the worn, pale old face, which was now also very quietand 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 wasclear. He said to himself solemnly, "I guess I know who I want to belike when I grow up. "

 * * * * *

By and by, he stirred and said, "Well, I guess I better start to packup. Don't you bother. I'll pack the things away. Mother showed me how toclean 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, andwiped 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 themerciless heat of the early-summer sun. She was not indeed thinking atall of what she was doing, except that the physical effort of stoopingand reaching and pulling was a relief to her, made slightly lessoppressive the thunder-heavy moral atmosphere she breathed. She wastrying to think, but the different impressions came rushing into hermind with such vehement haste that they dashed against each otherbrutally, to her entire confusion. 

When she tried to think out an answer to this perfectly preposterousidea of old Mr. Welles, why should a thousand other horrifying ideaswhich she had been keeping at bay pour in through the door, once openedto probing thought? What possible connection could there be between sucha fantastic crazy notion as his, and those other heaving, loomingpossibilities which rolled themselves higher and murkier the longer sherefused to look at them? She snatched at the weeds, twitching them up, flinging them down, reaching, straining, the sun molten on her back, thesweat stinging on her face. It was a silly impression of course, but itseemed to her that if she hurried fast enough with the weeds, thosethoughts and doubts could not catch up with her. 

She had put them off, and put them off while Neale was away, becausethey scared her, and she didn't want to look at them without Neale. Buthe had been back for weeks now and still she put them off. All thosetarnishing sayings, those careless, casual negations of what she hadtaken for axioms; that challenge to her whole life dropped from time totime as though it were an accepted commonplace with all intelligentbeings. . . . 

Was her love for the children only an inverted form of sensual egotism, an enervating slavery for them, really only a snatched-up substitute forthe personal life which was ebbing away from her? Was her attitudetowards her beloved music a lazy, self-indulgent one, to keep it toherself and the valley here? Was that growing indifference of hers todress and trips to the city, and seeing Eugenia's smart crowd there, asign of mental dry-rot? Was it a betrayal of what was alive in her ownpersonality to go on adapting herself to the inevitable changes in herrelations with Neale, compromising, rather than . . . "

"Aren't you awfully hot to go on doing that?" asked Neale, coming upbehind her, from the road. She was startled because she had not heardhim approach on the soft, cultivated ground of the garden. And as sheturned 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 herforehead with her sleeve, as unconscious of her looks before Neale asthough 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 stayright out here, where the children won't know where we are, we can havea few minutes quite to ourselves. Touclé is going to get tea tonight. Neale, sit down a minute. I want to tell you something. I'm awfullyupset. 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 mindall 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 howmuch he loves it!" She stopped, her voice shaking a little, and waitedtill she could get it under control. Her husband took her stained, dustyhand in his. She gave his fingers a little pressure, absently, notnoting what she did, and seeing the corner of his handkerchief showingin the pocket of his shirt, she pulled it out with a nervous jerk, andwiped 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 beengetting lots more letters from that niece or cousin of his, down inGeorgia. She tells him about things, how the Negroes are treated, allthe Jim Crow business carried into every single detail of every singleminute of every single day. It seems they're not badly treated as longas they'll stay day-laborers or servants, but . . . Oh well, there's noneed to go on with telling you . . . _you_ know. We all know well enoughwhat 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. Isuppose she ought to know. She's lived there for forty years. She keepsciting instances she's seen. " Marise broke out with a fierce, blamingsharpness, "I don't see what _business_ she had, writing him that way. Ithink 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 onmore coherently, and knew that his patience came from a longacquaintance with her mental habits, a certainty that her outbursts offeeling generally did quiet down if one waited: and across her genuineabsorption in the story she was telling there flitted, bat-like, adistaste far being known so well as all that! There was somethingindiscreet and belittling in it, she thought, with an inward fastidiousrecoil. But this had gone, entirely, in a moment, and she was rushingon, "And, Neale, what _do_ you think? She has worked on him, and he hasworked on himself till he's got himself in a morbid state. He thinksperhaps he ought to leave Ashley that he loves so much and go down tolive where this horrid cousin lives. . . . "

Her husband's astonishment at this was as great as she could havedesired. None of Neale's usual, unsurprised acceptance of everythingthat happened as being in the nature of things, which occasionally sorubbed her the wrong way, and seemed to her so wilfully phlegmatic. Hewas sincerely amazed and astounded; that was plain from his exclamation, his tone, his face. Of course he wasn't as outraged as she, but thatwasn't to be expected, since he hadn't seen so much of that dear oldlife-worn man, nor grown so protectingly fond of him. She revelled inNeale's astonishment as bearing out her own feeling. "Isn't it crazy, Neale! Don't you think it crazy! Is there the slightest justificationfor it? You feel, just as I do, don't you, that it's a perfectlyunbalanced, fanatical, _fool_ish thing to think of doing, his going downinto that hopeless mess?"

But her husband had had a moment's time, while she exclaimed, to getback to his usual unhurried post in life. "It's certainly about asunexpected as anything I ever heard of, " he admitted. "I should have toknow 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! Whatelse could you find out? You know how he's given all his life to lookingout for his family, ending up with years of that bed-ridden old aunt theothers wished on to him, just because he was too soft-hearted to get outfrom under. You know how anxious the Company was to do something to makeup to him for all the years of service he gave them. And you know howhappy he has been here, how he's loved it all, and fathered every rootand seed in his garden, and how he and Paul have struck up such a sweetaffection, and how he could be happier and happier. " She struck herhands together. "Oh, Neale, I can't have him do such a foolish, uselessthing, and spoil his life! It's not as if he'd be of any use down inGeorgia. You know how the Southern white people detest Northernerscoming down and interfering with the Negroes. Maybe they're wrong. Butthey're the people who live there. What could _he_ do against them? Whatunder the sun could one tired-out old man accomplish in a situation thatevery American knows to be simply impossible?" She looked hard at herhusband's thoughtful face and threw herself against him with a petulantgesture. "Now, Neale, don't go and justify him! Don't say you think he'sright. "

He put his arm about her shoulders, hot and wet under their ginghamcovering, and she leaned against him, the gesture as unconsidered andunconscious for the one as the other. "No, I'm not going to try tojustify him. I suppose I think he's very foolish. But I must say itshows a pretty fine spirit. I take off my hat to his intention. "

"Oh yes, his intention . . . " conceded Marise. "He's an old saint, ofcourse. Only he mustn't be allowed to ruin his life and breakeverybody's heart, even if he is a saint. "

"That's the way saints usually run their business, isn't it?" askedNeale. "And I'd like to know how anybody's going to keep him from doingit, if he decides he ought to. "

"Oh yes, we can, " urged Marise, sitting up with energy. "We can, everyone of us, throw ourselves against it, argue with him, tell him that itseems to us not only foolish, and exaggerated, and morbid, but conceitedas if he thought what _he_ did would count so very much. We can make himfeel that it would be sort of cheating the Company, after what they'vedone for him; we can just mass all our personalities against it, usemoral 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 thinkbest. "

She recognized a familiar emergence of granite in his voice and aspectand 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 extremerapidity between them, over ground intimately familiar. In the middle ofthis, she broke violently into words, quite sure that he would know atwhich point she took it up. "You carry that idea to perfectly impossiblelengths, Neale. Don't you ever admit that we ought to try to make otherpeople act the way we think best, even when we _know_ we're right andthey're wrong?"

"Yes, " admitted her husband, "I should think we were bound to. If weever _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 ofa poker?"

"A child is different, " he opposed her. "All grown-ups are responsiblefor all children. I suppose I'd keep him from taking hold of it. And yetI'm not dead sure I'd be right. If I thought he was only just going totouch it, to see if it really would burn him as people had told him, Iguess 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 totake 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 saidanything, noticed anything. But I had a sort of notion that 'Genedoesn't like Frank hanging around the house so much. "

"Well . . . " commented her husband, with a lively accent of surprise. "Ihadn't dreamed of such a thing. And it throws a light on something Ihappened to see this afternoon, on my way home. I came round the backway, the ravine road below the Eagle Rocks. I wanted to see about somepopple we're thinking of buying from the Warners, on the shoulder beyondthe Rocks. It didn't occur to me, of course, that anybody else would beup there, but just at the peak of the shoulder I saw 'Gene Powers, lyingdown beside a big beech-tree. He didn't hear me, walking on thepine-needles. And for a minute I stood there, and honestly didn't knowwhat to do. "

"How do you mean . . . 'lying down'?" asked Marise, not visualizing thescene. "As though he were sick?"

"No, not a bit that way. Not on his back, but on his face, looking overthe edge of the ridge. All strung up like a bow, his head down betweenhis shoulders and shot forwards like a cat stalking something. _I_ tellyou, he made me think of a hunter when he thinks he sees a deer. Ithought 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 wasgoing to say, just for the sake of saying something, 'Laying your plansfor next deer-week?' But as he went by and nodded, he looked at me withsuch an odd expression that I thought I'd better not. The idea came tome that maybe 'Gene does poach and occasionally take a deer out ofseason. Meat is so high it wouldn't be surprising. They have a prettyhard time scraping along. I don't know as I'd blame him if he did shoota deer once in a while. 

"Well, after I'd been on beyond and made my estimate on the popple, Icame 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 beenlooking at so hard. I got up to the big beech where he'd been, andlooked over. And I got the surprise of my life. He couldn't have beenlooking at deer, for on the other side the cliff drops down sheer, andyou look right off into air, across the valley. I was so surprised Istood there, taken aback. The afternoon train went up the valley while Istood there, staring. It looked so tiny. You're really very high onthose Rocks. I noticed you could see your Cousin Hetty's house fromthere, and the mill and the Powers house. That looked like a child'splaything, 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 mareof his as much as he drives her. "

"Yes, that's what came into my mind when you spoke his name just now inconnection 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'tsuppose there is anything in his jealousy. . . . Nelly is as inscrutable inher way as 'Gene. "

"Heavens! how should I know? But my guess is that 'Gene is making a foolof himself for nothing. Nelly doesn't strike me as being the sort ofwoman 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. Andshe's not one of our native valley girls, you know. It may seem verydull and cooped-up here, so far from town, and shops. She may envy hersisters, still living back in West Adams with city life around them. "

"Oh, it's possible enough, I suppose, " admitted Neale. "But she seemsperfectly contented, and thinks the world of the children. "

Marise's face clouded. The phrase had recalled her dark preoccupationsof a moment ago. "Lots of people nowadays would say she seems to be fondof the children because she is using them to fill up a lack in herlife, " she said somberly; "that 'Gene no longer satisfied her, and thatshe fed on the children because she was starving emotionally. " Herhusband making no comment on this, she went on, "Neale, don't you thinkthat people are saying horrid, distressing things nowadays? Aboutmarriage I mean, and all relations between men and women and betweenparents and children?" Her heart was beating faster as she finished thisquestion. 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 andperfectly true, " remarked Neale casually. He tilted his hat further overhis eyes and leaned back, propping himself on one elbow. 

"_Neale_!" she protested, shocked and repelled. She had hoped forsomething very different from Neale. But she thought, in a momentaryexasperation with him, she might have known she would not get it. Healways took everything so abstractedly, so impersonally. 

"I don't see any use in pretending there's not, " he advanced with areasonable, considering air. "I don't see that intimate humanrelationships are in any _more_ of a mess than other human relations. International ones, for instance, just now. But they certainly are inconsiderable of a mess, in a great many cases. It is evident that lotsof times they're managed all wrong. "

Marise was so acutely disappointed that she felt a quavering ache in herthroat, and kept silence for a moment. So this was what she had lookedforward to, as a help. What was Neale there _for_, if not for her tolean against, to protect her, to be a defending wall about her? He wasso strong and so clearheaded, he could be such a wall if he chose. Howstern and hard he was, the core of him!

"Neale, " she said after a moment, "I wonder if you even _know_ whatthings are being said about what we've always believed in . . . Motherhoodfor instance, and marriage?"

She had been unable to keep the quaver out of her voice, and at thesound 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 perfectlymiserable, 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 herclose. She thought angrily, "He thinks it's just a fit of nerves I canbe 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 thatthe subject agitated her, and did not see any possibility that it mighttouch them both, personally. 

"I have to think whatever I'm convinced is true, whether it makes memiserable or not, don't I?" he said gently. "And it does make memiserable, of course. Who can help being miserable at the spectacle ofsuch rich possibilities as human life is full of, mismanaged and spoiledand lost?"

"But, Neale, do you realize that people are thinking, books are beingwritten to prove that parents' love for their children is onlyself-love, hypocritically disguised, and sometimes even sexual lovecamouflaged; and that anybody is better for the children to be with thantheir mother; and that married people, after the first flare-up ofpassion is over, hate each other instead of loving?"

"I daresay there's a certain amount of truth in that, occasionally. Itwould certainly explain some of the inexplicable things we all seehappen in family life, " he remarked. 

Marise started and cried out piercingly, "Neale, how can you say suchthings to _me_!"

He looked at her keenly again, keenly and penetratingly, and said, "I'mnot one of those who think it inherent in the nature of women to takeabstract propositions personally always. But I do think they will haveto make a big effort to get themselves out of a mighty old acquiredhabit of thinking every general observation is directed at thempersonally. "

She flashed out indignantly at him, "How can you help taking itpersonally when it shakes the very foundations of our life?"

He was astonished enough at this to suit even her. His face showed themost 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 inbooks, do you, if it contradicts your own experience? Just because youread that lots of American men had flat-foot and were refused at therecruiting 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 walkon them, to know for sure they're all right. Heavens and earth! Peopleof our age, who have really lived, don't need somebody in a book to tellthem what's happening to them. Don't you _know_ whether you really loveElly 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, allright. 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 shewanted. She clutched at the strong hand which seemed at last held out toher. 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 forargument. "

He withdrew the hand. "Yes, I do believe a good deal of as a generalproposition. What I'm saying, what I'm always saying, dear, and tryingmy best to live, is that everybody must decide for himself when ageneral proposition applies to him, what to believe about his own lifeand its values. Nobody else can tell him. "

She approached along another line. "But, Neale, that's all very well foryou, because you have so much withstandingness in you. But for me, thereare things so sacred, so intimate, so much a part of me, that only tohave some rough hand laid on them, to have them pulled out and pawedover 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 sohigh and delicate that they can't stand questioning?"

He considered this a long time, visibly putting all his intelligence onit. "I can't say, for you, " he finally brought out. "You're so muchfiner and more sensitive than I. But I've never in all these years seenthat your fineness and your sensitiveness make you any less strong inthe last analysis. You suffer more, respond more to all the implicationsof things; but I don't see that there is any reason to think there's anyinherent weakness in you that need make you afraid to look at facts. "

He presented this testimony to her, seriously, gravely. It took herbreath, coming from him. She could only look at him in speechlessgratitude and swallow hard. Finally she said, falteringly, "You're toogood, Neale, to say that. I don't deserve it. I'm awfully weak, manytimes. "

"I wouldn't say it, if it weren't so, " he answered, "and I didn't sayyou weren't weak sometimes. I said you were strong when all was said anddone. "

Even in her emotion, she had an instant's inward smile at the Neale-likequality of this. She went on, "But don't you think there is such a thingas spoiling beautiful elements in life, with handling them, questioningthem, for natures that aren't naturally belligerent and ready to fightfor what they want to keep? For instance, when somebody says thatchildren in a marriage are like drift-wood left high on the rocks of adwindled stream, tokens of a flood-time of passion now gone by. . . . " Shedid not tell him who had said this. Nor did he ask. But she thought byhis expression that he knew it had been Vincent Marsh. 

He said heartily, "I should just call that a nasty-minded remark fromsomebody who didn't know what he was talking about. And let it go atthat. "

"There, you see, " she told him, "that rouses your instinct to resist, tofight 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 keepin this world. I don't see any way out of it. And I don't believe thatanybody else can do your fighting for you. You ask if it's not possibleto have beautiful, intimate things spoiled by questioning, criticisms, doubts. Yes, I do think it is, for young people, who haven't learnedanything of life at first hand. I think they ought to be protected tillthey have been able to accumulate some actual experience of life. That'sthe only weapon for self-defense anybody can have, what he has learnedof life, himself. Young people are apt to believe what older people tellthem about life, because they don't know anything about it, yet, themselves, and I think you ought to be careful what is questioned intheir presence. But I don't see that mature people ought to be protectedunless you want to keep them childish, as women used to be kept. Nothingis 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 everythingseems 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 happeningto married people's feelings towards each other, as they get older andget 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 cellarlabeled "morbid" and lock them down in the dark again. Any other manwould, she thought, amazed at him, _any_ other husband! She focussed allher personality passionately to force him to answer as she wished. 

He fell into another thoughtful silence, glanced up at her once sharplyand looked down again. She always felt afraid of him when he looked likethat. No, not afraid of him, but of the relentless thing he was going tosay. Presently he said it. "What's the use? Why, the very fact you seemafraid 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. Itsprings 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. Hefaced her. He looked at her as though he saw her for the first time thatday. And he grew very pale as he looked. Something wordless passedbetween them. Now he knew at last what she was afraid of. 

But he did not flinch. He said desperately, in a harsh voice, "You haveto 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 itdoesn't dare spring if you walk right up to it. Generally you findyou're less afraid of everything in the world, after that. "

 * * * * *

She had been frightened, stabbed through and through by the look theyhad interchanged, by the wordless something which had passed betweenthem. But now she wondered suddenly, passionately, amazedly, if he hadreally understood all the dagger-like possibilities of their talk. 

"Neale, " she challenged him, "don't you put _any_ limits on this? Isn'tthere _any_where you'd stop out of sheer respect? Nothing too hallowedby . . . "

"Nothing. Nothing, " he answered her, his face pale, his eyes deep andenduring. "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 ofa poisonous root. That does happen. What's the use of pretending that itcouldn't to you, as to anybody else? And what's the use of having livedhonestly, if you haven't grown brave enough to do whatever needs to bedone? If you are scared by the idea that your motherhood may be onlyinverted sensuality, or if you think there is any possibility that thechildren would be better off in other hands, or if you think . . . If youthink there is any other terrifying possibility in our life here, forGod's sake look into your own heart and see for yourself! It all soundslike 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 wordfor 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, andran down his pale face. 

She quivered and was silent for a moment. Then, "Neale, where shall Iget the strength to do that?" she asked. 

He looked full in her face. "I don't know anywhere to go for strengthbut out of one's naked human heart, " he said. 

She shrank from the rigor of this with a qualm of actual fear. "I thinkI must have something else, " she told him wildly. 

"I don't know, " he returned. "I don't know at all about that. I'm nomystic. I can't help you there, dear. But I know, as well as I knowanything on earth, that anything that's worth having in anybody's life, his parent-hood, his marriage, his love, his ambition, can stand anyhonest challenge it can be put to. If it can't, it's not valid and oughtto 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 encouragementalong that stark, bleak way. 

 * * * * *

Somehow they were standing up now, both pale, looking profoundly intoeach other's eyes. Something almost palpable, of which not a word hadbeen spoken aloud, came and stood there between them, and through itthey still looked at each other. They had left words far behind now, inthe 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 puthis 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 canhold you but yourself. "

 * * * * *

A shouting babble of voices rose in the distance. The children crying toeach other came out of the house-door and raced down the flag-stonewalk. "There they are! In the garden! By the onion-bed! Father! Mother!We've been looking for you everywhere. Touclé 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'sattention, pushed in jealously between his parents, clinging to hismother's knees. He looked up in her face and laughed out, his merrypeal, "Oh, Mother, what a dirty face! You've been suspiring and thenyou've wiped your forehead with your dirty hand, the way you say Imustn't. How funny you look! And you've got a great, long tear in yoursleeve, too. "

Behind them, tiny, smooth and glistening, Eugenia Mills strolled to theedge 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. Powersand her handsome daughter-in-law, " she announced casually. "Touclé saysthey brought some eggs. What a stunning creature that Nelly is! There'stemperament for you! Can't you just feel the smouldering, primitive firehidden under that scornful silence of hers?"

"Mother, may we tell Touclé to put the syrup on to boil?" begged Elly. Her hair was tangled and tousled, with bits of bark sticking in it, anddried mud was caked on her hands and bare legs. Marise thought of therepugnance she must have aroused in Eugenia. 

"Mother, " said Paul, "Mr. Welles is going to give me a fishing-rod, hesays. 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, healways 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 upa shrill, aggrieved yelping. The children pawed at her with dirty hands. 

"Good-evening, Mr. Marsh, " said Eugenia, looking over her shoulder atthe dark-haired figure in flannels approaching from the other house. Sheturned and strolled across the grass to meet him, as white and gleamingas he. 

 * * * * *

A sick qualm of self-contempt shook Marise. For, high and clear aboveeverything else, there had come into her mind a quick discomfort at thecontrast 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 themountains, to remind you that you lived in America and had to take yourpart of the ferocious extremes of the American climate. 

And of course this had to be the time when Touclé went off for one ofher wandering disappearances. Marise could tell that by the aspect ofthe old woman as she entered the kitchen that morning, her reticule bagbulging out with whatever mysterious provisions Touclé took with her. You never missed anything from the kitchen. 

Marise felt herself in such a nervously heightened state ofsensitiveness to everything and everybody in those days, that it did notsurprise her to find that for the first time she received something morethan a quaint and amusing impression from the old aborigine. She hadnever noticed it before, but sometimes there was something aboutTouclé's strange, battered, leathery old face . . . What was it? The ideacame to her a new one, that Touclé was also a person, not merely acurious and enigmatic phenomenon. 

Touclé was preparing to depart in the silent, unceremonious, absent-minded way she did everything, as though she were the only personin the world. She opened the screen door, stepped out into the torridglare of the sunshine and, a stooped, shabby, feeble old figure, trudgeddown the path. 

"Where does she go?" thought Marise, and "What was that expression onher face I could not name?"

Impulsively she went out quickly herself, and followed after the oldwoman. 

"Touclé! Touclé!" she called, and wondered if her voice in these dayssounded to everyone as nervous and uncertain as it did to her. 

The old woman turned and waited till the younger had overtaken her. Theywere under the dense shade of an old maple, beside the road, as theystood looking at each other. 

As she had followed, Marise regretted her impulse, and had wondered whatin the world she could find to say, but now that she saw again theexpression in the other's face, she cried out longingly, "Touclé, wheredo you go that makes you look peaceful?"

The old woman glanced at her, a faint surprise appearing in her deeplylined face. Then she looked at her, without surprise, seriously asthough to see what she might read in the younger woman's eyes. She stoodfor a long moment, thinking. Finally she sat down on the grass under themaple-tree, and motioned Marise to sit beside her. She meditated for along time, and then said, hesitatingly, "I don't know as a white personcould 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 droppedover her eyes, her scarred old face carved into innumerable deep lines. Marise wondered if she had forgotten that anyone else was there. Sheturned her own eyes away, finally, and looking at the mountains saw thatblack thunderclouds were rolling up over the Eagle Rocks. Then the oldwoman 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 undergroundbrook, in a black cave. He said there is a place, away far off fromwhere they live, where there is a crack in the rock. If they went 'wayoff they could get a glimpse of what daylight is. And about once in sooften they need to swim there and look out at the daylight. If theydon't, they lose their eyesight from always being in the dark. He saidthat a lot of Indians don't care whether they lose their eyesight ornot, so long's they can go on eating and swimming around. But goodIndians do. He said that as far as he could make out, none of the whitepeople care. He said maybe they've lost their eyes altogether. "

Without a move of her sagging, unlovely old body, she turned her deepblack eyes on the flushed, quivering, beautiful woman beside her. "That's where I go, " she answered. "I go 'way off to be by myself, andget 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, astooped, 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 wouldhelp her in her need. Touclé went away to find peace, and left her inthe 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 hadfallen out of the swing and the sharp corner of the board had struckhim, he said, "in the eye! in the eye!" He was shrieking and holdingboth hands frantically over his left eye. This time it might be serious, might have injured the eye-ball. Those swing-boards were deadly. Marisesnatched up the screaming child and carried him into the kitchen, terrible perspectives of blindness hag-riding her imagination; saying toherself with one breath, "It's probably nothing, " and in the next seeingMark 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 ofbandage and a length of gauze, sat down with Mark in her lap near thefaucet, and wet the gauze in cold water. Then she tried in vain toinduce him to take down his hands so that she could see where the blowhad struck. 

But the terrified, hysterical child was incapable of hearing what shesaid, incapable of doing anything but scream louder and louder when shetried to pull down those desperately tight little hands held withfrantic tenseness over the hurt eye. Marise could feel all his littlebody, quivering and taut. His shrieks were like those of someoneundergoing the most violent torture. 

She herself responded nervously and automatically to his condition, feltherself begin to tighten up, and knew that she was equally ready toshake him furiously, or to burst into anguished tears of sympathy forhis pain. 

Wait now . . . Wait . . . What was the thing to do for Mark? What woulduntie those knots of fright and shock? For Paul it would have been talkof the bicycle he was to have for his birthday; for Elly a fairy-storyor a piece of candy! For Mark . . . 

High above the tumult of Mark's shrieks and her own spasmodic reactionsto them, she sent her intelligence circling quietly . . . And in aninstant . . . Oh yes, that was the thing. "Listen, Mark, " she said in hisear, stopping her effort to take down his hands, "Mother's learned a newsong, a _new_ one, awfully funny. And ever so long too, the way you likethem. " She put her arms about him and began, hearing herself withdifficulty 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 thoughtto 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 Ladysings, " and she tuned her voice to a young-ladyish, high sweetness andsang, "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 hetried 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 notcovered by his hands, "Then the gentleman says to her, " she made hervoice 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 mustalways answer just the one thing, 'no, ' so she had to say, " she turnedup 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 hismother as she sang, and took down his hands so that he could see herbetter. Marise noted instantly, with a silent exclamation of relief thatthe red angry mark was quite outside the eye-socket, harmless on thebone 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 hairbreadthescapes. 

She reached for the cold wet compress and went on, singing loudly andboldly, with a facetious wag of her head, (how tired she was of all thismanoeuvering!), "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 forthe bandage-roll, singing with an ostentatiously humorous accent andthinking with exasperation how all this was delaying her in the thousandthings 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 thatit 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 faceturned to her, his bare, dusty, wiry little legs wriggling and soilingher white skirt; and sang, rollickingly, "Oh no, John, no, John, NO!"

"There, that's all, " she said in her natural voice, looking down atMark. She said to herself rebelliously, "I've expended enoughpersonality and energy on this performance to play a Beethoven sonata ata concert, " and found she was quoting something Vincent Marsh had saidabout her life, the day before. 

There was a moment while the joke slowly penetrated to Mark'ssix-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 tenminutes singing to you, and all the work to do, and the sun getting likered-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 firelesscooker, so we can turn out the oil-stove and cool off this terriblekitchen. "

Mark looked up at her and smiled. He had recently lost a front tooth andthis added a quaintness to the splendor of his irresistible smile. "Youcould sing as you get the dinner ready, " he said insinuatingly, "andI'll help you. "

Marise smothered an impulse to shout to the child, "No, no, go away! Goaway! I can't have you bothering around. I've got to be by myself, or Idon't know what will happen!" She thought of Touclé, off in the greenand silent woods, in a blessed solitude. She thought of Eugenia up inher shaded room, stretched on the chaise-longue in a thin silkroom-gown, she thought of Neale and his stern eyes . . . She looked downon the dusty, tanned, tousle-headed little boy, with the bandage aroundhis head, his one eye looking up at her pleadingly, his dirty littlehand clutching at the fold of her skirt; and drearily and unwillinglyshe summoned herself to self-control. "All right, Mark, that's true. Icould sing while I peel the potatoes. You could wash them for me. Thatwould help. "

They installed themselves for this work. The acrid smell ofpotato-parings rose in the furnace-like heat of the kitchen, along withthe singing voice, asking and answering itself. Mark listened with allhis might, laughing and wriggling with appreciation. When his mother hadfinished and was putting the potatoes into the boiling water, he saidexultantly, "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, andsaid with an off-hand air, "Oh, I bunked my head on the corner of theswing-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 onthe can to rub it on with a stiff little brush. I don't see how ever inthe 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 openice-box door, "Paul, if there is anything in the world I know nothingabout, it is pigs. I haven't the slightest idea what to do. " She shutthe heavy door with a bang more energetic than was necessary to latchit, and came back towards the stove with a raw, red piece of uncookedmeat 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 hismother, somewhat grimly, putting it in a hot pan over the fire. An odorof searing fibers and smoke and frying onions rose up in the hot, stillair of the kitchen. 

"If I could have guessed we'd have such weather, I'd never have ordereda 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 andhow the behind of his ears is all scabs he's so bitten. "

"Wouldn't Eugenia and Vincent Marsh love this conversation?" thoughtMarise, turning the meat in the pan and starting back from the spattersof hot fat. 

"Mother, don't you see, I agreed to take care of him, with Father, andso 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 underclothingsticking hotly to her limbs, the constant dogging fear and excitementthat beset her, and the causeless twanging of her nerves, there traveledto her brain, along a channel worn smooth by the habit of her thoughtabout the children, the question, "What is it that makes Paul care somuch about this?" And the answer, almost lost in the reverberation ofall those other questions and answers in her head, was, "It comes fromwhat is best in Paul, his feeling of personal responsibility for thewelfare of others. That mustn't be hindered. " Aloud, almostautomatically, she said, in a neutral tone, "Paul, I don't think I cando a single thing for you and Henry, but I'll go with you and look athim and see if I can think of anything. Just wait till I get this andthe potatoes in the fireless cooker. "

Paul made a visible effort, almost as though he were swallowingsomething too large for his throat, and said ungraciously, "I suppose Iought to help you in here, then. "

"I suppose so, " said his mother roughly, in an exact imitation of hismanner. 

Paul looked at her quickly, laughing a little, sheepishly. He waited amoment, during which time Mark announced that he was going out to thesand-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 ofapprobation which she knew he would hate, and took thought as to what hemight do that would afflict him least. "You can go and sweep off thefront porch, and straighten out the cushions and chairs, and water theporch-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 necessityalways to be divining somebody's inner processes, putting herself insomebody's else skin and doing the thing that would reach him in theright way. She would like, an instant, just an instant, to be in her ownskin, she thought, penetrated with a sense of the unstable equilibriumof personal relations. To keep the peace in a household of young and oldhighly differentiated personalities was a feat of the Blondin variety;the least inattention, the least failure in judgment, and opportunitieswere lost forever. Her sense of the impermanence of the harmony betweenthem all had grown upon her of late, like an obsession. It seemed to herthat her face must wear the strained, propitiatory smile she had sodespised in her youth on the faces of older woman, mothers of families. Now she knew from what it came . . . Balancing perpetually on a tight-ropefrom 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 dressingand undressing the children, preparing their food and keeping themclean. The crushing part was the moral strain; to carry their livesalways with you, incalculably different from each other and from yourown. And not only their present lives, but the insoluble question of howtheir present lives were affecting their future. Never for a moment fromthe 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 everyindividual thought of your own was shattered, till your intelligence wasatrophied, till your sensibilities to finer things were dulled andblunted. 

Paul came back. "About ready for Henry?" he asked. "I've finished theporch. "

She put the two tightly closed kettles inside the fireless cooker andshut down the lid. "Yes, ready for Henry, " she said. 

She washed her hot, moist face in cold water, drank a glass, put on abroad-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 intowhich they stepped from the door. It startled Marise so that she drewback 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, "justwhat 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 thunderstormcoming up. See, around the corner of the mountain. See how black it isnow, over the Eagle Rocks" He took her hand in his bramble-scarredlittle 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, andI put it under the shade of this butternut tree. "

They were beside the pen now, looking over the fence at the grotesqueanimal, twitching his gross and horribly flexible snout, as he peered upat them out of his small, intelligent eyes, sunk in fat, and almosthidden 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 thematter 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 childclimbed over the fence and made a quick grab at the animal, which gavean alarmed, startled grunt, wheeled with astonishing nimbleness, anddarted away in a short-legged gallop. 

"Look there, that's the way he always does!" said Paul in an aggrievedtone. 

Marise considered the pig for a moment. He had turned again and was oncemore staring at her, his quivering, fleshy snout in the air, asingularly alert expression of attention animating his heavy-jowledcountenance. 

"Are there any things he specially likes?" she asked Paul. 

"He likes to eat, of course, being a pig, " said Paul, "and he loves youto scratch his back with a stick. "

"Oh, then it's easy. Come outside the pen. Now listen. You go back tothe barn and get whatever it is you feed him. Then you put that in thetrough, and let him begin to eat, quietly. Then take your oil and yourbrush, and moving very slowly so that you don't startle him, lean overthe 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 underher, 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 Nealedo it for her? Why wouldn't he put out that strength of his and crushout this strange agitation of hers, _forbid_ it to her? Then there wasnothing in her but intense discomfort, as though that were a universe ofits 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, cautioustone, "Mother, it _works!_ Henry loves it!"

She turned her head and saw the little boy vigorously rubbing the earsand 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 thatshe lay with her face on her arm. She was shaking from head to foot asthough 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 hadstopped, till she heard Paul saying, "There, I've put it on every inchof him. " He added with a special intonation, "And now I guess maybe I'dbetter go in swimming. "

At this Marise sat up quickly, with an instant experienced divination ofwhat she would see. 

In answer to her appalled look on him, he murmured apologetically, "Ididn'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 housethat they encountered Eugenia under a green-lined white parasol, on theway 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 oughtalways to be orchids. "

In the bath-room as she and Paul took off his oil-soaked clothes, Mark'slittle voice called to her, "Mother! Mo-o-other!"

"Yes, what is it?" she answered, suspending operations for a moment tohear. 

"Mother, if I had to kill all the ants in the world, " called Mark, "I'da great deal rather they were all gathered up together in a heap thanrunning around every-which-way, wouldn't you?"

"For goodness' _sakes, _ what a silly baby thing to say!" commented Paulwith 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 ofthe difficulty in perceiving the difference in degree of flatnessbetween Mark's remarks and those of Paul. 

But it suddenly occurred to her that this was the time for Elly's hourat the piano, and she heard no sound. She hastily laid out the cleanclothes for Paul, saw him started on the scrub in the bath-tub, and randownstairs 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 thearrival of the rain. 

In the darkened, shaded hall stood a man's figure, the face turned uptowards her, the look on it meant for her, her only, not the usefulhouse-mother, but that living core of her own self, buried, hidden, putoff, choked and starved as she had felt it to be, all that morning. Thatself rose up now, passionately grateful to be recognized, and lookedback at him. 

Thunder rolled among the distant hills. 

She felt her pulse whirling with an excitement that made her leanagainst 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 twelvehatched out of the fourteen eggs! Mother, they are such darlings! I wishyou'd come and see. Mother, if I practise _good_, won't you comeafterwards and look at them?"

"You should say 'practise well, ' not 'good, '" said Marise, her accentopenly ironical. 

The wind, precursor of the storm falling suddenly on the valley, shookthe trees till they roared. 

Over the child's head she exchanged with Vincent Marsh a long recklesslook, the meaning of which she made no effort to understand, the abandonof 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 suspensewas to keep her self-control in her own room. Of course for her as forany civilized being, it was always possible to keep herself in hand withpeople looking on. But for years she had not had to struggle so whenalone, for poise and self-mastery. Her room at the Crittendens', whichhad been hers so long, and which Marise had let her furnish with her ownthings, 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 ofNeale's daily absences from the house with some of the fastidious, delicate occupations of which she had so many, but they seemed brittlein her hot hands, and broke when she tried to lean on them. A dozentimes a day she interrupted herself to glance with apprehension at herreflection in the mirror, the Florentine mirror with the frame of brownwood carved, with the light, restrained touch of a good period, intothose tasteful slender columns. And every time she looked, she washorrified and alarmed to see deep lines of thought, of hope, ofimpatience, of emotion, criss-crossing fatally on her face. 

Then she would sit down before her curving dressing-table, gather thefolds of her Persian room-dress about her, lift up her soul and gothrough those mental and physical relaxing exercises which the wonderfullecturer of last winter had explained. She let her head and shouldersand neck droop like a wilted flower-stem, while she took into her mindthe greater beauty of a wilted flower over the crass rigidity of agrowing one; she breathed deeply and slowly and rhythmically, andsummoned to her mind far-off and rarely, difficultly, beautiful things;the tranquil resignation of Chinese roofs, tempered with the merry humannote of their tilted corners; Arabian traceries; cunningly wrought, depraved wood-carvings in the corners of Gothic cathedrals; the gay andamusing pink rotundities of a Boucher ceiling. When she felt her facecalm and unlined again, she put on a little massage cream, to makedoubly sure, and rubbed it along where the lines of emotion had been. 

But half an hour afterwards, as she lay stretched in the chaise-longueby the window, reading Claudel, or Strindberg, or Rémy de Gourmont, shewould 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 Marshtalked about the inevitable and essential indifference of children totheir parents and the healthiness of this instinct; about thefoolishness of the parents' notion that they would be formative elementsin the children's lives; or on the other hand, if the parents didsucceed in forcing themselves into the children's lives, the danger ofsexual mother-complexes. Eugenia found that instead of thrillingvoluptuously, as she knew she ought, to the precious pain andbewilderment of one of the thwarted characters of James Joyce, she was, with a disconcerting and painful eagerness of her own, bringing up tomind the daunted silence Marise kept when they mentioned the fact thatof course everybody nowadays knew that children are much better off in abig, numerous, robust group than in the nervous, tight isolation offamily life; and that a really trained educator could look out for themmuch better than any mother, because he could let them alone as a mothernever could. 

She found that such evocations of facts poignantly vital to herpersonally, were devastatingly more troubling to her facial calm thanany most sickening picture in d'Annunzio's portrayal of small-townhumanity in which she was trying to take the proper, shocked interest. Despite all her effort to remain tranquil she would guess by the stir ofher pulses that probably she had lost control of herself again, andgoing to the mirror would catch her face all strained and tense in abreathless suspense. 

But if there was one thing which life had taught her, it was perseveringpatience. She drew from the enameled bonbonnière one of the curious, hard sweet-meats from Southern China; lifted to her face the spicy-sweetspikes of the swamp-orchid in her Venetian glass vase; turned her eyeson the reproduction of the Gauguin _Ja Orana Maria_, and began to drawlong, 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 fixedher attention on rare and beautiful things of beauty . . . Abandoningherself to the pictures called up by a volume of translated Japanesepoems she had recently read . . . Temples in groves . . . Bells in themist . . . Rain on willow-trees . . . Snow falling without wind. . . . How delicate and suggestive those poems were! How much finer, more subtlethan anything in the Aryan languages!

She came to herself cautiously, glanced at her face in the mirror, andreached for the carved ivory pot of massage cream. 

 * * * * *

She decided then she would sew a little, instead of reading. The frillof lace in her net dress needed to be changed . . . Such a bore having toleave your maid behind. She moved to the small, black-lacquered tablewhere her work-box stood and leaned on it for a moment, watching the dimreflection of her pointed white fingers in the glistening surface of thewood. They did not look like Marise's brown, uncared-for hands. Sheopened the inlaid box and took from it the thimble which she had boughtin Siena, the little antique masterpiece of North Italian gold-work. What a fulfilment of oneself it was to make life beautiful bybeautifying all its implements. What a revelation it might be to Neale, how a woman could make everything she touched exquisite, to Neale whohad only known Marise, subdued helplessly to the roughness of the roughthings about her, Marise who had capitulated to America and surrenderedto the ugliness of American life. 

 * * * * *

But none of that, none of that! She was near the danger line again. Shefelt 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 thingpossible. She had been about to have recourse to the old, oldtranquillizer of women, the setting of fine stitches. She would fix hermind on that . . . A frill of lace for the net dress . . . Which lace? Shelifted the cover from the long, satin-covered box and fingered over thelaces in it, forcing herself to feel the suitable reaction to theirdiffering physiognomies, to admire the robustness of theCarrick-Macross, the boldness of design of the Argentan, the complicatedfineness of the English Point. She decided, as harmonizing best with thetemperament of the net dress, on Malines, a strip of this perfect, first-Napoleon Malines. What an aristocratic lace it was, with itscobwebby _fond-de-neige_ background and its fourpetaled flowers in thescrolls. Americans were barbarians indeed that Malines was so littleknown; in fact hardly recognized at all. Most Americans would probablytake this priceless creation in her hand for something bought at aten-cent store, because of its simplicity and classic reticence ofdesign. They always wanted, as they would say themselves, something moreto show for their money. Their only idea of "real lace, " as theyvulgarly called it (as if anything could be lace that wasn't real), wasthat showy, awful Brussels, manufactured for exportation, which was soldin those terrible tourists' shops in Belgium, with the sprawlingpatterns made out of coarse braid and appliquéd on, not an organic partof the life of the design. 

She stopped her work for a moment to look more closely at the filmy lacein her hand, to note if the mesh of the réseau were circular orhexagonal. She fancied that she was the only American woman of heracquaintance who knew the difference, who had the least culture in thematter of lace . . . Except Marise, of course, and it was positively worsefor Marise to have been initiated and then turn back to commonness, thanfor those other well-meaning, Philistine American women who were atleast innocently ignorant. Having known the exquisite lore of lace, howcould Marise have let it and all the rest of the lore of civilizationdrop for these coarse occupations of hers, now? How could she have letlife coarsen her, as it had, how could she have fallen into such commonways, with her sun-browned hair, and her roughened hands, and herinexactly adjusted dresses, and the fatal middle-aged lines beginning toshow from the corner of the ear down into the neck, and not an effortmade to stop them. But as to wrinkles, of course a woman as unrestrainedas Marise was bound to get them early. She had never learned the ABC ofwoman'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 itshe had selected as subject for consideration? It had been lace. Whatabout lace? Lace . . . ? Her mind balked, openly rebellious. She could notmake it think of lace again. She was in a panic, and cast about her forsome strong defense . . . Oh! just the thing . . . The new hat. 

She would try on the new hat which had just come from New York. She hadbeen waiting for a leisurely moment, really to be able to put herattention on that. 

She opened the gaily printed round pasteboard box, and took out thecreation. She put it on with care, low over her eyebrows, adjusting itcarefully by feel, before she looked at herself to get the firstimpression. Then, hand-glass in hand, she began to study it seriouslyfrom various angles. When she was convinced that from every view-pointher profile had the unlovely and inharmonious silhouette fashionablethat summer, she drew a long breath of relief, and took it off gently, looking at it with pleasure. Nothing gives one such self-confidence, shereflected, as the certainty of having the right sort of hat. How muchbetter "chic" was than beauty!

With the hat still in her hand, her very eyes on it, she saw therebefore her, as plainly as though in a crystal ball, Marise's attitude asshe had stood with Marsh that evening before at the far end of thegarden. Her body drawn towards his, the poise of her head, all of herlistening intently while he talked . . . One could see how he wasdominating her. A man with such a personality as his, regularly hypnoticwhen he chose, and practised in handling women, he would be able to doanything he liked with an impressionable creature like Marise, who as agirl was always under the influence of something or other. It wasevident that he could put any idea he liked into Marise's head just bylooking 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 ahand, nor so much as lifting an eyebrow, just letting things take theircourse. 

_What could that mean except that he would welcome_ . . . 

Oh Heavens! her pulse was hammering again. She sprang up and ran to themirror. Yes, the mirror showed a face that scared her; haggard andpinched with a fierce desire. 

There were not only lines now, there was a hollow in the cheek . . . Orwas that a shadow? It made her look a thousand years old. Massage woulddo 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 lastweeks had told on her. Perhaps she would better omit those morningexercises for a time, in this intense heat. Perhaps she would bettertake cream with her oatmeal again. Or perhaps cream of wheat would bebetter than oatmeal. How ghastly that made her look! But perhaps it wasonly a shadow. She could not summon courage enough to move and see. Finally she took up her hand-mirror, framed in creamy ivory, with acarved jade bead hanging from it by a green silk cord. She went to thewindow to get a better light on her face. She examined it, holding herbreath; and drew a long, long sigh of respite and relief. It _had_ beenonly a shadow!

But what a fright it had given her! Her heart was quivering yet. Whatunending vigilance it took to protect yourself from deep emotions. Whenit wasn't one, it was another, that sprang on you unawares. 

Another one _was_ there, ready to spring also, the suddenly conceivedpossibility, like an idea thrust into her mind from the outside, thatthere might be some active part she could play in what was going on inthis house. People did sometimes. If some chance for this offered . . . You never could tell when . . . A word might be . . . Perhaps something toturn Marise from Neale long enough to . . . 

She cast this idea off with shame for its crudeness. What vulgar rawthings 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 quietherself; and after them, breathing in and out through one nostril, andthinking 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 onthe movement up and down of her navel in breathing, as the Vedantapriest 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, grossAnglo-Saxon self-consciousness clinging to her. But she would outgrowthem, 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 farbelow on one side, and a sun-ripened, golden, old wall on the other. Shestood there with Marise, both so young, so young! And down the pathtowards them came a tall figure, with a bold clear face, a tenderfull-lipped mouth, and eyes that both smiled and were steady. 

Helplessly she watched him come, groaning in spirit at what she knewwould happen; but she could not escape till the ache in her throatswelled and broke, as she saw that his eyes were for Marise and hiswords, and all of his very self for which she . . . 

So many years . . . So many years . . . With so much else in theworld . . . Not to have been able to cure that one ache . . . And she didnot want to suffer . . . She wanted to be at rest, and have what sheneeded. The tears rose brimming to her eyes, and ran down on each side ofher face to the pillow. Poor Eugenia! Poor Eugenia!

 * * * * *

She was almost broken this time, but not entirely. There was some fightleft in her. She got up from the bed, clenched her hands tightly, andstood in the middle of the floor, gathering herself together. 

Down with it! Down! Down! Just now, at this time, when such an utterlyunexpected dawn of a possible escape . . . To give way again. 

She thought suddenly, "Suppose I give up the New-Thought way, alwaysdistracting your attention to something else, always suppressing yourdesire, resisting the pull you want to yield to. Suppose I try the Freudway, 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 letherself go, gorgeously, wholly, epically, as she had been longing toever since she had first intercepted that magnetic interchange of looksbetween Marsh and Marise, the day after her arrival, the day of thepicnic-supper in that stupid old woman's garden. That was when she hadfirst 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 yourefused to. It was like sailing off above the clouds on familiar wings, although it was the first time she had tried them. . . . Marise would fallwholly under Marsh's spell, would run away and be divorced. Neale wouldnever raise a hand against her doing this. Eugenia saw from his aloofattitude that it was nothing to him one way or the other. Any man whocared for his wife would fight for her, of course. 

And it was so manifestly the best thing for Marise too, to have a verywealthy man looking out for her, that there could be no disturbingreflexes of regret or remorse for anybody to disturb the perfection ofthis fore-ordained adjustment to the Infinite. Then with the childrenaway at school for all the year, except a week or two with their father. . . Fine, modern, perfect schools, the kind where the children werealways 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 selectedfor their social position, and the teachers were so well paid that ofcourse they did their jobs better than parents. 

Then Neale, freed from slavery to those insufferable children, releasedfrom the ignoble, grinding narrowness of this petty manufacturingbusiness, free to roam the world as she knew he had always longed todo . . . What a life they could have . . . India with Neale . . . China . . . Paris . . . They would avoid Rome perhaps because ofunwelcome memories . . . Norway in summer-time. Think of seeing Nealefishing a Norway salmon brook . . . She and Neale on a steamertogether . . . 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 asdark as a cellar with the black shade it made. The side-porch was niceand cool even on a hot summer day, just right for making butter. If itwasn't for the horrid pitch-piny smell the tree wouldn't be so bad. Thechurning was getting along fine too. The dasher was beginning to go theblob-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 theway so that the churning could be done before it got so hot. Athunder-storm was coming, too, probably. You could feel it in the air. There, perhaps the butter had come, now. Nelly pushed the dasher downslowly and drew it back with care, turning her ear to listen expertly tothe sound it made. No, not yet, there wasn't that watery splash yet thatcame after it had separated. 

She went on with the regular rhythmic motion, her eyes fixed dreamily onthe round hole in the cover of the churn, through which thedasher-handle went up and down and which was now rimmed with thickyellow cream. She loved to churn, Nelly thought. She loved to have milkto look out for, anyhow, from the time it came in from the barn, warmand foamy and sweet-smelling, till the time when she had taken off thethick, sour cream, like shammy-skin, and then poured the loppered milkspatteringly into the pigs' trough. She liked seeing how the pigs lovedit, sucking it up, their eyes half shut because it tasted so good. Therewasn't anything that was better than giving people or animals what theyliked to eat. It made her feel good all over to throw corn to the hensand see how they scrabbled for it. She just loved to get a bag of stickcandy at the store, when she went to town, and see how Addie and Ralphand 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 ofthe way before noon. She would have time this afternoon after the disheswere done, to sit right down with that sprigged calico dress for littleAddie. She could get the seams all run up on the machine beforesupper-time, and have the hand-work, buttonholes and finishing, forpick-up work for odd minutes. She just loved to sit and sew, in a roomall nice and picked up, and know the house-work was done. 

That would be a _real_ pretty dress, she thought, with the pink sprigsand the pink feather-stitching in mercerized cotton she was going to puton it. Addie would look sweet in it. And if it was washed careful anddried in the shade it wouldn't fade so much. It was a good bright pinkto start with. Only Addie ought to have a new hat to wear with it. Awhite straw with pink flowers on it. But that would cost a couple ofdollars, anyhow, everything was so dear now. Oh well, 'Gene would lether buy it. 'Gene would let her do most anything. 

She thought with pity of her sisters, mill-hands in West Adams still, ormarried to mill-hands, men who got drunk on the sly and didn't workregular, and wanted a full half of all they made for themselves. 'Geneand his mother were always scolding about the money they could have hadif they'd kept that wood-land on the mountain. They'd ought to ha' beenreally poor the way she had been, so's you didn't know where the nextmeal was coming from, or how the rent was going to be paid. She had beenawfully lucky to get 'Gene, who let her decide how much money ought tobe spent on the children's clothes and hers, and never said a thing, orscolded or bothered. He was kind of _funny_, 'Gene was, always so soberand solemn, and it was a _sort_ of bother to have him so crazy about herstill. That had been all right when they were engaged, and firstmarried. She had liked it all right then, although it always seemed sortof foolish to her. But men _were_ that way! Only now, when there werethree children and another one coming, and the house to be kept nice, and the work done up right, and the farmwork and everything going sogood, and so much on her mind, why, it seemed as though they'd ought tohave 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 asanybody in the valley. But he never could settle down, and becomfortable and quiet with her, like it was natural for old marriedfolks to do. If she went by him, close, so her arm touched him, whythen, if nobody was there he'd grab at her and kiss her and rumple herhair, and set her all back in her work. With all she had to do and thinkof, and she did her work as good as anybody if she did say it whoshouldn't, she had her day planned before she turned her feet out of bedin the morning. And she liked to have things go the way she plannedthem. She _liked_ 'Gene all right, only she had her work to get done. 

She churned meditatively, looking off towards the mountain where theEagle Rocks heaved themselves up stiff and straight and high. 'Gene'smother came to the door, asked if the butter was coming all right, looked at her, and said, "My! Nelly, you get better looking every dayyou live, " and went back to her bread-baking. 

Nelly went on with her reflections about 'Gene. It was more than justthat he bothered her and put her back with her work. She really didn'tthink it was just exactly nice and refined to be so crazy about anybodyas 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 likea young girl! And that hateful old Mrs. Hewitt, just after they'd movedback to Ashley, didn't she have to go and tell her about 'Gene's beingborn too soon after his father and mother were married? 'Gene took itfrom his mother she supposed; he wa'an't to blame, really. But she hopedAddie and Ralph would be _like_ her folks. Not but what the Powerseswere good-hearted enough. 'Gene was a good man, if he was queer, and anawful good papa to Addie and Ralph and little 'Gene. None of her sistershad got a man half so good. That sprigged dress would look good withfeather-stitching around the hem, too. Why hadn't she thought of thatbefore? She hadn't got enough mercerized thread in the house, she didn'tbelieve, to do it all; and it was such a nuisance to run out of thethread you had to have, and nobody going to the village for goodnessknows when, with the farmwork behind the way it was, on account of therains. 

She shifted her position and happened to bring one of her feet intoview. Without disturbing a single beat of the regular rhythm of thedasher, she tilted her head to look at it with approbation. If there wasone thing she was particular about it was her shoes. She took suchcomfort in having them nice. They could say what they pleased, folkscould, but high heels _suited_ her feet. Maybe some folks, that hadgreat broad feet like that old Indian Touclé, felt better in thoseawful, sloppy old gunboats they called "Common-sense shoes, " but _she_didn't! It would make her sick to wear them! How they did look! Wasthere anything so pretty, anyhow, as a fine-leather shoe with a nicepointed toe, and a pretty, curved-in heel? It made you feel refined, andas good as anybody, even if you had on a calico dress with it. That wasanother nice thing about 'Gene, how he'd stand up for her about wearingthe 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 couldwear what she liked he guessed. Even when the doctor had said so strictthat 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 buttermilkbegin to swash! She turned her head to call to her mother-in-law tobring a pitcher for the buttermilk, when a sound of galloping hoofsechoed from the road. Nelly frowned, released her hold on the dasher, listened an instant, and ran into the house. She went right upstairs toher room as provoked as she could be. Well, she would make the bed anddo the room-work anyhow, so's not to waste _all_ that time. She'd bethat much ahead, anyhow. And as soon as Frank had finished chinning withMother Powers, and had gone, she'd go back and finish her churning. Shefelt mad all through at the thought of that cream left at just the wrongminute, 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 gottoo warm, and she'd have to put in ice, and go down cellar with it, andfuss over it all the rest of the day? She was furious and thumped thepillows hard, with her doubled-up fist. But if she went down, Frank'dhang around worse, and talk so foolish she'd want to slap him. He wa'n'tmore'n half-witted, sometimes, she thought. What was the _matter_ withmen, 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 botherthe life out of busy folks, sprawling around all over creation the wayhe did. But she never had any luck! Before Frank it had been that oldMrs. Hewitt, nosing around to see what she could pick fault with in aperson's housekeeping, looking under the sink if you left her alone inthe kitchen for a minute, and opening your dresser drawers right beforeyour face and eyes. Well, Frank was getting to be most as much of anuisance. 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-headbecause he was the best dancer in the valley, that was what was thematter 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 'Genedidn't clump so with his feet, she'd love to dance with him. And Frankneedn't think he was so much either. That city man who was staying withthe 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. Shethought he was just plain fresh, the way he told Frank to go on dancingwith her. What was it to him! But she'd dance with him just the same, ifshe got the chance. How she just loved to dance! Something seemed to getinto 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 youwalked on when you went blue-berrying on the Burning above the EagleRocks . . . 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 cacklingaway like an old hen. How she would carry on, with anybody that camealong! She hadn't never settled down, not a bit really, for all she hadbeen married and was a widow and was old. It wa'n't nice to be so livelyas that, at her age. But she _wasn't_ nice, Mother Powers wasn't, forall she was good to Addie and Ralph and little 'Gene. Nelly liked nicepeople, she thought, as she went back to shake the rag rugs out of thewindow; refined ladies like Mrs. Bayweather, the minister's wife. Thatwas the way _she_ wanted to be, and have little Addie grow up. Shelingered at the window a moment looking up at the thick dark branches ofthe big pine. How horrid it was to have that great tree so close to thehouse! It shaded the bedroom so that there was a musty smell no matterhow much it was aired. And the needles dropped down so messy too, andspoiled the grass. 

Frank's voice came up the stairs, bold, laughing, "Nelly, Nelly, comedown 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 aninspiration. "I'm washing my hair, " she called back, taking out thehair-pins hastily, as she spoke. The great coils came tumbling down onher shoulders. She soused them in the water pitcher, and went to thedoor, opening it a crack, tipping her head forward so that the waterstreamed 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 speakright 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 allover with impatience about that butter. When it wasn't one thing to keepher from her work, it was another. Her hair all wet now. And such a jobto dry it!

She heard voices in the kitchen, and the screen-door open. Thankgoodness, Frank was going away! Oh my! Maybe he was going to thevillage! He could bring some of the pink mercerized cotton on his wayback. He might as well be of _some_ use in the world. She thrust herhead out of the window. "Frank, Frank, wait a minute!" she called. Sheran back to her work-basket, cut a length from a spool of thread, woundit around a bit of paper, and went again to the window. "Say, Frank, getme 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 inthe stirrups, looking up boldly at her, her hair in thick wet curlsabout her face. "I'd do anything for you!" he said jokingly, catchingat the paper she threw down to him. 

She slammed the window down hard. How provoking he was! But anyhow shewould have enough thread to feather-stitch that hem. She'd got that muchout of him. The thought made up to her for some of the annoyance of themorning. She put a towel around her shoulders under her wet hair, andwaited till he was actually out of sight around the bend of the road. Itseemed to her that she saw something stir in the long grass in themeadow there. Could the woodchucks be getting so close to the house asthat? 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 tohustle, if she got the butter done before the storm came. When Frank hadreally disappeared, she ran downstairs, and rushed out to her churn. Shefelt of it anxiously, her face clearing to note that it seemed no warmerthan when she had left it. Maybe it was all right still. She began toplunge the dasher up and down. Well, it had gone back some, she couldtell by the feel, but not so much, she guessed, but what she could makeit 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 somegirls, and could just send him packing. But she never could think of anysharp 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'ssnooping around. And then in the end she had got cold feet and had hadto sick 'Gene on to her, to tell her they didn't want her sitting aroundall the time and sponging off them at meal-times. 

But somehow she didn't want to ask 'Gene to speak to Frank that way. Shewas 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 thingto make him then more than any time. The best thing to do with Gene wasto keep him quiet, just as much as she could, not do anything to get himstarted. That was why she never went close up to him or put her armsaround his neck of her own accord. She'd _like_ to pet him and make overhim, the way she did over the children, but it always seemed to get himso stirred up and everything. Men were funny, anyhow! She often hadthought how nice it would be if 'Gene could only be another woman. Theycould have such good times together. 

Why, here was 'Gene himself come in from cultivating corn right in themiddle 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. Butthen he always did. That was the trouble with his dancing. You had tostep light, to be a good dancer. 

There was a crack of thunder again, nearer than the first one. She heardhim ask his mother, "Frank Warner been here?"

And Mother Powers say, "Yes, he come in to ask if we could loan him ourcompass. He's going to go up tomorrow in the Eagle Rock woods to run outthe line between the Warner and the Benson woodlots. The Warners havesold the popple on theirs to the Crittenden mill, and Frank says theblazes are all barked over, they're so old. "

Oh goody! thought Nelly, there the butter was, come all at once. Thebuttermilk was splashing like water. Yes, even there around the hole youcould see the little yellow specks. Well, she needn't have got soprovoked, after all. That was fine. Now she could get at that spriggeddress for Addie, after all, this afternoon. 

'Gene came out on the porch again. She looked at him and smiled. Shefelt very happy and relieved that the butter had come so that she couldfinish working it over before noon. 

'Gene glowered at her smiling face and at her hair curling and shiningall down her back. How cross he looked! Oh bother! Excited too. Well, what could the matter be, _now_? She should think any man would besatisfied 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, andthe butter churned and half the day's work out of the way. She'd like toknow what more he wanted? Who else could do any better? Oh bother! Howqueer men were!

Yes, it would really be lots nicer if there were only women and childrenin the world. Gracious! how that lightning made her jump! The storm hadgot there quicker'n she'd thought. But the butter had come, so it wasall right. 

PART III

CHAPTER XVIII

BEFORE THE DAWN

July 21. 

Neale had lain so long with his eyes on the place where the window oughtto be, that finally he was half persuaded he could see it, a faintlypaler square against the black of the room. Very soon dawn would come inthat window, and another day would begin. 

At the thought the muscles of his forearms contracted, drawing hisfingers into rigidly clenched fists, and for a moment he did notbreathe. 

Then he conquered it again; threw off the worst of the pain that hadsprung upon him when he had wakened suddenly, hours before, with thefear at last there before him, visible in the darkness. 

What was this like? Where before had he endured this eternity ofwaiting? Yes, it was in France, the night when they waited for theattack to break, every man haggard with the tension, from dark till justbefore 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 keepfrom rushing out of the trenches with bayonets fixed, to meet thethreatened danger, to beat it back, to conquer it, or to die and escapethe suspense. Now there was the same strain. He had the weapons in hishands, 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 insignificantlocal success and the greater victory all along the line imperiled. Andhere that was true again. There hadn't been anything to do then butwait. There was nothing to do now but wait. 

Yes, but it was harder to wait now! There in France they had at leastknown that finally the suspense would end in the fury of combat. Theywould have the chance to resist, to conquer, to impose their will. Andnow there was no active part for him. He must wait on, and hold back hishand from the attack which would give him the appearance of victory, andwhich would mean everlasting defeat for him, for Marise, the death andruin of what they had tried to be for each other, to build up out oftheir life together. 

What did he mean by that? Wasn't he fooling himself with words, withpriggish phrases? It was so easy to do that. And he was so mortallyfatigued with this struggle in the dark. He had been thinking about itso 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 roadthat led him here. Perhaps there was another way he had overlooked. Perhaps this time it would lead him to something less intolerable. Quietnow, steady, all that he had of courage and honesty and knowledge ofMarise, and of life, and of himself, put to work. 

His brain began again to plod up the treadmill it had labored on for somany 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 hadbeen speaking aloud. "Now, now here I am. What must I do? What ought Ito do? There must be some answer if I can only think clearly, feelaright. _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 mindwith a stream of unforgotten pictures of their life together; Marisefacing him at the breakfast table; Marise walking with him in the autumnwoods; Marise with Paul a baby in her arms; Marise, almost unknown then, the flame-like divinity of her soul only guessed-at, looking into hiseyes as the Campagna faded into darkness below them. "What was it sheasked me then? Whether I knew the way across the dark plain? I was aconfident 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 findsherself cramped, wants a fuller existence, regrets . . . No, that'sdodging. There's no use lying to myself. I'm afraid that Marise is inlove 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 baddream. I must wake up. I must wake up and find it not true. "

He lay perfectly still, his fists clenched tight, perspiration standingout on his rigid body. Then sternly he forced his mind to go forwardagain, step by step. 

"I suppose it's possible. Other women have. There's a lot in her thatmust be starved here. I may not be enough for her. She was so youngthen. She has grown so greatly. What right have I to try to hold her ifshe is tired of it all, needs something else?"

He hesitated, shrinking back as from fire, from the answer he knew hemust give. At last he forced it out, "I haven't any right. I don't wanther to stay if she wants to go. I want Marise. But even more I want herto be happy. "

The thought, with all its implications, terrified him like adeath-sentence, but he repeated it grimly, pressing it home fiercely, "Iwant her to be happy. "

He realized where this thought would lead him, and in a panic wildlyfought against going on. He had tried to hold himself resolute andsteady, but he was nothing now save a flame of resentment. "Happy! Shewon't be happy that way! She can't love that man! She's being carriedaway by that damnable sensibility of hers. It would be the most hideous, insane mistake. What am I thinking of . . . All these _words_! What I mustdo is to keep her from ruining her life. "

On the heels of this outcry, there glided in insinuatingly a soft-spokencrowd of tempting, seductive possibilities. Marise was so sensitive, soimpressionable, so easily moved, so defenseless when her emotions werearoused. Hadn't he the right, the duty, he who knew her better thananyone else, to protect her against herself? Wasn't he deceiving himselfby fantastic notions? It would be so easy to act the ardent, passionateyoung 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 lifeand death hung in the balance? He could play on her devotion to thechildren, throw all the weight of his personality, work on her emotions. That was what people did to gain their point. Everybody did it. And hecould win if he did. He could hold her. 

 * * * * *

Like the solemn tolling of a great bell there rang, through all thishurried, despairing clutching at the endurable and lesser, a call to thegreat and intolerable. The immensity of his love for Marise loomed up, far greater than he; and before that sacred thing he hung his head, andfelt 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 couldnot hold her, not anything but her body, and to force her decision wouldbe to make a cage. No, I mustn't use the children either. They are hersas much as mine. If all is not right between us, what would it availthem to be with us? They must take what life brings them, like the restof us. If the years Marise and I have passed together, if what we havebeen to each other, and are to each other, if that is not enough, thennothing is enough. That would be a trick to play on her . . . To use myknowledge 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, fornow 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 mindexhausted. 

As he lay thus, fallen and prostrate, there soared up out of a part ofhim that was neither mind nor body, but was nevertheless himself, something swift and beautiful and living, something great enough at lastto 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 diedand it were something told him in another world . . . He did not wantMarise for himself; he did not even want her to be happy; he wanted herto be herself, to be all that Marise could ever grow to be, he wantedher to attain her full stature so far as any human being could do thisin this life. 

And to do that she must be free. 

For an instant he looked full at this, his heart flooded with glory. Andthen the light went out. 

He was there in the blackness again, unhappy beyond any suffering he hadthought he could bear. 

He lay still, feeling Marise beside him, the slow, quiet rhythm of herbreathing. Was she awake or sleeping? What would happen if he shouldallow the fear and suffering which racked him to become articulate? Ifhe should cry out to her, she would not turn away. He knew Marise. Shewould never turn away from fear and suffering. "But I can't do that. Iwon't work on her sympathy. I've promised to be true to what's deepestand truest in us both. I have been, by God! and I will be. If ourmarried life has been worth anything, it's because we've both been freeand honest . . . True with one another. This is her ordeal. She must actfor herself. Better die than use my strength to force her against herown nature. If I decide . . . No matter how sure I am I'm right . . . Itwon't be her decision. Nothing would be decided. I must go on just asbefore . . . " he groaned, "that will take all the strength I have. "

It was clear to him now; the only endurable future for them, such asthey were to each other, would come from Marise's acting with her ownstrength on her own decision. By all that was sacred, he would never byword or act hamper that decision. He would be himself, honestly. Mariseought to know what that self was. 

He had thought that this resolve would bring to him another of theseterrible racking instants of anguish, but instead there came almost acalm upon him, as though the pain had passed and left him in peace, oras though a quiet light had shone out in the darkness. Perhaps the dawnhad come. No, the square of the window was still only faintly felt inthe blacker mass of the silent room. 

Then he knew why the pain had left him. It had been driven away by thecertainty that there was a worse fear than any he knew, or ever wouldknow. No matter what risk or catastrophe lay before them, Marise wouldnever 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 amongits gifts such a certainty as that, rock-like under his feet, bearinghim up in his pain. 

He moved to her in the bed, felt for her hand and put it gently to hislips. 

Then, holding it in his, on his breast, he turned his eyes towards thewindow, waiting for the dawn. 

CHAPTER XIX

MR. WELLES LIGHTS THE FUSE

July 2. 

That early morning talk with Mr. Welles had left Marise trembling withhelpless sorrow and exasperation. She sat on the bench where he had lefther, and felt the nervous tears stinging her eyes. When she looked upand saw Vincent Marsh was standing there, extremely pale, as visiblyshaken 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 verydate is set. His cousin has a room in her boarding house engaged forhim. He's going to work as a clerk to pay for the extra expenses of thelife 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 acurious, low voice, rough and husky, "I wish you would do something forme. I wish you would think with all your might, deeply, just why you areso opposed to his doing what evidently seems to him a very saintly andheroic 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 ofreasons!" she cried. "It's obvious to anyone with any sense for thereality of human values, who isn't fooled by threadbare old words. It'sone of those wasteful, futile, exasperating tricks people play onthemselves in the name of 'duty. ' He's throwing away something real andtrue, something that could add to the richness of human life, he'sthrowing away the happiness that comes of living as suits his nature, and so creating a harmony that enriches everybody who touches him. Andwhat'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 alreadycomplicated beyond solution, and why is he? So that he can indulgehimself in the perverse pleasure of the rasp of a hair-shirt. He doesn'treally use his intelligence to think, to keep a true sense ofproportions; 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 crownon his head. "

She became conscious that her words were having a singular effect uponVincent. A dark flush had come over all his face. His gaze on her wasextraordinary 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 authoritywhich fell on her like a hot wind. With a loud knocking of her heart sheknew. 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 withits intensity, "You see what you have done. You have spoken for me. Youhave said at last what I have been silently and desperately calling outto you. You know what has happened. You have said it, it is obvious toanyone with any sense of human values. Make an end! Make an end! Comeaway from a position where only an outworn old ideal holds you tofutility and waste. Come away where you will really live and know thefullness of life. Come away from that false notion of duty which makesyou do for the children what you know is not best for them, only becauseit is the traditional thing to do, only because it gives you a martyr'scrown to wear. I don't say anything now, as I would to any other womanin the world, as I would have said to you weeks ago before I knew allthat you are . . . I don't say anything about the imbecility of keepingsuch a woman as you are here in this narrow, drab hole, this sordidprison . . . You born, if ever a human being was, to rich and warm andharmonious living! It is your birthright. Let me give it to you. Allthat, even that, a whole world of beauty and fullness waiting for you tocreate it to glorious being, all that is nothing compared to what hascome to pass between us, you and me; compared to that other world ofimpassioned living existence that is waiting for you. Come away from theman who is nothing more to you than the house you live in . . . Nothingbut a habit. "

She started at this, moving out of the stony immobility in which shegazed at him, listened to him. She did not know that she had moved, wasincapable of willing to do so. It had been a mere reflex start as thoughshe had been struck. But at the sight of it, the flame in his eyesleaped up. "No, no, no!" he cried with an insistent triumph, "he isnothing more to you than a habit. And you are nothing more to him. Youwere right, on that evening when you shrank away from the sight of theplace in Italy where in your ignorant youth you made the mistake oftrying to join your life to his. There is not a breath you draw, not aturn of your head or body . . . I know them all . . . That does not provethat he is nothing to you now. I have seen you take a handkerchief fromhis pocket as you would take it from a bureau-drawer. I have seen himset you on one side, to pass through a door, as he would set a chair onone side. You don't even see him any more when you look at him, and hedoesn't see you. Whatever there may have been between you, if there wasever anything real, it is dead now, dead and buried . . . And you the mostliving woman who ever wore flesh and blood! And I am a living man! Youknow, 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 Ibut brush against your skirt, how I cannot speak! You know how when ourhands touch, every drop of blood in our two bodies burns! You are agrown 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 atme now. "

He flung out his hands, shaking uncontrollably. "Do you see how I showthis, say this anywhere, tell this to you here, now, where anyone couldhear me? I am not ashamed of it. It is not a thing to hide. It is athing to glory in. It is the only honestly living thing in all ourmiserable 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 ofdead-and-alive egotism. The thing that is really base and false is topretend that what is dead is still alive. Your marriage is dead. Yourchildren do not need you as you pretend. Let yourself go in this floodthat is sweeping us along. I had never thought to know it. I could falldown and worship you because you have shown it to me. But I will show itto you, that and the significance of what you will be when you are nolonger smothered and starved. In all this scrawling ant-heap ofhumanity, 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. Butwe have! Everything comes down to that in the end. That is the onlytruth. That . . . And you and I!"

In the distance, someone called Marise's name. He thought she made amove, and said, leaning towards her, the heat of his body burningthrough 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 againstsomething alive. All that rattles in your ears, that keeps you fromknowing 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 theaction. 

Vincent looked straight at her, straight and deep and strong into hereyes, and for an instant his burning lips were pressed on hers. Thecontact was terrible, momentous. 

When he went on speaking, without haste, unafraid although the hurryingsteps were almost there, she could scarcely hear his voice, although itwas urgent and puissant as the impact of his eyes. "You can't get awayfrom this now. It is here. It has been said. It lives between us, andyou are not strong enough, no power on earth is strong enough, to put itdown. "

 * * * * *

And then the outer world broke in on them, swept between them with anoutcry. Someone was there, someone who drew short sobbing breaths, whocaught at her and clung to her. It was Cousin Hetty's old Agnes . . . Whyin the world was she here? . . . And she was saying in a loud voice asthough she had no control of it, "Oh, oh! Come quick! Come quick!"

Marise stood up, carrying the old woman with her. She was entirelycertain now that she was in a nightmare, from which she would presentlyawake, 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 imperativeto pierce the other's agitation. 

"I don't know. I don't know, " sobbed Agnes. "She didn't come down forbreakfast. 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 wasalive to this. Most of it lay numbed and bewildered, still hearing, likea 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, butit's too narrow for a car. You drive to Ashley and bring the doctor inyour car. "

She ran down the path and around the house to the road, not feeling theblinding heat of the sun. She ran along the dusty road, a few steps fromthe house before the turn into the narrow lane. She felt nothing at allbut a great need for haste. 

As she ran, putting all her strength into her running, there weremoments when she forgot why she was hurrying, where she was going, whathad happened; but she did not slacken her pace. She was on the narrowback road now, in the dense shade of the pines below the Eagle Rocks. Infive minutes she would be at Cousin Hetty's. That was where she wasgoing. 

She was running more slowly now over the rough, uneven, stony road, andshe was aware, more than of anything else, of a pain in her chest whereshe could not draw a long breath. It seemed to her that she must be nowwholly in the bad dream, for she had the nightmare sensation of runningwith all her strength and not advancing at all. The somber, thick-setpines seemed to be implacably in the same place, no matter how she triedto pass them, to leave them behind, to hurry on. Everything else in thesilent, breathless, midsummer forest was rooted immovably deep in theearth. 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 heranother nightmare figure, a man, far away to her right, running down thesteep incline that sloped up to the Rocks. A man running as she had beenwishing she could run, a powerful, roughly dressed man, rapt in apassion of headlong flight, that cast him down the rough slope, over therocks, through the brambles, as though his flight were part of anendless fall. 

Marise stopped stock-still, shocked out of every sensation but theage-old woman's instinct of fear and concealment. 

The man plunged forward, not seeing her where she stood on the roadacross which he now burst, flinging himself out of the pines on one sideand into the thicket of undergrowth on the other. 

Far from him as she was, Marise could hear, through the forest hush, theterrible sound of his breathing as he ran, as he stumbled, as hestruggled to his feet, fighting crazily with the thick undergrowth. Those loud hoarse gasps . . . It was as though he were being choked todeath by a hand on his throat. 

He was gone, down the slope towards the valley road. The leaves closedtogether behind him. The forest was impenetrably silent again. Mariseknew 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 soprimitive as that . . . To think, even for an instant's madness, that youcould run away on your own two poor human feet from whatever lifebrought to you!

 * * * * *

She herself was hurrying forward again. What was she going to? What hadshe left behind? The passage of the other runner had not taken a singlemoment's time. She was now at the path which led to Cousin Hetty'sside-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 tickedloudly, wagging its pendulum back and forth. The cat, stretched at fulllength on the floor in a yellow square of sunlight, lifted a drowsy headand 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 shouldstop, a stick of wood in the fire broke and fell together. 

Marise went through into the dining-room where the table laid forbreakfast stood in a quiet expectancy. The old house, well-kept andwell-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. Shewent up the stairs, leaning on the balustrade, and found herself facingan open door. 

Beyond it, in a shuttered and shaded room, stood a still white bed. Andon the bed, still and white and distant, lay something dead. It was notCousin Hetty. That austere, cold face, proud and stern, was not CousinHetty's. It was her grandmother's, her father's, her uncle's face, whomCousin Hetty had never at all resembled. It was the family shell whichCousin Hetty had for a time inhabited. 

Marise came forward and crossed the threshold. Immediately she was awareof a palpable change in the atmosphere. The room was densely filled withsilence, which folded her about coldly. She sank down on a chair. Shesat motionless, looking at what lay there so quiet, at the unimaginableemptiness and remoteness of that human countenance. 

This was the end. She had come to the end of her running and her hasteand her effort to help. All the paltry agitations and sorrows, thestrains and defeats and poor joys, they were all hurrying forward tomeet this end. 

All the scruples, and sacrifices, and tearing asunder of human desiresto make them fit words that were called ideals, all amounted to thissame nothingness in the end. 

What was Cousin Hetty's life now, with its tiny inhibitions, its littlepassivities? The same nothingness it would have been, had she graspedboldly at life's realities and taken whatever she wanted. 

And all Cousin Hetty's mother's sacrifices for her, her mother's hopesfor her, the slow transfusion of her mother's life to hers; that was alldead now, had been of no avail against this nothingness. Some day Ellywould lie like that, and all that she had done for Elly, or could do forher, would be only a pinch of ashes. If she, if Cousin Hetty, if CousinHetty's mother, if Elly, if all of them, took hotly whatever the hourshad to give, they could not more certainly be brought to nothingness andoblivion 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 youabout to no end, one after another. One died down and left you becalmedand 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 anicy breath that froze her numb. The doctor had come and gone, queerly, and bustlingly alive and full of talk and explanations; Agnes had comeback and, silently weeping, had walked endlessly and aimlessly aroundthe house, with a broom in her idle hand; one after another of theneighbors had come and gone, queerly alive as usual, they too, for alltheir hushed and awkward manners; Neale had come, seeming to feel thatcold breath as little as the others. 

And now Neale was gone, after everything had been decided, all theincredibly multitudinous details that must be decided. The funeral wasset for the day after tomorrow, and until then, everything ineverybody's life was to stop stock-still, as a matter of course. BecauseAgnes was in terror of being left alone for an instant, Marise would noteven leave the house until after the funeral, and one of the thousandpetty unescapable details she and Neale had talked of in the hushedvoice which the house imposed on all in it, was the decision as to whichdress 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 CousinHetty had left, for the last watch over what lay up there on the bed inher bedroom. Neale would look out for the children (there was no oneelse for the moment, Touclé was gone, Eugenia quite useless), wouldtelegraph the few old friends who would care to know the news, wouldsee Mr. Bayweather about the funeral, would telephone the man in WestAshley who dug graves, would do what was to be done outside; and shewould do what was to be done inside, as now, when she sat on the stairswaiting 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 thedead of Ashley that he had come to seem not quite a living figurehimself, hushed and stilled by his association with everlastingstillness. Marise, cold and numbed with that icy breath upon her, knewnow why the old undertaker was always silent and absent. A strange lifehe must have had. She had never thought of it till she had seen him comeinto 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 everybodyknew was coming sometime and nobody ever expected to come at all. Howextraordinary that it had never occurred to her that Cousin Hetty, oldas she was, would some day die. You never really believed that anybodyin your own life was ever going to die, or change; any more than youreally believed that you yourself were ever going to grow old, orchange; or that the children were ever really going to grow up. Thatthreadbare old phrase about the death of old people, "it always comes asa shock, " that was true of all the inevitable things that happened inlife which you saw happen to everyone else, and never believed wouldhappen to you. 

This was the last tie with the past gone, the last person disappearedfor whom she was still the little girl she felt herself now, the littlegirl who had lost her way and wanted someone to put her back in thepath. She had a moment of very simple, sweet sorrow, sitting there alonein the hall, warm tears streaming down her cheeks and falling on herhands. Cousin Hetty gone, dear old Cousin Hetty, with her bright livingeyes, 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 housewere unfailing shelter. What shelter had she now?

The pendulum of her mind swung back . . . Of course this was sillytraditional 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 wasonly a charlatan who traded on moments of weakness like this. 

Mr. Hadley opened the door quietly and asked in that seldom-heard voiceof his for a couple of soft, clean towels. Where did Cousin Hetty keepher towels? In the chest of drawers at the end of the hall. An odor ofcloves came up spicily into the air as Marise opened the drawer. Howlike Cousin Hetty to have that instead of the faded, sentimentallavender. She had perhaps put those towels away there last night, withher busy, shaking old hands, so still now. All dead, the quaintness, thevitality, the zest in life, the new love for little Elly, all dead now, as though it had never been, availing nothing. There was nothing thatdid not die. 

She handed in the towels and sat down again on the stairs leaning herhead 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 doingall day, she and Agnes and the doctor and Mr. Hadley? She wondered ifthe children were all right, and if Neale would remember, when he washedMark's face, that there was a bruise on his temple where the swing-boardhad struck him. Was that only yesterday morning! Was it possible that itwas only last night that she had lain awake in the darkness, trying tothink, trying to know what she was feeling, burning with excitement, asone by one those boldly forward-thrusting movements came back to herfrom 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 thatlong reckless gaze over Elly's head! And now there was the triumphantglory of security which had been in his kiss . . . Why, that was thismorning, only a few hours ago! Even through her cold numbed lassitudeshe shrank again before the flare-up of that excitement, and burned init. She tried to put this behind her at once, to wait, like all therest, till this truce should be over, and she should once more be backin that mêlée of agitation the thought of which turned her sick withconfusion. She was not strong enough for life, if this was what itbrought, these fierce, clawing passions that did not wait for yourbidding to go or come, but left you as though you were dead and thenpounced on you like tigers. She had not iron in her either to liveruthlessly, or to stamp out that upward leap of flame which meant therenewal of priceless youth and passion. Between these alternatives, she_could_ make no decision, she could not, it would tear her in pieces todo it. 

The pendulum swung back again, and all this went out, leaving hermortally tired. Agnes came to the foot of the stairs, a little, withered, stricken old figure, her apron at her eyes. From behind it shemurmured humbly, between swallowing hard, that she had made some tea andthere 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 wasthe 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 commandsto another. She ran downstairs on tip-toe and put her arm around the oldwoman's shoulder. "I haven't said anything yet, Agnes, " she told her, "because this has come on us so suddenly. But of course Mr. Crittendenand I will always look out for you. Cousin Hetty . . . You were her bestfriend. "

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 thinheaving shoulders, "is to give her something to work at. " Aloud shesaid, "Agnes, we must get the front room downstairs ready. Mr. Hadleywants to have Cousin Hetty brought down there. Before we eat we might aswell get the larger pieces of furniture moved out. "

Agnes stood up, docilely submitting herself to the command, stoppedcrying, and went with Marise into the dim old room, in which nothing hadbeen changed since the day, twenty years ago, when the furniture hadbeen 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 moreunder the direction of another. They pulled out the long haircloth sofa, moved the spindle-legged old chairs into the dining-room, and carriedout one by one the drawers from the high-boy in the corner. From one ofthese drawers a yellowed paper fell out. Marise picked it up and glancedat it. It was a letter dated 1851, the blank page of which had been usedfor a game of Consequences. The foolish incoherencies lay there in thefaded ink just as they had been read out, bringing with them thelaughter of those people, so long dead now, who had written them down inthat pointed, old-fashioned handwriting. Marise stood looking at itwhile Agnes swept the other room. Cousin Hetty had been ten years old in1851, just as old as Paul was now. Her mother had probably leftsomething she wanted to do, to sit down and laugh with her littledaughter over this trivial game. A ghostly echo of that long-silentlaughter fell faintly and coldly on her ear. So soon gone. Was it worthwhile to do it at all? Such an effort, such a fatigue lay before thosechildren one tried to keep laughing, and then . . . 

Someone came in behind her, without knocking or ringing. People had beencoming and going unannounced in that house all the day as though deathhad made it their own home. Agnes came to the door, Marise looked upand saw Nelly Powers standing in the door-way, the second time she hadbeen there. "I come over again, " she said, "to bring you some hotbiscuit and honey. I knew you wouldn't feel to do much cooking. " Sheadded, "I put the biscuits in the oven as I come through, so they'd keepwarm. "

"Oh, thank you, Nelly, that's very kind and thoughtful, " said Marise. Asshe spoke and looked at the splendid, enigmatic woman standing there, the richness of her vitality vibrating about her, she saw again thenightmare vision of 'Gene and heard the terrible breathing that hadresounded in the Eagle Rock woods. She was overwhelmed, as so oftenbefore in her life, by an amazement at the astounding difference betweenthe aspect of things and what they really were. She had never entirelyoutgrown the wildness of surprise which this always brought to her. Sheand Nelly, looking at each other so calmly, and speaking of hotbiscuits!

She listened as though it were an ironically incongruous speech in aplay to Agnes' conscientious country attempt to make conversation withthe caller, "Hot today, ain't it? Yesterday's storm didn't seem to domuch good. " And to Nelly's answer on the same note, "Yes, but it's goodfor the corn to have it hot. 'Gene's been out cultivating his, all daylong. "

"Ah, not all day! Not all day!" Marise kept the thought to herself. Shehad a vision of the man goaded beyond endurance, leaving his horsesplodding in the row, while he fled blindly, to escape the unescapable. 

An old resentment, centuries and ages older than she was, a primaevalheritage from the past, flamed up unexpectedly in her heart. _There_ wasa 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 thevalley. She went away through the side-door, opening and shutting itwith meticulous care, so that it would not make a sound. . . . As though asound could reach Cousin Hetty now!

"I don't like her biscuits, " said Agnes. "She always puts too much sodyin. " 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, wearingsuch 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, "lacedhalfway 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 themsuspiciously to her nose, when someone came in at the front door andwalked down the hall with the hushed, self-conscious, lugubrious tip-toestep 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 helooked badly shaken and scared. It came to Marise that Cousin Hetty hadbeen 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 youknow 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 withme tonight to see if there was anything she could do. But she wasstopped by old Mrs. Warner, just as we were leaving the house. Frank, itseems, went off early this morning to survey some lines in the woodssomewhere on the mountain, and was to be back to lunch. He didn't comethen and hasn't showed up at all yet. Mrs. Warner wanted my wife totelephone up to North Ashley to see if he had perhaps gone there tospend 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 comeaway. 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 resultantblack cloud of smoke a huge and ominous possibility loomed up, sodarkly, so unexpectedly, that she had no breath to answer theclergyman's question. Those lines Frank Warner had gone to survey ranthrough the Eagle Rock woods!

 * * * * *

"Or would you think an Easter one, like 'The Strife Is O'er, the BattleWon, ' 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 whohad come and what the tidings were. 

Agnes started towards the door to open it. But it was flung openabruptly from the outside. Touclé stood there, her hat gone from herhead, 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. Ifound him there, at the bottom, half an hour ago, dead. "

 * * * * *

The savage old flame, centuries and ages older than she, flared for aninstant high and smoky in Marise's heart. "_There_ is a man who knowshow 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 Agneswas 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 roomand the same bed in which she had slept as a little girl. Nothing hadbeen changed there, since those days. The same heavy white pitcher andbasin 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 indark walnut hung over the narrow walnut bedstead. 

As she undressed in the space between the bed and the wash-stand, thepast came up before her in a sudden splashing wave of recollection whichfor a moment engulfed her. It had all been a dream, all that hadhappened since then, and she was again eight years old, with nothing inthe world but bad dreams to fear, and Cousin Hetty there at hand as arefuge even against bad dreams. How many times she had wakened, terrified, her heart beating hammer-strokes against her ribs, andtrotted 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 intobed with you?"

"Why yes, come along, you silly child. "

The fumbling approach to the bed, the sheets held open, the kind oldhand outstretched, and then the haven . . . Her head on the same pillowwith that of the brave old woman who was afraid of nothing, who drew herup close and safe and with comforting assurance instantly fell asleepagain. And then the delicious, slow fading of the terrors before theobliterating hand of sleep, the delicious slow sinking intoforgetfulness of everything. 

 * * * * *

Standing there, clad in the splendor of her physical maturity, Mariseshivered uncontrollably again, and quaked and feared. It was all a baddream, all of it, and now as then Cousin Hetty lay safe and quiet, wrapped in sleep which was the only escape. Marise turned sick withlonging to go again, now, to seek out Cousin Hetty and to lie down byher to share that safe and cold and dreamless quiet. 

She flung back over her shoulder the long shining dark braid which herfingers had been automatically twisting, and stood for a momentmotionless. She was suffering acutely, but the pain came from a sourceso deep, so confused, so inarticulate, that she could not name it, couldnot bring to bear on it any of the resources of her intelligence andwill. She could only bend under it as under a crushing burden, andsuffer as an animal endures pain, dumbly, stupidly. 

After a time a small knock sounded, and Agnes's voice asked through thedoor if Miss Marise thought the door to . . . To . . . If the "other" doorought to be open or shut. It was shut now. What did people do as ageneral thing?

Marise opened her own door and looked down on the old figure in thestraight, yellowed night-gown, the knotted, big-veined hand shieldingthe candle from the wandering summer breeze which blew an occasionalsilent, 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 shakingin her hand. She looked up at Marise timidly. "You do it, " she saidunder 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 ithad the sweetness of a longed-for anaesthetic, it had the very odor ofthe dreamless quiet into which she longed to sink. But Agnes shrankaway, 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, justyou 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 isonly all that is left of dear Cousin Hetty. " But the impatience andcontemptuous surprise which she kept out of her words and voice werefelt none the less by the old woman. She drooped submissively as under areproach. "I know it's foolish, " she murmured, "I know it's foolish. "

She began again to weep, the tears filling her faded eyes and runningquietly down her wrinkled old cheeks. "You don't know how gone I feelwithout 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 thoughevery minute she'd come in, stepping quick, the way she did. And Ifairly 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. Whata pitiable thing a dependent is! Poor old Agnes! She leaned down to thehumble, docile old face, and put her cheek against it. "I'll do my bestto take Cousin Hetty's place for you, " she said gently, and then, "Nowyou'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 areassured accent, "Well, it's all right if _you're_ not afraid, " turnedand shuffled down the hall, comforted and obedient. 

Marise saw her go into her room, heard the creak of the bed as she laydown on it, and then the old voice, "Miss Marise, will it be all rightif I leave my candle burning, just this once?"

"Yes, yes, Agnes, that'll be all right, " she answered. "Go to sleepnow. " As she went back into her own room, she thought passingly toherself, "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 hercandle. 

Instantly the room seemed suffocatingly full of a thousand flying, disconnected pictures. The talk with Agnes had changed her mood. Thedull, leaden weight of that numbing burden of inarticulate pain wasbroken into innumerable fragments. For a time, before she could collectherself to self-control, her thoughts whirled and roared in her headlike a machine disconnected from its work, racing furiously till itthreatens 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 drivethe 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, orhad '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 bebetter to have the services all at the church. 

Had anything been decided about hymns? Someone had said something aboutit, but what had she . . . Oh, of course that had been the moment whenTouclé had come in, and Mr. Bayweather had rushed away to tell Frank'smother. 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 youwent mad. 

Was it true that Elly cared nothing about her, that children didn't, forgrown-ups, that she was nothing in Elly's life?

She was glad that Touclé had come back. There would be someone to helpNeale 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 thepath. There was an instant of blankness, as she faced it, as though itwere a name she did not know. When she said that name, everythingstopped 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 nobodythere, Mr. Bayweather, Agnes, Touclé, none of them seemed to realizethat Frank had not fallen, that 'Gene had . . . But of course sheremembered they hadn't any idea of a possible connection between Frankand the Powers, and she had been the only one to see 'Gene in thatterrible flight from the Rocks. Nelly had thought he had beencultivating corn all day. Of course nobody would think of anything butan accident. Nobody would ever know. 

Yes, it was true; it was true that she would touch Neale and never knowit, never feel it . . . How closely that had been observed, that she couldtake a handkerchief from his pocket as from a piece of furniture. It wastrue that Neale and she knew each other now till there was no hiddencorner, no mystery, no possibility of a single unexpected thing betweenthem. She had not realized it, but it was true. How could she not haveseen that his presence left her wholly unmoved, indifferent now? But howcould she have known it, so gradual had been the coming of satiety, until she had to contrast with it this fierce burning response to afierce and new emotion? . . . 

Had she thought "indifference"? and "satiety"? Of whom had she beenthinking? Not of _Neale_! Was that what had come of the great hour onRocca di Papa? _Was that what human beings were?_

She had gone further this time, but now she was brought up short by thesame blankness at the name of Neale, the same impossibility to think atall. She could not think about Neale tonight. All that must be put offtill she was more like herself, till she was more steady. She wasreeling now, with shock after shock; Cousin Hetty's death, 'Gene'sdreadful secret, the discovery no longer to be evaded of what VincentMarsh meant and was. . . . 

She felt a sudden hurried impatient haste to be with Vincent again, tofeel again the choking throb when she first saw him, the constant scareduncertainty of what he might say, what she might feel, what they bothmight do, from one moment to the next . . . She could forget, in thosefiery and potent draughts, everything, all this that was so hard andpainful and that she could not understand and that was such a torment totry to understand. Everything would be swept away except . . . 

As though she had whirled suddenly about to see what was lurking therebehind her, she whirled about and found the thought, "But I ought totell someone, tell the police, that I saw 'Gene Powers running awayafter 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 recollectioncame upon her of that dreadful haste, those horrible labored breaths. 

She sat up with a great sweeping gesture of her arms, as though she mustfight for air. The little room seemed palpably crammed with thosejostling, shouting, battling thoughts. She slid from the bed and went tothe 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 chillingconsolation fell from them upon her, like a cold dew. She felt herselfshrink to imperceptible proportions. What did they matter, the strugglesof the maggots who crawled about the folds of the globe, itself the mosttrifling and insignificant of all the countless worlds which people theaimless disorder of the universe? What difference did it make? Anythingthey did was so soon indistinguishable from anything else. The easiestway . . . To yield to whatever had the strongest present force . . . Thatwas 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 multitudeof stars above her, enormous, remote beyond imagination, and it wasunder 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 visitsat your house, she brought them from your garden and she wants to seeyou if she can. "

Eugenia of course. That was unexpected. She must have made an effort todo 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 coldwater, too, will you please, Agnes. The walk over here must have beenterribly hot for her. "

The roses showed that. They were warm to the touch and as she looked atthem intently, at their white clear faces, familiar to her as those ofhuman beings, bent on her with a mute message from the garden, she sawthey had begun to droop imperceptibly, that the close, fine texture oftheir petals had begun ever so slightly to wither. She sprinkled them, put their stems deep into water and went downstairs, wiping her moisthands on her handkerchief. 

Eugenia in mauve organdie stood up from the deep Windsor chair where shehad sunk down, and came forward silently to greet her. They kissed eachother ceremoniously in token of the fact that a death lay between themand 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 didthey take it? Elly perhaps was . . . "

Eugenia did not know about this, had not happened to hear anybody say. But old Touclé 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 courseyou've heard of that?"

Eugenia made a little wry face. Of course she had heard of that, shesaid with an accent of distaste. Everybody was talking about themelodramatic accident, as probably they would still be talking about ita hundred years from now, up here where nothing happened. People hadcome all the way from North Ashley to look at the place, and some of themen and boys had gone around up to the top of the Eagle Rocks to seewhere Frank had lost his footing. They found his surveyor's compassstill set upon its staff. It was where the line ran very near the edgeand 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 tosave himself as he fell. 

She stopped speaking. Marise found herself too sick and shaken toventure any comment. There was rather a long silence, such as wasnatural and suitable under the circumstances, in that house. PresentlyMarise broke this to ask if anyone knew how Frank's mother had taken thenews, although she knew of course Eugenia was the last person of whom toask such a question. As she expected, Eugenia had only lifted eyebrows, a faint slow shake of her head and a small graceful shrug of hershoulders, her usual formula for conveying her ignorance of commonfacts, and her indifference to that ignorance. 

But Marise, looking at her, as they sat opposite each other in thetwilight of the closely shuttered room, was struck by the fact thatEugenia did not seem wholly like herself. Her outward aspect was thesame, the usual exquisite exactitude of detail, every blond hair shiningand in its place, the flawless perfection of her flesh as miraculous asever, her tiny white shoe untouched by dust through which she must havewalked to reach the house. But there was something . . . In her eyes, perhaps . . . Which now looked back at Marise with an expression whichMarise did not understand or recognize. If it had not been impossible tothink it of Eugenia, Marise would have imagined that her eyes lookedtroubled, excited. Was it possible that even in her safe ivory tower ofaloofness from life, she had felt the jarring blow of the brutallyimmediate tragedy of the Eagle Rocks? Or perhaps even Cousin Hetty'sdisappearance . . . She had always hated reminders of death. 

As Marise, surprised, looked at her and wondered thus passingly if shefelt any reverberation from the tragedy-laden air about them, Eugenia'sface hardened back into its usual smooth calm; over the eyes that hadbeen for an instant transparent and alive with troubled brightness, slidtheir acquired expression of benignant indifference. She answeredMarise's faintly inquiring gaze by getting up as if to go, remarking ina clear low tone (she was the only person who had come into the housewho had not succumbed to that foolish, instinctive muffling of thevoice), "I forgot to give you a message from Neale. He is obliged to beaway today, on business, something about a deed to some wood-land. "

Marise was slightly surprised. "Where is he going?" she asked. "In theFord? 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 theshining silk of her parasol. "Business finds no echo in me, you know. Aman came to supper last night, unexpectedly, and they talkedinterminably about some deal, lumbering, lines, surveys, deeds . . . TillTouclé came in with the news of the accident. The man was from NewHampshire, with that droll, flat New Hampshire accent. You know how theytalk, 'bahn' and 'yahd' for barn and yard. "

The words "New Hampshire" and "deeds" stirred a disagreeable associationof ideas in Marise's mind. The shyster lawyer who had done the Powersout of their inheritance had come from New Hampshire. However, shesupposed there were other people in the state besides dishonest lawyers. 

Eugenia went on casually. "It seemed quite important. Neale was absorbedby it. He told me afterward, Neale did, that the man had acted as agentfor 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 hadnever known Neale to employ an agent. She looked hard at Eugenia'squiet, indifferent face. The other seemed not to notice her surprise, and returned her look with a long clear gaze, which apparently referredto her hair, for she now remarked in just the tone she had used for thenews about Neale, "That way of arranging your coiffure _is_ singularlybecoming to you. Mr. Marsh was speaking about it the other day, but Ihadn't specially noticed it. He's right. It gives you that swathedclose-coifed Leonardo da Vinci look. " She put her handkerchief into asmall 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 alittle with that glass-smooth look of hers. The best thing to do was tolet her go without another word. And yet she heard her voice asking, urgently, peremptorily, "What was the name of the man from NewHampshire?"

Eugenia said, "What man from New Hampshire?" and then, under Marise'ssilent gaze, corrected herself and changed her tone. "Oh yes, let mesee: Neale introduced him, of course. Why, some not uncommon name, andyet not like Smith or Jones. It began with an L, I believe. "

Marise said to herself, "I will not say another word about this, " andaloud she said roughly, brusquely, "It wasn't Lowder, of course. "

"Yes, yes, " said Eugenia, "you're right. It was Lowder. I _thought_ itwas probably something you'd know about. Neale always tells youeverything. "

She looked away and remarked, "I suppose you will inherit the furnitureof this house? There are nice bits. This Windsor chair; and I thought Isaw a Chippendale buffet in the dining-room. "

Marise, immobile in her chair, repeated, "It wasn't Lowder. You didn'tsay it was Lowder. "

"Yes, it was Lowder, " said Eugenia clearly. "And now you speak of itonce more, I remember one more thing about their talk although I didn'ttry to understand much of it. It was all connected with the Powersfamily. 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 havealways seemed too sordidly poverty-stricken. But it seems this was theonly way Neale could get hold of it, because they refused to sellotherwise. "

She looked again at Marise, a long, steady, and entirely opaque gazewhich Marise returned mutely, incapable of uttering a word. She had thefeeling of leaning with all her weight against an inner-door that mustbe 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 thedistance, far off from where she had flung herself against that door. 

"Why yes, why not? Not very recently he said, some time ago. We hadquite a talk about it afterwards. It must be something you'veforgotten, " said Eugenia. She took up a card from the table and fannedherself as she spoke, her eyes not quitting Marise's face. "It's goingto be as hot as it was yesterday, " she said with resignation. "Doesn'tit make you long for a dusky, high-ceilinged Roman room with a cool, red-tiled floor, and somebody out in the street shouting through yourclosed shutters, 'Ricotta! Ricotta!'" she asked lightly. 

Marise looked at her blankly. She wished she could lean forward andtouch Eugenia to make sure she was really standing there. What was itshe had been saying? She could not have understood a word of it. It wasimpossible that it should be what it seemed to mean, --impossible!

A door somewhere in the house opened and shut, and steps approached. Thetwo women turned their eyes towards the hall-door. Old Mrs. Powerswalked in unceremoniously, her gingham dress dusty, her lean face deeplyflushed by the heat, a tin pan in her hands, covered with ablue-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 thecomposed faces and quiet postures of the two occupants. She brought outas near an apology for intruding, as her phraseless upbringing wouldpermit her. "I didn't see Agnes in the kitchen as I come through, so Icome right along, to find somebody, " she said, a little abashed. 

Marise was incapable of speaking to her, but she made a silent gestureof thanks, and, moving forward, took the pan from the older woman'shand. 

Mrs. Powers went on, "If 'twouldn't bother you, could you put them inyour jar now, and let me take the pan back with me? We hain't got anytoo many dishes, you know. "

Marise went out to the pantry with the older woman, feeling withastonishment the floor hard and firm under her feet as usual, the wallsupright about her. Only something at the back of her throat contractedto a knot, relaxed, contracted, with a singular, disagreeable, involuntary regularity. 

"You look down sick, Mis' Crittenden, " said Mrs. Powers with arespectful admiration for the suitability of this appearance. "And thereain't nothing surprising that you should. Did you ever see anybody gooff more sudden than Miss Hetty? Such a good woman she was, too. It mustha' 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 aquick end, and a peaceful end without no pain. And if you'd seen as manyold people drag along for years, as I have, stranglin' and chokin' andhalf-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 neighborswanted 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 hisgarden to the church for the service tomorrow. And Mr. Marsh was veryanxious to see you today, to arrange about the use of his car in meetingthe people who may come on the train tomorrow, to attend the funeral. Hesaid he would run over here any time today, if you would send Agnes totell him when you would see him. He said he wouldn't leave the house allday, to be ready to come at any time you would let him. "

Mrs. Powers was filled with satisfaction at such conduct. "Now that'swhat I call real neighborly, " she said. "And both on 'em new to our waystoo. That Mr. Welles is a real nice old man, anyhow. . . . There! I callhim 'old' and I bet he's younger than I be. He acts so kind o' settleddown to stay. But Mr. Marsh don't act so. That's the kind man I like tosee, up-and-coming, so you never know what he's a-goin' to do next. "

Eugenia waited through this, for some answer, and still waitedpersistently, her eyes on Marise's face. 

Marise aroused herself. She must make some comment, of course. "Pleasethank them both very much, " she said finally, and turned away to set thejar 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 offarewell from Eugenia, who disappeared down the hall, the front doorclosing gently behind her. 

Mrs. Powers began again abruptly, "Folks is sayin' that Frank Warnermust 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 onethat skated right ahead into the hole and most drowned him, and he wasfooling with his gran'father's shot-gun when it went off and most blewhim to pieces. 'S a wonder he lived to grow up: he come so nigh breakinghis neck, before this. "

Marise was surprised to hear Eugenia's voice again, "Marise, I steppedback to ask you if there are any errands I could do for you, anymessages to take. I pass by the door of Mr. Welles' house. I couldperfectly easily stop there and tell Mr. Marsh he could see you now, forinstance. "

Marise seemed to see her from afar. She heard what she said, but she wasaware of it only as an interruption. There was a question she must askold Mrs. Powers. How could she think of anything else till that had beenanswered? She said to Eugenia at random, using the first phrase thatcame into her mind, "No, no. Later. Some other time. "

Eugenia hesitated, took a step away from the door, and then came backin, deliberately, close to Marise. She spoke to her in Italian, veryclearly, "He is not a man who will wait. "

To this Marise, wholly engrossed in her inner struggle, opposed a stupidblankness, an incapacity to think of what Eugenia was saying, longenough to understand it. In that dark inner room, where she kept thedoor shut against the horror that was trying to come in, she dared notfor an instant look away. She merely shook her head and motionedimpatiently with her hand. Why did not Eugenia go away?

And yet when Eugenia had gone, she could not bring the words out becauseof that strange contraction of her throat. 

"My! but you ought to go and lie down, " said Mrs. Powerscompassionately. "You're as white as a sheet. Why don't you just give upfor a while? Agnes and I'll tend to things. "

Marise was filled with terror at the idea of not getting her answer, andspoke quickly, abruptly. "Mrs. Powers, you never heard, did you, younever thought, in that trouble about losing your wood-land . . . Nobodyever thought that Mr. Lowder was only an agent for someone else, whosename wasn't to be known then. "

"Oh sure, " said Mrs. Powers readily. "'Gene found out from a man thathad lived in his town in New Hampshire that Lowder didn't do nolumbering of his own. He just makes a business of dirty deals like thatfor pay. He always surmised it to be some lumber-company; somebody thatruns 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 herface, gave a cry, and pushed her into a chair, running for water. At thesound, Agnes came trotting, and showed a scared rabbit-like face. "She'sjust 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 CousinHetty was dead, or that she was in her house. She was shocked that for amoment 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 Nealeabout it!"

It was so simple. Somehow, of course, Neale could give the answer shemust have. Why had she not thought of that the instant Eugenia had begunto 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 thefuneral and I know Agnes is afraid to stay alone. Would you mind waitinghere 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 Iwouldn't do for you. But I'm kind o' _funny_ about dead folks. I don'tbelieve 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 guessthe four of us together won't be nervous about staying. 'Gene ain'tworkin' 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, "Iwun't be gone long. "

Marise sat down again, there in the pantry, leaned her head against thedoor and looked steadily at the shelves before her, full of dishes andjars and bottles and empty jelly glasses. In her mind there was only onething, a fixed resolve not to think at all, of anything, until she hadbeen to Neale's office and had Neale explain it to her. Surely he wouldnot 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. Eugeniahad probably made a mistake about the name. Even if Neale had gone shewould be able to ask about the name and find that Eugenia had made amistake. That would make everything all right. Of course Eugenia hadmade a mistake about the name. 

She was still staring fixedly at the shelves, frowning and beginningagain to count all the things on them, when Mrs. Powers' voice soundedfrom the kitchen. "I met 'em on the way is why I'm back so soon, " sheexplained to Agnes. "Nelly had some flowers to bring. And they've beendown by the river and got a great lot of ferns too. "

Marise started up, for an instant distracted from her concentration onwhat 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 onliving? How would they speak, and how could they listen to anything buttheir own thoughts? What had Frank's death meant to Nelly?

She turned shrinkingly towards Nelly. Nelly was bending down andflicking the dust from her shoes with her handkerchief. When she stoodup, she looked straight at Marise. Under the thick-springing, smooth-brushed abundance of her shining fair hair, her eyes, blue asprecious stones, looked out with the deep quiet which always seemed soinscrutable to the other woman. 

She held out an armful of flowers. "I thought you'd like the white phloxthe best. I had a lot of pink too, but I remembered Mrs. Bayweather saidwhite 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 afraidafterward maybe they weren't baked enough. "

Marise was swept to her feet. If Nelly could master her nerves likethat, she could do better herself. She took the flowers, carried them tothe kitchen, and set them in a panful of water. She had not yet lookedat '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 beforeher that haggard ashy face. 

At the mill, she paused in the doorway of the lower office, looking inon the three desk-workers, tapping on their machines, leaning sidewaysto consult note-books. The young war-cripple, Neale's special protégé, 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_ thereanything he could do for her? Why had she come? All she could rememberfor the moment was that singular contraction of her throat, which hadcome 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, andthen, shyly, swung his swivel chair towards her, not wishing to go backto his work, uncertain what to say to his employer's wife. 

"When will Mr. Crittenden be back?" asked Marise, although she knew theanswer. 

"No later than tonight, he said, " answered the stenographer. "He spokeparticularly 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 bedone, until Neale came back. But it seemed physically impossible for herto live until then, with the clutch in her throat. 

She ought to get up now, at once, and go back to Cousin Hetty's. ThePowers were waiting for her return. But her consternation at findingNeale really gone was a blow from which she needed a breathing time torecover. She couldn't have it so. She could never endure a whole daywith this possibility like a threatening powder-mine under her feet, ready to go off and bring her inner world to ruin and despair. She puther 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 thedesk. On one of the empty envelopes, torn in two, the words, "Return toC. K. Lowder, " stood out clearly. She turned away and stood motionless, one hand at her temple. She was thinking to herself, "This is simplyincredible. There is some monstrous mistake. If I could only think of away 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 mustbe. She made an effort to speak quietly, and heard herself say, "Do youhappen to remember if Mr. Crittenden was alone as he drove away?"

"Oh no, " said the other. "He had had someone with him ever since theafternoon train came in yesterday. Mr. Crittenden drove the car inhimself 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 thepictures of William Jennings Bryan's. And he talked out of one corner ofit, 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 getaway from that office as much as she had wished to go to it. The placewas hateful to her. The young man's eyes were intolerable. He was one ofthe people, one of the many, many people who had grown up trusting inNeale. 

She swung suddenly to a furious incredulity about the whole thing. Itwas nonsense! None of it could be true. What were all these peoplesaying to her, Eugenia, Mrs. Powers, this boy . . . ? She would neverforgive them for trying to do such an infamous thing. They were tryingto make her believe that Neale had been back of Lowder in the low-downswindle that had been practised on the Powers. They were trying to makeher believe that for seven years Neale had been lying to her with everybreath he drew. Because other men could lie, they thought they couldmake her believe that Neale did. Because other women's husbands had donebase things in business, they thought she would be capable of believingthat about Neale. They didn't know how preposterous it was, how closeshe and Neale had always been, how deeply a part of the whole aspect oflife to her, Neale's attitude toward his work had become. Those peopledid not realize what they were trying to make her believe, it was notonly that her husband had been the instigator of a mean little cheatwhich had cost years of suffering to helpless neighbors, it was thetotal 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 movedtowards 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, herfeet moving steadily forward, with no volition of hers, along the dustyroad. 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 theenvelope . . . And then like the door to a white-hot blast-furnace thrownopen in her face, came the searing conception of the possibility that itmight be true, and all the world lost. 

The extremity and horror of this aroused her to a last effort atself-preservation so that she flung the door shut by a fierce incapacityto believe any of those relentless facts which hung one from anotherwith 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 therepulsed 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 voicessounding within. "Here's Mrs. Crittenden back. Come on, Nelly, we betterbe 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 ashyface 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 courseit was preposterous, and she had been dreaming. What was that thatEugenia had said? The descent into hell began again step by step. 

The Powers went out, the old woman still talking, chattering, as ifanything mattered now. 

After they were gone, Agnes ran to the door calling, "Mis' Powers! Youforgot 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 nowshe 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 toour 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 shealways wanted him to. You know, the one that shades the house so. 'Gene's grandfather planted it, and he's always set the greatest storeby it. Used to say he'd just as soon cut his grandmother's throat aschop it down. But Nelly, she's all housekeeper and she never did likethe musty way the shade makes our best room smell. I never thought tosee the day 'Gene would give in to her about that. He's gi'n in to herabout everything else though. Only last night he was tellin' her, he wasgoing to take something out'n the savings-bank and buy her an organ forAddie 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 herto make any comment on what she said. Let them cut down all the trees inthe 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 beenliving with, all these years. 

Mrs. Powers had gone finally, and the house was silent at last, sosilent that she could now hear quite clearly, as though Eugenia stillsat there, what the sweet musical voice was saying over and over. Whyhad they gone away and left her alone to face this deadly peril whichadvanced on her step by step without mercy, time after time? Now therewas 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 turnedeyes of astonished anger and rebuke on her. "I don't want anything toeat, " she said in so strange a voice that Agnes crept back to thekitchen, 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 comeabout using his car to meet the train, and wanted to know if he couldsee Mrs. Crittenden. 

Marise looked at her, frowning, and shook her head. But it was not untillate that night that she understood the words that Agnes had spoken. 

 * * * * *

She was still sitting there, rigid, waiting, when Agnes brought in alighted lamp, and Marise saw that evening had come. The light wasextremely disagreeable to her eyes. She got up stiffly, and wentoutdoors to the porch, sitting down on the steps. 

The stars were beginning to come out now. The sight of them suggestedsomething painful, some impression that belonged to that other worldthat had existed before this day, before she had conceived thepossibility 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 whohad leaned out from the window and felt herself despised by the heightand vastness of the stars? From the height and vastness of her need, shelooked down on them now, and found them nothing, mere pin-pricks in thesky, compared to this towering doubt of her, this moral need whichshouted down all the mere matter on the earth and in the heavens abovethe earth. Something eternal was at stake now, the faith inrighteousness of a human soul. 

She had thought childishly, shallowly last night that she had had nofaith, and could live with none. That was because she had not conceivedwhat it would be to try to live without faith, because she had notconceived that the very ground under her feet could give way. At thatvery moment she had had a faith as boundless as the universe, and hadforgotten it. And now it was put in doubt. She could not live withoutit. It was the only vital thing for her. 

Was she the woman who had felt forced into acquiescing when VincentMarsh had said so boldly and violently, that she loved her husband nomore, that he was nothing to her now? It seemed to her at this momentthat it was a matter of the utmost unimportance whether she _loved_ himor not; but she could not live without believing him. That was all. Shecould not live without that. Life would be too utterly base . . . 

Neale nothing to her? She did not know _what_ he was to her, but themere possibility of losing her faith in him was like death. It was athousand times worse than death, which was merely material. Thismattered 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, yearby year of all her married life, of all she had found lovable andtolerable and beautiful and real in life. 

Of course this could not be true . . . Of course not . . . But if it weretrue, she would find the corrosive poison of a false double meaning inevery remembered hour. She did not believe any of those hideouslymarshaled facts, but if they were true, she would go back over all thoserecollections of their life together and kill them one by one, becauseevery hour of her life had been founded on the most unthinking, the mostabsolute, the most recklessly certain trust in Neale. To know that pastin peril, which she had counted on as safe, more surely than on anythingin life, so surely that she had almost dismissed it from her mind like atreasure laid away in a safe hiding-place . . . To know those memories indanger was a new torture that had never before been devised for anyhuman being. No one had the safe and consecrated past taken from him. Its pricelessness shone on her with a blinding light. What if it shouldbe 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 acry of suffering. 

Agnes' voice behind her asked tremblingly, "Did you call me, MissMarise?"

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. Whatif she were? Marise's life-long habit of divining another's need andministering to it, vanished like a handful of dust in a storm. What didshe care about Agnes? What did she care about anything in the world butthat she should have back again what she had valued so little as to loseit from her mind altogether? All of her own energy was strained in thebitterness of keeping her soul alive till Neale should come. She had notthe 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, howunimportant in the scheme of things, so much less able to givesignificance to the universe, than the presence of integrity in a humansoul. 

If she could have Neale back again, as she had always had him withoutthinking of it, if she could have her faith in him again, the skiesmight shrivel up like a scroll, but something eternal would remain inher life. 

 * * * * *

It seemed to her that she heard a faint sound in the distance, on theroad, and her strength ran out of her like water. She tried to stand upbut could not. 

Yes, it was the car, approaching. The two glaring headlights swept thewhite road, stopped, and went out. For an instant the dark mass stoodmotionless in the starlight. Then something moved, a man's tall figurecame 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 tohim the question which had had all the day such a desperate meaning forher, "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 coweringin the dark. Although she could not see his face clearly Marise knewfrom his manner that he was very tired, from the way he sat down, takingoff his cap, and his attitude as he leaned his head back against thepillar. She knew this without thinking about it, mechanically, with theautomatic certainty of a long-since acquired knowledge of him. And whenhe spoke, although his voice was quiet and level, she felt a greatfatigue in his accent. 

But he spoke with his usual natural intonation, which he evidently triedto make cheerful. "I'm awfully glad you're still up, dear. I was afraidyou'd be too tired, with the funeral coming tomorrow. But I couldn't gethere any sooner. I've been clear over the mountain today. And I've donea 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 bigwoodlot? I don't know if you happen to remember all the details, how alawyer 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 thistime, talking with one of the old women in town, I ran across a localtradition that, in a town about ten miles inland, some of the familieswere descended from Tory Yankees who'd been exiled from New England, after the Revolution. I thought it was worth looking up, and one day Iran up there to see if I could find out anything about them. It wasSunday and I had to . . . "

Marise was beside herself, her heart racing wildly. She took hold of hisarm and shook it with all her might. "Neale, quick! quick! Leave out allthat. _What did you do?_"

She could see that he was surprised by her fierce impatience, and for aninstant taken aback by the roughness of the interruption. He stared ather. How _slow_ Neale was!

He began, "But, dear, why do you care so much about it? You can'tunderstand about what I did, if I don't tell you this part, thebeginning, how I . . . " Then, feeling her begin to tremble uncontrollably, he said hastily, "Why, of course, Marise, if you want to know the endfirst. The upshot of it all is that I've got it straightened out, aboutthe Powers woodlot. I got track of those missing leaves from the AshleyTown Records. They really were carried away by that uncle of yours. Ifound them up in Canada. I had a certified copy and tracing made ofthem. It's been a long complicated business, and the things only came inyesterday's mail, after you'd been called over here. But I'd been incorrespondence with Lowder, and when I had my proofs in hand, Itelephoned him and made him come over yesterday afternoon. It was one ofthe biggest satisfactions I ever expect to have, when I shoved thosepapers under his nose and watched him curl up. Then I took him backtoday, myself, to his own office, not to let him out of my sight, tillit was all settled. There was a great deal more to it . . . Two or threehours of fight. I bluffed some, about action by the bar-association, disbarment, a possible indictment for perjury, and seemed to hit a weakspot. And finally I saw him with my own eyes burn up that fakewarranty-deed. And that's all there is to that. Just as soon as we canget this certified copy admitted and entered on our Town Records, 'Genecan have possession of his own wood-land. Isn't that good news?"

He paused and added with a tired, tolerant, kindly accent, "Now Nellywill have fourteen pairs of new shoes, each laced higher up than theothers, and I won't be the one to grudge them to her. "

He waited for a comment and, when none came, went on doggedly makingtalk 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, forthey are queer. The missing pages weren't in that first town I struck atall. Nothing there but a record of a family of Simmonses who had comefrom Ashley in 1778. They had . . . "

Marise heard nothing more of what he said, although his voice went onwith words the meaning of which she could not grasp. It did not seem toher that she had really understood with the whole of her brain anythinghe had said, or that she had been able to take in the significance ofit. She could think of nothing but a frightening sensation all over herbody, as though the life were ebbing out of it. Every nerve and fiber inher seemed to have gone slack, beyond anything she had ever conceived. She could feel herself more and more unstrung and loosened like a violinstring let down and down. The throbbing ache in her throat was gone. Everything was gone. She sat helpless and felt it slip away, tillsomewhere in the center of her body this ebbing of strength had run sofar that it was a terrifying pain, like the approach of death. She wasin a physical panic of alarm, but unable to make a sound, to turn herhead. 

It was when she heard a loud insistent ringing in her head, and saw thestars waver and grow dim that she knew she was fainting away. 

 * * * * *

Then she was lying on the sofa in Cousin Hetty's sitting-room, Nealebending over her, holding a handkerchief which smelled of ammonia, andAgnes, very white, saying in an agitated voice, "It's because she hasn'teaten a thing all day. She wouldn't touch her lunch or supper. It's beenturrible to see her. "

Marise's head felt quite clear and lucid now; her consciousness as ifwashed clean by its temporary absence from life. She tried to sit up andsmile at Neale and Agnes. She had never fainted away in all her lifebefore. She felt very apologetic and weak. And she felt herself in aqueer, literal way another person. 

Neale sat down by her now and put his arm around her. His face was graveand solicitous, but not frightened, as Agnes was. It was like Neale notto lose his head. He said to Agnes, "Give me that cup of cocoa, " andwhen it came, he held it to Marise's lips. "Take a good swallow ofthat, " he said quietly. 

Marise was amazed to find that the hot sweet smell of the cocoa arousedin her a keen sensation of hunger. She drank eagerly, and taking in herhand the piece of bread and butter which Neale offered to her, she beganto eat it with a child's appetite. She was not ashamed or self-consciousin showing this before Neale. One never needed to live up to any posebefore Neale. His mere presence in the room brought you back, shethought, to a sense of reality. Sometimes if you had been particularlyup 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 asthey were. 

The food was delicious. She ate and drank unabashedly, finding it anexquisite sensation to feel her body once more normal, her usual home, and not a scaring, almost hostile entity, apart from her. When shefinished, she leaned against Neale's shoulder with a long breath. For aninstant, 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 provokedwith you now, going without eating since morning. "

Agnes put in, "It's the suddenness of it that was such a shock. It takesme just so, too, comes over me as I start to put a mouthful of food intomy mouth. I can't get it down. And you don't know how _lost_ I feel notto 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 thechildren. "

He remembered suddenly. "By George, I haven't had anything to eat sincenoon, myself. " He gave Marise an apologetic glance. "I guess I haven'tany stones to throw at your foolishness. "

Agnes ran to get him another cup of cocoa and some more bread andbutter. Marise leaned back on the sofa and watched him eat. 

 * * * * *

She was aware of a physical release from tension that was like a newbirth. 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 sheseemed not to have seen before, was what had grown up little by little, the expression of his face, the expression which gave his presence itssignificance, the expression which he had not inherited like hisfeatures, but which his life had wrought out there. 

Before her very eyes there seemed still present the strange, alien lookof the dead face upstairs, from which the expression had gone, and withit 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 asshe had never done before. 

In the clean, new, sweet lucidity of her just-returned consciousness shesaw 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 himsilently, she thought it no wonder that she had been literally almostfrightened to death by the mere possibility that it had not existed. Shehad been right in thinking that there was something there which wouldoutlast the mere stars. 

He looked up, found her eyes on him, and smiled at her. She found thegentleness of his eyes so touching that she felt the tears mounting toher own. . . . But she winked them back. There had been enough foolishnessfrom her, for one day. 

Neale leaned back in his chair now, looked around for his; cap, took itup, and looked back at her, quietly, still smiling a little. Marisethought, "Neale is as _natural_ in his life as a very great actor is inhis art. Whatever he does, even to the most trifling gesture, is donewith so great a simplicity that it makes people like me feel fussy andpaltry. "

There was a moment's silence, Neale frankly very tired, looking ratherhaggard and grim, giving himself a moment's respite in his chair beforestanding up to go; Marise passive, drawing long quiet breaths, her handsfolded on her knees; Agnes, her back to the other two, hanging about thesideboard, opening and shutting the drawers, and shifting their contentsaimlessly from one to the other. 

Then Agnes turned, and showed a shamed, nervous old face. "I don't knowwhat's got into me, Miss Marise, that I ain't no good to myself noranybody else. I'm afraid to go back into the kitchen alone. " Sheexplained 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, andthis time she kept contempt not only out of her voice, but out of herheart. She was truly only very sorry for the old woman with her foolishfears. 

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 thatthis promise to Agnes meant that she could not see Neale alone tillafter the funeral, tomorrow, when she went back into life again. And shefound 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; sofamiliar, every line and pose and color of him; as familiar andunexciting, as much a part of her, as her own hand. 

As their eyes met in the profound look of intimate interpenetrationwhich can pass only between a man and a woman who have been part of eachother, she felt herself putting to him clearly, piercingly, the questionwhich till then she had not known how to form, "_Neale, what do you wantme to do?_"

She must have said it aloud, and said it with an accent which carriedits prodigious import, for she saw him turn very white, saw his eyesdeepen, his chest lift in a great heave. He came towards her, evidentlynot able to speak for a moment. Then he took her hands . . . The memory ofa thousand other times was in his touch . . . 

He looked at her as though he could never turn his eyes away. Thecorners of his mouth twitched and drew down. 

He said, in a deep, trembling, solemn voice, "Marise, my darling, I wantyou always to do what is best for _you_ to do. "

He drew a deep, deep breath as though it had taken all his strength tosay that; and went on, "What is deepest and most living in you . . . Thatis what must go on living. "

He released one hand and held it out towards her as though he weretaking an oath. 

CHAPTER XXV

MARISE'S COMING-OF-AGE

July 23. Dawn

Even after the old child, Agnes, had been soothed and reassured, overand over, till she had fallen asleep, and the house lay profoundlyquiet, Marise felt not the slightest approach of drowsiness or even offatigue. She lay down on her bed, but could not close her eyes. Theyremained wide open, looking not at a wild confusion of incoherent imagesas they had the night before, but straight into blackness and vacancy. 

It was strange how from the brawling turmoil of impressions which hadshouted and cried out to her the night before, and had wrought her tofrenzy by their insane insistence, not an echo reached her now. Her mindwas as silent and intent as the old house, keeping its last mute watchover its mistress. Intent on what? She did not know. On something thatwas waiting for her, on something for which she was waiting. 

In an immense hush, like the dusky silence in a cathedral aisle or inthe dark heart of the woods, there was something there waiting for herto go and find it. 

That hush had fallen on her at the sight of Neale's face, at the soundof 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 racingpulses of hers had been stilled by it into this steady rhythm which nowbeat quietly through her. The clashing thoughts which had risen withmalevolent swiftness, like high, battling shadowy genii, and had tornher in pieces as they fought back and forth, were stilled as though amaster-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 herchildhood and her youth now watched over her entry into another part ofher journey. 

For as she lay there, wide-awake, watching the light of the candle, shefelt 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'slook and voice had laid about her, she felt slowly coming into her, likea 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 thecandle, reaching up, reaching up, never for a moment flagging in thattransmutation of the dead matter below it, into something shining andalive. 

She felt the quiet strength come into her like a tide. And presently, asnaturally as a child wakes in the morning, refreshed, and feels theimpulse to rise to active effort again, she sat up in bed, folded herarms around her knees, and began to think. 

Really to think this time, not merely to be the helpless battle-fieldover which hurtling projectiles of fierce emotions passed back andforth! She set her life fairly there before her, and began to try tounderstand it. 

As she took this first step and saw the long journey stretching outbefore her, she knew on what staff she leaned. It was Neale's beliefthat 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 afraidof what she might find, but she set forth. 

She must begin at the beginning this time, and go steadily forward fromone step to the next, not her usual involuntary plunge, not the usualclosing over her head of those yelling waters of too vivid impression. 

The beginning had been . . . Yes, the first conscious beginning had beenthe going away of little Mark, out of his babyhood into his ownchild-life. He had gone out and left an empty place behind him, whichtill then had been filled with the insistent ever-present need for carefor the physical weakness of babyhood. And she had known that neveragain would Mark fill that place. 

Emptiness, silence, solitude in the place of constant activity; it hadfrightened her, had set before her a vision that her life had reachedits peak, and henceforth would go down the decline. Into that emptyplace had come a ringing, peremptory call back to personal and physicalyouth and excitement and burning sensations. And with that blindingrebirth of physical youth had come a doubt of all that had seemed therecompense for the loss of it, had come the conception that she might beletting herself be fooled and tricked out of the only real things. 

There had been many parts to this: her revolt from the mere physicaldrudgery of her life, from giving so much of her strength to the dull, unsavory, material things. This summer, a thousand times in a thousandways, there had been brought home to her by Vincent, by Eugenia, thefact that there were lives so arranged that other people did all thedrudgery, and left one free to perceive nothing but the beauty anddelicacy of existence. Now, straight at it! With all the knowledge ofherself and of life which she had gathered, --straight at it, to see whatthis meant! Did their entire freedom from drudgery give them a keenersense of the beauty and delicacy of existence? Were they more deeplyalive because of the ease of their lives?

She cast about her for evidence, in a firm, orderly search among thematerials which life had brought to her. Had she seen anything whichcould give evidence on that? There was Eugenia; Eugenia and her friendshad always lived that life of rich possessions and well-served ease. What had it made of them? Was their sense of beauty deeper and moreliving because of it? No, not in the least. 

She turned her inward eye on Eugenia's life, on the lives of the peoplein 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 whatis most worth responding to? Odd, that it did not seem to be! They werepetulant, and bored, and troubled about minute flaws in their ease, farmore than they were deep in communion with beauty. 

Another piece of evidence came knocking at the door now, a picture ofquaint and humble homeliness . . . Herself standing before the stove withthe roast on a plate, and little Mark saying fastidiously, "Oh, hownasty raw meat looks!" She recalled her passing impatience with thechildishness of that comment, her passing sense of the puerile ignoranceof the inherent unity of things, in such an attitude of eagerness tofeed on results and unwillingness to take one's share of what leads upto results. Yes, it was more there, than in looking at Eugenia, that shecould find evidence. Did she want to be of those who sat afar off andwere served with the fine and delicate food of life, and knew nothing ofthe unsavory process of preparing it? It had seemed to her this summer, a thousand times with Vincent's eyes on her, scornful of her presentlife, that she did want it, that she wanted that more than anythingelse. Now let her look full at it. She was a grown woman now, who couldforesee what it would mean. 

She looked full at it, set herself there in her imagination, in theremote ivory tower and looked out from its carven windows at the roughworld where she had lived and worked, and from which she wouldhenceforth be protected . . . And shut out. She looked long, and in theprofound silence, both within and without her, she listened to thedeepest of the voices in her heart. 

And she knew that it was too late for that. She had lived, and she couldnot blot out what life had brought to her. She could never now, with atranquil heart, go into the ivory tower. It would do her no good to shutand bar the golden door a hundred times behind her, because she wouldhave with her, everywhere she went, wrought into the very fiber of herbeing, a guilty sense of all the effort and daily strain and struggle inwhich she did not share. 

She saw no material good accomplished by taking her share. The existencein the world of so much drudgery and unlovely slavery to materialprocesses was an insoluble mystery; but a life in which her part of itwould 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 hadbrought to her. She remembered how she had hated the simple comforts ofhome, the safety, the roof over her head, because they were being paidfor by such hideous sufferings on the part of others; how she had beenashamed to lie down in her warm bed when she thought of Neale and hiscomrades in the trench-mud, in the cold horror of the long drenchingnights, awaiting the attack; and she had turned sick to see the longtrains of soldiers going out while she stayed safely behind and bore nopart in the wretchedness which war is. There had been no way for her totake her part in that heavy payment for her safety and comfort; but thebitterness of those days had shocked her imagination alive to the shameof sharing and enjoying what she had not helped to pay for, to thedisharmony of having more than your share while other people have lessthan theirs. 

This was nothing she had consciously sought for. She felt no dutifulwelcome that it had come; she bent under it as under a burden. But itwas there. Life had made her into one of the human beings capable offeeling that responsibility, each for all, and the war had driven ithome, deep into her heart, whence she could not pluck it out. 

She might never have known it, never have thought of it, if she hadbeen safely protected by ignorance of what life is like. But now sheknew, living had taught her; and that knowledge was irrevocably part ofthe woman she had become. 

Wait now! Was this only habit, routine, dulled lack of diviningimagination of what another life could be? That was the challengeVincent would throw down. She gazed steadily at the wall before her, andcalled up, detail by detail, the life which Vincent Marsh thought theonly one that meant richness and abundance for the human spirit. It hungthere, a shimmering mass of lovely colors and exquisite textures andfineness and delicacy and beauty. And as she looked at it, it took onthe shape of a glorious, uprooted plant, cut off from the very source oflife, its glossy surfaces already beginning to wither and dull in thesure approach of corruption and decay. But what beauties were there topluck, lovely fading beauties, poignant and exquisite sensations, whichshe was capable of savoring, which she sadly knew she would live and diewithout 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 oldand stern. 

Nothing more came for a moment, and restless, feeling no bodily fatigueat all, she got out of her bed, took up the candle, and steppedaimlessly out into the hall. The old clock at the end struck a muffledstroke, 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 roomwhich 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, comedown from the dead, who were kept in such friendly recollection in thishouse. Near the door there had been an old, flat-topped, hair-coveredtrunk . . . Yes, here it was, just as it had been. Nothing ever changedhere. She sat down on it, the candle on the floor beside her, and sawherself as a little girl playing among the old things. 

A little girl! And now she was the mother of a little girl. So short atime had passed! She understood so very little more than when she hadbeen the little girl herself. Yet now there was Elly who came and stoodby her, and looked at her, and asked with all her eyes and lips andbeing, "Mother, what is the meaning of life?"

What answer had she to give? Was she at all more fit than anyone else totry to give Elly the unknowable answer to that dark question? Was thereany deep spiritual reality which counted at all, which one human beingcould give to another? Did we really live on desert islands, cut off sowholly from each other by the unplumbed, salt, estranging sea? And if wedid, why break one's heart in the vain effort to do the impossible, toget 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 hergift of her life to them? They were already beginning to go away fromher, to be estranged from her, to shut her out of their lives, to livetheir lives with no place for her in them. 

She sat there on the old trunk and saw the endless procession of parentsand children passing before her, the children so soon parents, alldriven forward by what they could not understand, yearning and starvingfor what was not given them, all wrapped and dimmed in the twilight oftheir doubt and ignorance. Where were they going? And why? So many ofthem, so many!

Her humbled spirit was prostrate before their mystery, before thevastness of the whole, of which she and her children were only a part, atiny, lowly part. 

With this humbling sense of the greatness of the whole, somethingswollen and sore in her heart gave over its aching, as though aquieting hand had been laid on it. She drew a long breath. Oh, from whatdid it come, this rest from that sore bitterness?

It came from this, that she had somehow been shown that what she wantedwas not love from her children for herself. That was trying to drive abargain 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 forherself, to get anything from them, but to give them all that lay in herto give. If that was what she wanted, why, nothing, nothing could takeit 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 whichhad grown insensibly to life and strength, during all those uncountedhours of humble service to the children. And it was something golden andimmortal in her poor, flawed, human heart. 

 * * * * *

A warm bright wave of feeling swept over her . . . There, distinct androunded against the shadowy confused procession of abstract ideas aboutparents and children, there stood looking at her out of their clearloving eyes, Paul and Elly and little Mark, alive, there, a part of her;not only themselves but her children; not only her children butthemselves; human life which she and Neale had created out of the stuffof the universe. They looked at her and in their regard was the cleardistillation of the innumerable past hours when they had looked at herwith love and trust. 

At the sight of them, her own children, her heart swelled and openedwide to a conception of something greater and deeper in motherhood thanshe had had; but which she could have if she could deserve it; somethingso wide and sun-flooded that the old selfish, possessive, never-satisfied ache which had called itself love withered away, itspower 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 firstheard the cry of her new-born babies . . . She was one mother then, shehad become another mother now. She turned to bless the torment ofbitter, doubting questioning of what she had called mother-love, whichhad forced her forward blindly struggling, till she found thisdivination of a greater possibility. 

She had been trying to span the unfathomable with a mean and graspingdesire. Now she knew what she must try to do; to give up the lesser andreceive the greater. 

 * * * * *

This passed and left her, looking straight before her at the flickeringshadows, leaping among the dusky corners of the dark slant-ceilingedroom. The old clock struck three in the hall behind her. 

She felt tired now, as she had after the other travail which had givenher her children, and leaned her head on her hand. Where did sheherself, her own personal self come in, with all this? It was always acall to more effort which came. To get the great good things of life howmuch you had to give! How much of what seemed dearly yourself, you hadto leave behind as you went forward! Her childhood was startlinglycalled up by this old garret, where nothing had changed: she could stillsee herself, running about there, happily absorbed in the vitaltrivialities of her ten years. She had not forgotten them, she knewexactly the thrill felt by that shadowy little girl as she leaned overthe old chest yonder, and pulled out the deep-fringed shawl and quiltedpetticoat. 

It had been sweet to be a little girl, she thought wistfully, to havehad no past, to know only the shining present of every day with noominous, difficult future beyond it. Ineffably sweet too was the aromaof perfect trust in the strength and wisdom of grown-up people, whichtinctured deep with certainty every profoundest layer of herconsciousness. Ineffably sweet . . . And lost forever. There was no humanbeing in the world as wise and strong as poor old Cousin Hetty hadseemed to her then. A kingdom of security from which she was now shutout. 

And the games, the fantastic plays, --how whole and rounded and entire, the pleasure in them! She remembered the rainy day she had playedpaper-dolls here once, with little Margaret Congdon . . . Dead, years ago, that much-loved playmate of past summer days . . . And how they had takenthe chest for the house for Margaret's dolls, and the hair-trunk whereshe sat, for hers; how they had arranged them with the smallest ofplaythings, with paste-board furniture, and bits of colored tissue paperfor 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 couldhear them now!); and how the aromatic woodsy smell of the unfinished oldroom and the drone of the rain on the roof had been a part of their deepcontent. 

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. Afaint musty odor rose from it, as though it had been shut up for verylong. And . . . Why, there it was, the doll's room, just as they had leftit, how long ago! How like this house! How like Cousin Hetty never tohave touched it!

She sat down on the floor and, lifting the candle, looked in at theyellowed old playthings, the flimsy, spineless paper-dolls, the fadedsilk rags, the discolored bits of papers, the misshapen staggeringpaste-board chairs and bed, which had seemed so delightful andenchanting to her then, far better than any actual room she knew. Ahomesickness for the past came over her. It was not only Margaret whowas dead. The other little girl who had played there, who had hung solovingly over this creation of her fancy, was dead too, Marise thoughtwith a backward look of longing. 

And then the honest, unsparing habit of her life with Neale shook herroughly. This was sentimentalizing. If she could, would she give up whatshe had now and go back to being the little girl, deeply satisfied withmake-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, evento have again all the unquestioning trust in everyone and everything ofthe child who had died in her heart? Would she choose to give up thehome where her living children had been born, at no matter what cost ofhorrid pain to herself, and were growing up to no matter what darkuncertainties 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 shecould, exchange the darker, heavier, richer gifts for the bright smalltrinkets of the past. 

All this ran fluently from her mind, with a swiftness and clarity whichseemed as shallow as it was rapid; but now there sounded in her ears awarning roar of deeper waters to which this was carrying her. 

Before she knew what was coming, she braced herself to meet it; andholding hard and ineffectually, felt herself helplessly swept out andflung to the fury of the waves . . . And she met them with an answeringtumult of welcome. That was what Vincent Marsh could do for her, wantedto do for her, --that wonderful, miraculous thing, --give back to hersomething she had thought she had left behind forever; he could takeher, in the strength of her maturity with all the richness of growth, and carry her back to live over again the fierce, concentrated intensityof newly-born passion which had come into her life, and gone, before shehad had the capacity to understand or wholly feel it. He could lift herfrom 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 awayinsensibly, between her fingers, with use, with familiarity, with thehateful blunting of sensitiveness which life's battering always brings. But she could have it again; with a grown woman's strength and depth offeeling, she could have the inheritance of youth. She had spent it, butnow she could have it again. That was what Vincent meant. 

He seemed to lean over her now, his burning, quivering hand on hers. Shefelt a deep hot flush rise to her face, all over her body. She was likea crimson rose, offering the splendor of its maturity to be plucked. Lether have the courage to know that its end and aim and fulfilment lay inbeing plucked and gloriously worn before the coming of the inevitableend! Thus and thus only could one find certainty, before death came, ofhaving lived as deeply as lay in one to live. 

 * * * * *

Through the glowing pride and defiance with which she felt herself riseto the challenge, felt herself strong to break and surmount allobstacles within and without, which stood in the way of that fulfilmentof her complete self, she had heard . . . The slightest oftrivialities . . . 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 ofsomething flawed and cracked? . . . She had heard . . . It must havecome from some corner of her own mind . . . Something like this, "Setsuch an alternative between routine, traditional, narrow domestic life, and the mightiness and richness of mature passion, before a modern, freeEuropean woman, and see how quickly she would grasp with all her soul forpassion. "

What was there about this, the veriest flying mote among a thousandothers in the air, so to awaken in Marise's heart a deep vibration ofalarm? Why should she not have said that? she asked herself, angry andscared. Why was it not a natural thought to have had? She felt herselfmenaced by an unexpected enemy, and flew to arms. 

Into the rich, hot, perfumed shrine which Vincent's remembered words andlook had built there about her, there blew a thin cool breath from theoutside, through some crack opened by that casual thought. Before sheeven knew from whence it came, Marise cried out on it, in a fury ofresentment . . . And shivered in it. 

With no apparent volition of her own, she felt something very strongwithin her raise a mighty head and look about, stirred to watchfulnessand suspicion by that luckless phrase. 

She recognized it . . . The habit of honesty of thought, not native toMarise's heart, but planted there by her relation with Neale's stark, plain integrity. Feeding unchecked on its own food, during the longyears of her marriage it had grown insensibly stronger and stronger, till now, tyrant and master, with the irresistible strength of consciouspower, it could quell with a look all the rest of her nature, rich incolored possibilities of seductive self-deceit, sweet illusions, lovelyfalsities. 

She could no more stop its advance now, straight though it made its wayover treasures she fain would keep, than she could stop the beating ofher heart. 

A ruthless question or two . . . "Why did you say that about what amodern, free European woman would do in your place? Are you trying toplay up to some trumpery notion of a rôle to fill? And more than this, did you really mean in your heart an actual, living woman of anotherrace, such as you knew in Europe; or did you mean somebody in anItalian, or a French, or a Scandinavian book?" Marise writhed againstthe indignity of this, protested fiercely, angrily against theincriminating imputation in it . . . And with the same breath admitted ittrue. 

It was true. She was horrified and lost in grief and humiliation at thecheapened aspect of what had looked so rich before. Had there been intruth an element of such trashy copying of the conventional pose ofrevolt in what had seemed so rushingly spontaneous? Oh no, no . . . Notthat!

She turned away and away from the possibility that she had beenpartially living up to other people's ideas, finding it intolerable; andwas met again and again by the relentless thrust of that acquiredhonesty of thought which had worn such deep grooves in her mind in allthese 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 gesturesappropriate for your part . . . " One by one, that relentless power seatedin her many-colored tumultuous heart put out the flaring torches. 

It had grown too strong for her, that habit of honesty of thought andaction. If this struggle with it had come years before she could havemastered it, flinging against it the irresistible suppleness andlightness of her ignorant youth. But now, freighted heavily withexperience of reality, she could not turn and bend quickly enough toescape it. 

It had profited too well by all those honest years with Neale . . . Neverto have been weakened by a falsehood between them, by a shade ofpretense of something more, or different from what really was there. That habit held her mercilessly to see what was there now. She could nomore look at what was there and think it something else, than she couldlook with her physical eyes at a tree and call it a dragon. 

If it had only been traditional morality, reproaching her withtraditional complaints about the overstepping of traditional bounds, howshe could have overwhelmed it, drowned out its feeble old voice, witheloquent appeals for the right to growth, to freedom, to the generousexpansion of the soul, of the personality, which Vincent Marsh couldgive. But honesty only asked her neutrally, "Is it really growth andfreedom, and generous expansion of the soul?" Poor Marise felt her armsfall to her side, piteous and defenseless. No, it was not. 

It was with the flatness of accent which she hated, which was so hardfor her, that she made the admission. It was physical excitement, --thatwas what it was. Physical excitement, that was what Vincent Marsh couldgive 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 foraesthetic sympathy and understanding, perhaps more than Neale could . . . And broke off with a qualm of sickness. How horrid this was! How itoffended a deep sense of personal dignity and decency! How infinitelymore beautiful and gracious those rolling clouds of vagueness andimpulsive illusion!

But at least, when it had extracted the plain, bare statement which ithad hunted down through the many-recessed corners of her heart, thatstern sense of reality let her alone. She no longer felt like a beetleimpaled on a pin. She was free now to move as she liked and lookunmolested at what she pleased. Honesty had no more power over her thanto make sure she saw what she was pretending to look at. 

But at what a diminished pile she had now to look, tarnished and fadedlike the once-loved bits of bright-colored silk and paper. She feltrobbed and cried out in a pain which seemed to her to come from her veryheart, that something living and vital and precious to her had beenkilled by that rough handling. But one warning look from the clear eyesof honesty forced her, lamenting, to give up even this. If it had beenliving and precious and vital to her, it would have survived anythingthat honesty could have done to it. 

But something had survived, something to be reckoned with, somethingwhich no tyrant, overbearing honesty could put out of her life . . . Thepossibility for being carried away in the deep full current of passion, fed by all the multitudinous streams of ripened personality. If thatwas all that was left, was not that enough? It had been for thousands ofother women. . . . 

No, not that; honesty woke to menace again. What thousands of otherwomen had done had no bearing here. She was not thousands of otherwomen. She was herself, herself. Would it be enough for her?

Honesty issued a decree of impartial justice. Let her look at it with amature woman's experienced divination of reality, let her look at it asit would be and see for herself if it would be enough. She was no girlwhose ignorance rendered her incapable of judging until she hadliterally experienced. She was no bound-woman, bullied by the tyranny ofan outgrown past, forced to revolt in order to attain the freedomwithout which no human decision can be taken. Neale's strong hand hadopened the door to freedom and she could see what the bound-women couldnot . . . 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 lastsupreme test. She closed her eyes, and sat so immobile, rapt in theprodigious effort of her imagination and will, that she barely breathed. How would it be? Would it be enough? She plunged the plummet down, pastthe fury and rage of the storm on the surface, past the teeming life ofthe senses, down to the depths of consciousness. . . . 

And what she brought up from those depths was a warning distaste, asomething 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 inthat offered cup of heavy aromatic wine, she who had all her lifethanked Heaven for her freedom from the ignominy of feeling it debasingto be a woman who loved? It was glorious to be a woman who loved. Therehad been no dregs left from those sweet, light, heady draughts she andNeale had drunk together in their youth, nor in the quieter satisfyingdraughts they knew now. What was the meaning of that odor of decay aboutwhat seemed so living, so hotly more living than what she had? Whyshould she have this unmistakable prescience of something stale andtainting which she had never felt? Was she too old for passion? But shewas in the height of her physical flowering, and physically she criedout for it. Could it be that, having spent the heritage of youth, shecould 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 ofthought that seemed a recurrence of a sensation only recently passed?When she had tried to tell herself that full-fruited passion was worthall else in life, was the one great and real thing worth all the manysmall shams . . . What was it she had felt?

She groped among the loose-hanging filaments of impression and broughtit out to see. It seemed to be . . . Could it have been, the same startledrecoil as at the notion of getting back the peace of childhood by givingup her home for the toy-house; her living children for the dolls?

 * * * * *

Now, for the great trial of strength. Back! Push back all thosethick-clustering, intruding, distracting traditional ideas of otherpeople on both sides; the revolt on one hand, the feeble resignation onthe other; what other women did; what people had said. . . . Let her wipeall that off from the too-receptive tablets of her mind. Out of sightwith all that. This was _her_ life, _her_ question, hers alone. Let herstand alone with her own self and her own life, and, with honesty aswitness, ask herself the question . . . Would she, if she could, give upwhat she was now, with her myriads of roots, deep-set in the soil ofhuman life, in order to bear the one red rose, splendid though it mightbe?

That was the question. 

With no conscious volition of hers, the answer was there, plain andirrefutable as a fact in the physical world. No, she would not choose todo that. She had gone on, gone on beyond that. She was almost bewilderedby the peremptory certainty with which that answer came, as though ithad lain inherent in the very question. 

 * * * * *

And now another question crowded forward, darkly confused, charged witha thousand complex associations and emotions. There had been somethingdispleasing and preposterous in the idea of trying to stoop her grownstature and simplify her complex tastes and adult interests back intothe narrow limits of a child's toy-house. Could it be that she feltsomething of the same displeasure when she set herself fully to conceivewhat it would be to cramp herself and her complex interests and adultaffections back to . . . 

But at this there came a wild protesting clamor, bursting out to preventher from completing this thought; loud, urgent voices, men's, women's, with that desperate certainty of their ground which always struck downany guard Marise had been able to put up. They cried her down as atraitor to the fullness of life, those voices, shouting her down withall the unquestioned authority she had encountered so many times on thatterribly vital thing, the printed page; they clashed in their fury andall but drowned each other out. Only disconnected words reached her, butshe recognized the well-known sentences from which they came . . . "puritanism . . . Abundance of personality . . . Freedom ofdevelopment . . . Nothing else vital in human existence . . . Prudishness . . . Conventionality . . . Our only possible contact withthe life-purpose . . . With the end of passion life declines and dies. "

The first onslaught took Marise's breath, as though a literal storm hadburst around her. She was shaken as she had been shaken so many timesbefore. 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 fellquiet and in a great hush waited on her advance. Neale had said, "Whatis deepest and most living in _you_. " Well, what _was_ deepest and mostliving in her? That was what she was trying to find out. That was whatthose voices were trying to cry her down from finding. 

For the first time in all her life, she drew an inspiration from Neale'sresistance to opposition, knew something of the joy of battle. Whatright 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 otherpeople'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 distasteas when she had thought of returning to her literal childhood, when sheset herself fully to conceive what it would be to cramp herself andsimplify her complex interests and affections back to the narrow limitsof passion, which like her play with dolls had been only a foreshadowingof something greater to come. 

She spoke it out boldly now, and was amazed that not one of theclamorous voices dared resist the authenticity of her statement. Butafter all, how would they dare? This was what she had found in her ownheart, what they had not been able, for all their clamor, to prevent herfrom seeing. She had been strong enough to beat them, to stand outagainst them, to say that she saw what she really did see, and felt whatshe really did feel. She did not feel what traditionally she shouldfeel, that is what a primitive Italian woman might feel, all of whoseemotional life had found no other outlet than sex. . . . 

Well, if it was so, it was so. For better or for worse, that was thekind of woman she had become, with the simple, forthright physical lifesubordinate, humble; like a pleasant, lovable child playing among thestrong, full-grown, thought-freighted interests and richly variedsympathies and half-impersonal joys and sorrows which had takenpossession of her days. And she could not think that the child couldever again be master of her destiny, any more than (save in a moment offalse sentimentality) she could think that she would like to have herhorizon again limited by a doll-house. To be herself was to go on, notto go back, now that she knew what she had become. It seemed to her thatnever before had she stood straight up. 

And in plain fact she found that somehow she had risen to her feet andwas now standing, her head up, almost touching the rafters of the slantceiling. She could have laughed out, to find herself so free. She knewnow why she had never known the joy of battle. It was because she hadbeen afraid. And she had been afraid because she had never dared toenter 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 beafraid of, there!

She spread out her arms in a great gesture of liberation. How had sheever lived before, under the shadow of that coward fear? This . . . This. . . She had a moment of vision . . . This was what Neale had been tryingto do for her, all these years, unconsciously, not able to tell her whatit was, driving at the mark only with the inarticulate wisdom of hislove for her, his divination of her need. He had seen her, shivering andshrinking in the shallow waters, and had longed for her sake to have herstrike out boldly into the deep. But even if he had been ever so able totell her, she would not have understood till she had fought her waythrough those ravening breakers, beyond them, out into the sustainingocean. 

How long it took, how _long_ for men and women to make the smallestadvance! And how the free were the only ones who could help to liberatethe 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 hemust have the strength to swim for her . . . And how Neale, doggedly sureof the simple truth, too simple for her to see, had held to thecertainty that his effort would not make her strong, and that she wouldonly be free if she were strong. 

Neale being his own master, a free citizen of life, knew what a kingdomhe owned, and with a magnanimity unparalleled could not rest till shehad entered hers. She, not divining what she had not known, had onlywished 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 lovedweaken herself by the use of his strength? Had a man ever before heldout his strong hand to a woman to help her forward, not to hold herfast?

Her life was her own. She stood in it, knowing it to be an impregnablefortress, knowing that from it she could now look abroad fearlessly andunderstandingly, knowing that from it she could look at things and menand the world and see what was there. From it she could, as if for thefirst time, look at Vincent Marsh when next she saw him; she would lookto see what was really there. That was all. She would look at him andsee what he was, and then she would know the meaning of what hadhappened, and what she was to do. And no power on earth could preventher from doing it. The inner bar that had shut her in was broken. Shewas 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 ofthat freedom. Why, here was the total fulfilment she had longed for. Here was the life more abundant, within, within her own heart, waitingfor 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 aloud voice of terror, "Oh, come quick, Miss Marise! Come!"

Marise went through the hail and to her door, and saw the frightened oldeyes glaring over the pulled-up sheet. "Oh . . . Oh . . . It's you . . . Ithought. . . . Oh, Miss Marise, don't you see anything standing in thatcorner? Didn't you hear. . . . Oh, Miss Marise, I must have had a baddream. I thought . . . " Her teeth were chattering. She did not know whatshe 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 thatsomeone else was there. What a pitiable creature Agnes' dependence onCousin Hetty had made of her. 

Like the boom from a great bell came the thought, "That is what I wantedNeale to make of me, when the crucial moment came, a dependent . . . Buthe would not. "

"What time did you say it is?" Agnes asked, still breathing quickly butwith a beginning of a return to her normal voice. 

"Four o'clock, " answered Marise gently, as to a child. "It must bealmost light outside. The last night when you have anything to fear isover now. "

She went to the window and opened the shutter. The ineffable sacredpureness of another dawn came in, gray, tranquil, penetrating. 

At the sight of it, the dear light of everyday, Marise felt the thankfultears come to her eyes. 

"See, Agnes, " she said in an unsteady voice, "daylight has come. You canlook around for yourself, and see that there is nothing to be afraidof. "

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 likethe splendid surge of rich desire and exultant certainty which sent himforward at a bound along the wood-road into which he had seen Mariseturn. The moment he had been watching for had come at last, after thesethree hideous days of sudden arrest and pause. The forced inaction hadbeen a sensation physically intolerable to him, as though he had beenfrozen immobile with every nerve and muscle strained for a great leap. 

He felt himself taking the leap now, with such a furious, triumphantsense of power released, that he came up beside her like a wind in theforest, 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, byhis instant perception of a profound change in her, by an expression inher long dark eyes which was new to him, which he felt to be ominous tohim. But he was no untried boy to be cast down or disconcerted by suddenalterations of mood in a woman. He was a man, with a man's trainedtenacity of purpose and experienced quickness of resource. 

He wasted no time. "What has happened to you?" he demanded, peremptorilyas 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, butshe seemed to have no words for it, continuing to look at him silently, intently, with no hostility, with a sort of steady, wondering attentionin her face, usually so sensitively changing. He felt a resentment atits quiet, at its lack of that instant responsiveness to his look whichhad given him such moments of exquisite pleasure, which had been herown, her wonderful gift to him. She was looking at him now as she mighthave 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 highand strong in him, with an element of fierceness it had not had beforebecause no resistance had called it out. He did not show this, indeedonly allowed it the smallest corner of his consciousness, keeping allthe rest tautly on the alert for the first indication of an opening, forthe first hint of where to throw his strength. 

But standing in suspense on the alert was the last rôle he could longendure, and in a moment, when she did not answer, he took a step towardsher, towering above her, his hands on her shoulders, pouring out with ahot sense of release all his longing into the cry, "Marise, Marise myown, what has happened to you?"

How he hated the quiet of her face! With what hungry impatience hewatched to see it break. How surely he counted on its disappearance athis touch. For he had the certainty of his power to kindle her leftintact 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 greenbranches of a living tree. A twitch of surface agitation on her face andthat was all. 

And when she spoke, as she did at once, the sound of her voice wasstrange and alien to him. With an extreme directness, and with a deepsincerity of accent which, even to his ears, made his own impassionedoutcry to her sound inflated and false, she said earnestly, "I don'tbelieve I can tell you what has happened. I don't believe you couldunderstand it. "

He did not believe a word of this, but with his brilliant suppleness ofmind he perceived that he was in the wrong key. She was not, for themoment, 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 theobstacle, for of course he knew the obstacle. 

"I know what has happened, " he said, "without your telling me. Yourhusband has made a scene, and overborne you, and is trying to force youback into the hen-yard of domestic virtue. . . . " He changed his manner. Hesaid in a low, beautiful, persuasive voice, his eyes deeply on her, sureof himself with that sureness that no one had ever resisted, "But youcan 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 hadthe power to move her face from the quiet he hated. It was suddenlyalive with a strong emotion. But what emotion? He could not guess at itsmeaning, nor why she should step quickly away, shaking his hands fromher shoulders, and looking at him sadly, her eyebrows drawn up as if inpain. He hung uncertain, daunted by his inability to read her face, feeling for the first time an instantly dismissed doubt of his masteryover her. 

She said very quickly, with the accent and manner of one who, shockedand pitying, tries to save another from going on with an involuntarydisclosure 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 herwords, which seemed to him unimportant, but alarmed by some specialsignificance which they seemed to have for her, she went on with thesingle, 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 quaveringdisappointment, as though she were ashamed of him. 

He knew that he was the cause of the disappointment, although he couldnot imagine why, and he regretted having made a false move; but he wasnot deeply concerned by this passage. He did not see how it could haveany importance, or touch what lay at issue between them. These were allwomanish, up-in-the-air passes and parries. He had only not yet foundhis opening. 

He flung his head back impatiently. "If it is not that, what is it?" hedemanded. "A return of hide-bound scruples about the children? You knowthat they must live their own lives, not yours, and that anything thatgives 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 thewords would make it seem. 

His impatience began to burn high, and a dawning alarm to translateitself into anger. He would not be played with, by any woman who everlived! "Marise, " he said roughly, "what under the sun is it?" In histone 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 wasnot one of them which he knew he could not instantly pounce on and shaketo rags. 

Marise stood very still, her eyes bent downward. "Aren't you going toanswer me?" he said, furious. 

She nodded. "Yes, I'm going to answer you, " she said, without raisingher 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 thatavid gaze. 

She was stamped on his mind in every detail as she looked at thatinstant, infinitely desirable, infinitely alluring, in her thin whitedress, her full supple woman's body erect and firm with a strong life ofits own, her long sensitive hands clasped before her . . . How many timesin his dreams had he held them in his . . . Her shining dark hair boundsmoothly about her head and down low on each side of her roundedforehead. Her thick white eyelids, down-dropped, were lowered over hereyes, and her mouth with its full lips and deep corners . . . At the sightof her mouth on which he had laid that burning kiss, Vincent felt abarrier within him give way . . . Here he was at last with the woman heloved, the woman who was going to give herself to him . . . Good God! allthese words . . . What did they mean? Nothing. He swept her into his armsand drew her face to his, his eyes closed, lost in the wonder andecstasy of having reached his goal at last. 

 * * * * *

She did not make the startled virginal resistance of a girl. She drewaway from him quietly . . . The hatred for that quiet was murderous in him. . . And shook her head. Why, it was almost gently that she shook herhead. 

How dared she act gently to him, as though he were a boy who had made amistake! How dared she not be stirred and mastered! He felt his headburning hot with anger, and knew that his face must be suffused withred. 

And hers was not, it was quiet. He could have stamped with rage, andshaken her. He wanted to hurt her at once, deeply, to pierce her andsting 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 generousheat?"

As she remained silent, he was stung by the expression on her face whichhe did not understand. He went on vindictively snatching up to drivehome 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 lowerbranches of the oak under which they stood. She seemed to reflect, andwhen she brought her eyes back to his, she answered, "Yes, I think thatis it. I find I am too old. "

He was for years to ponder on the strangeness of the accent with whichshe said this, without regret, with that damnable gentleness as thoughto hide from him a truth he might find hard to bear, or be incapable ofunderstanding. 

How could any woman say "I find I am too old" with that unregrettingaccent? 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 theabsolute perfection of her bloom!

He found that he did not know what to say next. That tolerantacquiescence of hers in what he had meant to sting intolerably . . . Itwas as though he had put all his force into a blow that would stun, andsomehow missing his aim, encountering no resistance, was topplingforward with the impetus of his own effort. He recovered himself andlooked at her, choking, "You don't mean . . . " he began challenging herincredulously, and could go no further. 

For she nodded, her eyes on his with that singular expression in themwhich he did not understand, and which he intensely resented. 

He was so angry that for a moment he could not speak. He was aware ofnothing but anger. "It's impotence and weakness on your part, that's allit is!" he cast out at her, hating her savagely as he spoke, "no matterwhat 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 andstraw 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 haveno 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 fromher face. He turned from her abruptly and walked rapidly away, notlooking back. 

Then he found he had ceased to advance rapidly, had stopped and wasstanding still, wrung in so dreadful a pain that his hand was at hisside as though he had been stabbed. With no thought, with no awarenessof 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 notknow what he was to say . . . He cried out to her, "Marise, Marise . . . Ilove you! _What can I do?_"

The cry was desperate, involuntary, forcing its way out from unfathomeddepths of feeling below all his anger and resentment, and tearing him topieces as it came. It was as though he had taken his heart out and flungit at her feet. 

Her face changed instantly and was quiveringly alight with a pale andguilty agitation. "No . . . Oh _no_, Vincent! I thought you only . . . Ihad thought you could not really . . . Vincent, forgive me! Forgive me!"She took one of his hands in both hers . . . The last unforgotten touchhe was ever to have of her. . . . 

 * * * * *

It came to him through those words which he did not understand that shewas 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 misinterpretedsomething. 

He stood for an instant looking full at her as though he did not seeher; and then with a wide gesture of utter bewilderment, strange fromhim, he passed her without a look. 

This time he did not turn back, but continued steadily and resolutely onhis 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 thatlast talk with Vincent Marsh, she stopped, postponing for a moment theerrand to the Powers which she had so eagerly undertaken. She stoodthere, looking up into the far green tops of the pines, seeing againthat strange, angry, bewildered gesture with which he had renouncedtrying 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 terriblyfrightened 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 inher that day, and she sat down abruptly on a tree-trunk, her kneestrembling, her hands cold. 

That fear had come as so totally unexpected a possibility, somethingwhich his every aspect and tone and word up to then had seemed tocontradict. Strange, how unmoved he had left her, till that moment!Strange the impression of him, that first time after she had knownherself strong enough to stand up and be herself, not the responsiveinstrument played on by every passing impression. Strange, how instantlyhe had felt that, and how passionate had been his resentment of herstanding up to be herself, her being a grown woman, a human being, andnot a flower to be plucked. How he had hated it, and alas! howlamentable his hatred of it had made him appear. What a blow he haddealt to her conception of him by his instant assumption that a changein 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 ownself-esteem to have him seem vulgar. 

How strange an experience for her altogether, to be able to stand firmagainst noise and urgent clamor and confusion, and to see, in spite ofit, what she was looking at; to see, back of the powerful magneticpersonality, the undeveloped and tyrannical soul, the cramped mindwithout experience or conception of breadth and freedom in the relationsbetween human beings; to be able to hear Vincent cry out on her withthat fierce, masterful certainty of himself, that she was acting fromcowed 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 atthe very idea that it might be true; to have it make no impression onher save pity that Vincent should be imprisoned in a feeling of whichpossession was so great a part that failure to possess turned all therest 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 itherself? She leaned her chin on her two hands looking deep into thegreen recesses of the forest. High above her head, a wind swayed thetops of the pines and sang loudly; but down between the great browncolumns of their trunks, not a breath stirred. The thick-set, myriad-leaved young maples held all their complicated delicately-edgedfoliage 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 happenedto her. She had seen it completely happen to three other human beings, miraculously, unbelievably, certainly; had seen the babies who couldnot tell light from dark, heat from cold, emerge by the mere process ofhealthful living into keenly sensitive beings accurately alive to everyminutest variation of the visible world. It must be that like them shehad simply learned to tell moral light from dark, heat from cold, by themere process of healthful living. What happened to the child who at onetime could not grasp the multiplication table, and a few years later, ifonly he were properly fed and cared for, had somehow so wholly changed, although still the same, that he found his way lightly among geometricconceptions, and only a few years after that was probing with expertfingers at some unsolved problem of astronomy? He had grown up, that wasall. 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, hehad acquired a totally different conception of the universe, a totallydifferent valuation of everything in life. 

That was what had happened to her. She had grown up . . . Why should not awoman grow up to other valuations of things as well as her comrade inlife?

And it had happened to her as it did to the child, because someonestronger than she had protected her while she was growing . . . Notprotected from effort, as though one should try to protect the childfrom learning his lessons. . . . Back there, such ages ago in Italy, in herignorant . . . How ignorant! . . . And frightened girlhood, she had beggedNeale, without knowing what she did, to help her grow up, to help hersave what was worth saving in her, to help her untangle from themany-colored confusion of her nature what was best worth keeping. AndNeale had done it, had clung steadily to his divination of what wasstrong 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, holdingdesperately with all that terrific strength of his to what could not beheld, to what was impermanent and passing in its nature. Why should hedo that? Neale knew better than that. Then she saw why: it was becauseVincent conceived of nothing but emptiness if he let it go, and horriblyfeared that imaginary emptiness. Out of the incalculable richness of herkingdom she wondered again at his blindness. . . . And made a pitying guessat the reason for it . . . Perhaps for him it was _not_ imaginary. Perhapsone 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. Shewould have made that bargain, too, if it had not been for Neale. Shewould have been holding terrified to what was not to be held; withnothing but that between her and the abyss. Who was she to blame Vincentfor his blindness?

That, perhaps, had been the meaning of that singular last moment oftheir talk together, which had frightened her so, with its sudden plungebelow the surface, into the real depths, when, changed wholly intosomeone else, he had run back to her, his hands outstretched, his eyesfrightened, his lips trembling . . . Perhaps he had felt the abyss therejust 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 alittle 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. Perhapsshe had seen there for an instant the man Vincent might have been, andhad seen that she could have loved that man. 

But how instantly it had passed! He had not suffered that instant oftrue feeling to have space to live, but had burned it up with the returnof his pride, his resentment that anyone save himself should try tostand upright, with the return of the devouring desire-for-possession ofthe man who had always possessed everything he had coveted. There wassomething sad in being able to see the littleness of life whichunderlay the power and might of personality in a man like Vincent. Hecould have been something else. 

She wondered why there should slide into her mood, just now, a fainttinge of regret. . . . Why should there be anything there but the brightgladness of thanksgiving for the liberation from the chains which herown nature might have forged about her? She had at last stepped outsidethe narrow circle of personal desire, and found all the world open toher. And yet there was room in her heart for a shade of wistful wonderif perhaps all this did not mean that she might be sliding from theranks of those who feel and do, into the ranks of those who onlyunderstand. 

But one glance at the life that lay before her scattered this hangingmist-cloud . . . Good heavens! what feeling and doing lay there beforeher!

Had she thought that Neale was nothing to her because he had become allin all to her so that he penetrated all her life, so that she did notlive an instant alone? Had she thought the loss of the amusing trinketof physical newness could stand against the gain of an affection illmassy gold? Would she, to buy moments of excitement, lose an instant ofthe precious certainty of sympathy and trust and understanding which sheand Neale had bought and paid for, hour by hour, year by year of honestlife-in-common? Where was real life for her? Had she not known? Wherewere the real depths, where the real food for the whole woman she hadgrown to be? Neale had opened the door so that she could go away fromhim if that was what she needed, or go back to stand by his side; andthrough the open door had come the flood of daylight which had shown herthat she could not go back to stand by his side because she had beenthere all the time, had never left it, never could leave it, any morethan she could leave half of her body in one place, and go on toanother. 

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 apart of her home as her piano or her own roof-tree. She had been tryingto understand what had been happening that summer. Let her try first ofall to understand what she must do in that perfectly definite andconcrete dilemma in which she had been placed by that strange sight of'Gene Powers, fleeing back from the Eagle Rocks. She must look squarelyat what she supposed was the legal obligation . . . She instantly felt awoman's impatience of the word legal as against human, and could notentertain 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 yethad time to tell Neale. 

But not today. Today she was only the bearer of the good tidings toNelly and 'Gene, tidings which would wipe out for her the recollectionof a day which was shameful to her, the day when she had conceived thepossibility of believing some thing base against Neale. It was not thatshe had believed it, --no, she had stood it off till Neale came back. Butthere was shame for her in those recurrent spasms of horror when she hadconceived the possibility that she might believe it. There had beenproof of it, of course, Eugenia's positive statement . . . Strange howEugenia could have so entirely misunderstood the affair! . . . But what wasmere proof against human certainty? No, she had been attacked suddenlyand 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 thickenvelope in one hand to the other. She had already lost time. She oughtto have been by this time through the forest and out in the edge of thePowers pasture. 

She became aware that for some time she had heard a distant sound, afaint toc-toc-toc, like the sound of chopping. This being associated inher mind with snow and winter woods, she had not thought it could be thesound of the axe which it seemed to be. Nobody could be felling trees inthe height of the farming season, and on this day of swooning heat. Butas she came to the edge of the woods and turned into the path along thebrook, she heard it more plainly, unmistakable this time, not far now, the ringing blows delivered with the power and rhythmic stroke of thetrained 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 toweredup, darkly glorious, into the shimmering summer haze. 

As she looked at it wondering, it came into her mind had somebody toldher, or had she overheard it somewhere? . . . That 'Gene had promised Nellyat 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 keepthe shutters closed so that the sun would not fade the carpets. The oldpine was one of the most splendid things of beauty in the valley. And itwas something vital in 'Gene's strange, choked, inarticulate life. Shestopped to listen a moment, feeling a chill of apprehension andforeboding. It was dreadful to have 'Gene do that. It was as though hewere cutting at his own strength, cutting off one of his own members toplease his wife. Poor 'Gene! He would do that too, now, if Nelly askedhim. 

The resonant winter note rang out loud, strange in that sultry summerair. She looked from afar at the tree, holding its mighty crest highabove the tiny house, high above the tiny human beings who had doomedit. So many winters, so many summers, so many suns and moons and rainsand snows had gone to make it what it was. Like the men who had plantedit and lived beneath its shade, it had drawn silently from the depths ofthe earth and the airy treasures of the sky food to grow strong and liveits life. And now to be killed in an hour, in attempted expiation of adeed for which it bore no guilt!

Marise was coming closer now. The axe-strokes stopped for a moment asthough the chopper drew breath. The silence was heavy over thebreathless summer field. 

But by the time she had arrived at the back door of the house, theaxe-blows were renewed, loud, immediate, shocking palpably on her ear. She knocked, but knew that the ringing clamor of the axe drowned out thesound. Through the screen-door she saw old Mrs. Powers, standing by thetable, ironing, and stepped in. The three children were in the pantry, beyond, Ralph spreading some bread and butter for his little brother andsister. Ralph was always good to the younger children, although he wasso queer and un-childlike! Nelly was not there. Mrs. Powers looked up atMarise, and nodded. She looked disturbed and absent. "We're at it, yousee, " she said, jerking her head back towards the front of the house. "Itold 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 wenton, "Funny thing . . . I ain't a Powers by birth, Lord knows, and I neverthought I set no store by their old pine tree. It always sort o' riledme, how much 'Gene's father thought of it, and 'Gene after him . . . Sortof silly, seems like. But just now when we was all out there, and 'Geneheaved up his axe and hit the first whack at it . . . Well, I can't tellyou . . . 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', asfast as I could clip it, to keep my mind off'n it. I made the childrencome in too, because it ain't no place for kids around, when a treethat size comes down. "

Marise demurred, "'Gene is such a fine chopper, he knows to a hair wherehe'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 infrom the woods and ain't got sawed up into stove-lengths yet. I didn'twant to take no chances; maybe they wouldn't ha' moved quick enough whentheir papa yelled to them. No, ma'am, I made 'em come in, and herethey'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 herhe'll give her the money from the lumber in it. There'll be a sight ofboards, too. It's the biggest pine in the valley. "

Marise went to the window and looked at the scene, penetrated by thestrangeness 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 armsrising and falling with the steady effortless rhythm of the masterwoodsman. Nelly, in one of her immaculate blue ginghams, a white apronover it, a white frilled shade-hat on her head, her smartly shod smallfeet, treading the ground with that inimitable light step of hers, circling slowly about, looking at 'Gene as he worked, looking up at thecrown of the tree, high, so insolently high above her head, soon to bebrought low by a wish from her heart, soon to be turned into money forher to spend. 

"I came over to talk to 'Gene and Nelly about some business, " Marisesaid, over her shoulder, to Mrs. Powers, not able to take her eyes fromthe trio in the drama out there, "but I'd better wait till the tree isdown before I speak to them. "

"'Twon't be long now. 'Gene's been at it quite a while, and he'sstavin' away like all possessed. Seems as if, now he's started in, hecouldn't get it over with quick enough to suit him. He acted awful queerabout 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 thedoor to the pantry. "Mis' Crittenden, " she said in an anxious troubledvoice, "'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 toldme she woke up in the night last night and 'Gene wasn't there. Shehollered 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 onthe floor, over against the wall, his eyes wide open looking at her. Shesaid she let out a yell . . . It scairt the life out of her . . . And 'Genehe 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'tknow whether you wanted me there or not, Nelly. ' What do you think ofthat? She says back, 'For goodness' sake, 'Gene Powers, where _would_you be nights, except in your own bed!' He got back and for all Nellyknows slept all right the rest of the night. She says she guesses hemust have had some sort of funny dream, and not been really all waked upyet. But it must ha' gi'n her a turn, for all she ain't one of thenervous kind. "

Marise turned sick with shocked pity. The two women looked at eachother, silently with shadowed eyes of foreboding. Mrs. Powers shook herhead, 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 wasbrave, 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 lifegoing, no matter what happens; who never gives up, who can always go ontaking care of the children. 

Marise herself did not feel at all brave. She sat down heavily in achair by the window looking out at the man who for his wife's sake waskilling something vital and alive. He had done that before, 'Gene had. He went at it now with a furious haste which had something dreadful init. 

Nelly, who had sat down to rest on the pile of brush and poles, seemed acarved and painted statuette of ivory and gold. 

She took off her ruffled pretty hat, and laid it down on the white-birchpoles, so that she could tip her head far back and see the very top ofthe tree. Her braids shone molten in the sunshine. Her beautiful facewas impassive, secreting behind a screen all that Marise was sure shemust have been feeling. 

'Gene, catching sight of her now, in a side-glance, stopped abruptly inthe 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 somuch loved. The great trunk now had a gaping raw gash in its side. Nellyidled back of him, looking up at the tree, down at him. What was shethinking about?

Marise wondered if someone with second-sight could have seen FrankWarner, there between the husband and wife? 'Gene's face was still grayin spite of the heat and his fierce exertion. Glistening streams ofperspiration ran down his cheeks. 

What did the future hold for 'Gene? What possible escape was there fromthe tragic net he had wrapped stranglingly around himself?

Very distantly, like something dreamed, it came to Marise that once foran 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 thelong-dead past intruding their uninvited ghastly death's-heads among theliving. 

The axe-strokes stopped; so suddenly that the ear went on hearing them, ghost-like, in the intense silence. 'Gene stood upright, lifting hiswet, gray face. "She's coming now, " he said. 

Marise looked out, astonished. To her eyes the tree stood as massivelyfirm 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 thetree, he looked at her. At that look Marise felt the cold perspirationon 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 ofreality. It always remained for her a superb and hideous dream, something symbolical, glorious, and horrible which had taken place inher 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 afeather, 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, suppleand swift, suddenly caught by the heel and flung headlong . . . Up againin an instant, and falling again, to her knees this time. Up once morewith a desperate haste, writhing and pulling at her shoe, held by itshigh heel, deep between the knotty poles. 

'Gene, bounding from his place of safety, there at her feet, tearing ina frenzy at the poles, at her shoe. . . . 

Above them the great tree bearing down on them the solemn vengefulshadow 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 greatarms, 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 andMr. Welles', and flung herself into them with a frightened desire forsomething that would drown out the roaring wind of tragedy which filledher ears in every pause of the day's activities, and woke her up atnight out of the soundest sleep. Night after night, she found herselfsitting up in bed, her night-gown and hair damp with perspiration, Nelly's scream ringing knife-like in her ears. Then, rigid and wide-eyedshe saw it all again, what had happened in those thirty seconds whichhad summed up and ended the lives of 'Gene and Nelly. 

But one night as she sat thus in her bed, hammered upon beyondendurance, she saw as though she had not seen it before what 'Gene hadfinally done, his disregard of possible safety for himself, his abandonof his futile, desperate effort to free Nelly from the tangle where herchildish vanity had cast her, the grandeur and completeness of hisgesture 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 tillshe understood it. The tears came raining down her face, and with themwent the strained, wild horror of the memory. 

But the shadow and darkness hung about her like a cloud, through whichshe only dimly saw the neat, unhurried grace of Eugenia's preparationsfor departure and far travels, and felt only a dimmed, vague echo of theemotion 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 theirdeparture. She did see and smile at the characteristic quality of aninstinctive gesture of Eugenia's as they stepped up on the platform ofthe station. Two oddly-shaped pieces of metal stood there, obviouslyparts of a large machine. Paul stumbled over them as he climbed out ofthe 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 whichthreatened the spotlessness of her gray traveling cloak, and as shepassed them she drew the thick folds of velvet-like wool about herclosely. Marise thought to herself, "That's Eugenia's gesture as shegoes through the world. "

Neale turned off his switch, listened a moment to see if the Ford wereboiling from the long climb up the hill to the station, and now made onelong-legged step to the platform. He started towards Eugenia with theevident intention of making some casual pleasant remarks, such as aredemanded by decency for a departing guest, but in his turn his eyescaught the curiously shaped pieces of metal. He stopped short, his facelighted up with pleasure and surprise. All consciousness of anyone elseon the platform disappeared from his expression. "Hello!" he said tohimself, "those mandrels here. " He picked up one in his strong hands onwhich the metal left a gray dust, and inspected it. He might have beenentirely alone in his shop at the mill. 

Marise noted with envy how he gave all of himself to that momentaryexamination, entirely escaped from any awareness of that tyrannical selfwhich in her own heart always clamored like a spoiled child forattention. The impersonal concentration of his look as he turned themetal about between those strong dusty hands, gave to his face the calm, freed expression not to be bought for any less price than a greaterinterest in one's work than in one's self. "They'll do, " pronouncedNeale. This was evidently a thought spoken aloud, for it did not occurto 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 wishyou'd . . . " his voice died away as he walked further into the duskyfreight-shed. 

Marise happening to glance at Eugenia now, caught on her face anexpression which she took to be annoyance at a breach of manners. Shereflected, "Eugenia must find Neale's abrupt American ways perfectlybarbaric. " And she was surprised to feel for the first time a ratherscornful indifference to all that was involved in Eugenia's finding thembarbaric. Heavens! What did it matter? In a world so filled with awfuland portentous and glorious human possibilities, how could you botherabout such things?

There was a silence. Mr. Welles and Paul had been standing near, aimlessly, but now, evidently taking the silence for the inevitableflatness of the flat period of waiting for a train, Mr. Welles drew thelittle 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 Générale Transatlantique. " Among them, out of placeand drab, stood one banal department-store trunk labeled, "Welles. 320Maple Avenue. Macon, Georgia. "

The departure of the old man and the little boy left the two womenalone. Eugenia stepped closer to Marise and took her hand in her owngloved fingers. She looked at it intently, with the expression of onewho is trying to find words for a complicated feeling. Marise made aneffort to put herself in the receptive mood which would make the sayingof it easier, but failed. The fall of the big pine roared too loudly inher ears. She looked without sympathy or admiration at Eugenia'sperfection of aspect. "To look like that, she must care for looks morethan 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 oftragedy, it seemed to her that Eugenia showed signs of some real humanemotion. As she gazed at her in the crude brilliance of the gaudymorning sun, she saw for the first time signs of years in Eugenia'sexquisite small face. There was not a line visible, nor a faltering ofthe 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 heartsoften to think what this would mean to Eugenia, an inner wave ofresolution reached the surface of the other woman's face, and there wasEugenia as she always had been, something of loveliness immutable. 

She said impulsively, "Eugenia, it's a stupidly conventional thing tosay, but it's a pity you never married. "

As Eugenia only looked at her, quietly, she ventured further, "You mightreally be happier, you know. There is a great deal of happiness in theright marriage. " She had never said so much to Eugenia. 

Eugenia let Marise's hand drop and with it, evidently, whateverintention she might have had of saying something difficult to express. Instead, she advanced with her fastidious, delicate note of irony, "Idon't deny the happiness, if that sort of happiness is what one isafter. But I think my appetite for it . . . That sort . . . Is perhaps notquite robust enough to relish it. "

Marise roused herself to try to put a light note of cheerfulness intothis last conversation. "You mean that it seems to you like the coarselyheaped-up goodies set before a farmhand in a country kitchen . . . Chickenand butter and honey and fruit and coffee, all good but so profuse andjumbled 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 grossnature like mine, once you've had that, you're lost. You know you'dstarve to death on the delicate slice of toasted bread served on oldchina. 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 specialto say. What could she have? They had gone over that astonishingmisconception of hers about the Powers woodlot, and she had quite madeMarise understand how hopelessly incapable she was of distinguishing onebusiness detail from another. There could be nothing else that Eugeniacould wish to say. 

"How in the world shall I get through the winter?" Eugenia now wonderedaloud. "Biskra and the Sahara perhaps . . . If I could only get away fromthe hideous band of tourists. They say there are swarms ofwar-profiteers from Italy now, everywhere, low-class people with moneyfor the first time. " She added with a greater accent of wonder, "How inthe 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 literallynon-translatable into hers, representing as they did ideas that did notexist there. "Oh, we never have to consider that, " she answered, notfinding a more accurate phrase. "There won't be time enough to do allwe'll try to do, all we'll have to do. There's living. That takes a lotof time and energy. And I'll have the chorus as usual. I'm going to trysome Mendelssohn this year. The young people who have been singing forfive or six years are quite capable of the 'Elijah. ' And then any of thevalley 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 thisyear, too. And in the mill, Neale has a plan to try to get the men towork 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 thingsto Eugenia, who could not, in the nature of things, understand what shewas driving at. But apparently Eugenia had found somethingunderstandable there, for she now said sharply, startled, "Won't thatmean less income for you?"

She did not say, "_Even_ less, " but it was implied in the energy of heraccent. 

Marise hesitated, brought up short by the solidity of the intangiblebarrier between their two languages. There were phrases in her owntongue which could not be translated into Eugenia's, because theyrepresented ideas not existing there. She finally said vaguely, "Ohperhaps 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 onbeyond Biskra, to the south, if I could find a caravan that would takeme. That would be something new. Biskra is so commonplace now that ithas been discovered and exploited. " She went on, with a deep, wistfulnote of plaintiveness in her voice, "But _every_thing's so commonplacenow!" 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 ofEugenia in her life. Somehow she knew, as though Eugenia had told her, that she was never coming back again. As they stood there, so closetogether, in the attitude of friends, they were so far apart that eachcould scarcely recognize who the other was. Their paths which in youthhad lain so close to each other as to seem identical, how widely theyhad been separated by a slight divergence of aim! Marise was struck byher sudden perception of this. It had been going on for years, she couldunderstand 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. Shehad a divination that it was pain. Perhaps Eugenia was also suddenlyrealizing that she had grown irrevocably apart from an old friend. 

The old tenderness felt for the girl Eugenia had been, by the girlMarise 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 bluntnessin 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 truckwhich carried the leather-covered boxes and wicker basket-trunks, boundfor Biskra or beyond, or Java; and the square department-store trunkbound for Maple Avenue, Macon, Georgia. 

"Mother, " said Paul, "Mr. Welles has promised me that he'll come up andvisit us summers. "

"There's no house in the world where you'll be more welcome, " saidMarise with all her heart, holding out her hand. 

Mr. Welles shook it hard, and held it in both his. As the train whistledscreamingly at the crossing, he looked earnestly into her face and triedto tell her something, but the words would not come. 

As she read in his pale old face and steady eyes what he would havesaid, Marise cried out to herself that there do not exist in the worldany things more halting and futile than words. She put her arms aroundhis 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, sheknew that he too had not needed words. 

Paul clung to his hand till the last moment, gazing up at himconstantly, silently. Marise looked down on the little boy's tanned, freckled, sober face and strained, rapidly winking eyes, and had theintuition, "This is one of the moments Paul will never forget. He willalways be able to shut his eyes and see this old Don Quixote settingforth. " With a rush of her old, jealous, possessive mother-love, shelonged 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 knewbetter 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-roomcar?"

"At the far end, " said the conductor with the sweeping gesture of a manused 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 theexpress car the fine, leather-covered boxes and the one square trunk. 

Neale carried Eugenia's two small bags down to the drawing-room car andnow handed them to the porter. 

The two women kissed each other on both cheeks, hurriedly, as someonecried, "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 themahogany 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. ButPaul had forgotten her, too, and was now back near the day-coachsearching 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 stoodholding her arm for an instant. 

It seemed to Marise as they stood thus, Neale holding her arm, that shecaught a last glimpse of Eugenia behind plate-glass, looking at themgravely, steadily. 

Paul suddenly caught sight of Mr. Welles' face at a window, snatched offhis cap, and waved it frantically, over and over, long after the trainwas only an echoing roar from down the tracks. 

 * * * * *

Then the mountain-silence settled down about them calmly, and they couldhear 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 Eugeniaagain. "

Neale permitted himself no comment on this, nor showed the alteration ofa 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 rightout, that you can support life if it is. "

Neale laughed a little and put his foot on the starter. "Get in the backseat, Paul, " was all he said, as the little boy came up silently fromthe other side of the station. 

He added as they started up the hill road, "First time in my life I wasever sort of sorry for Eugenia. It seemed to me this morning that shewas beginning to show her age. "

Marise hid the fact that she had had the same idea and opposed, "Eugeniawould laugh at that from you, the husband of such a frankly middle-agedthing as I. "

Neale was silent for a moment, and then, "You'll always look youngerthan she. No, not younger, that's not it, at all. It's _living_, youlook. I tell you what, she's a cut flower in a vase, that's beginning towilt, 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 Nealecasually, 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 mefor a while?"

Neale stopped the care. Marise stepped out and in, and seated herselfbeside Paul. He had apparently nothing to say, after all, lookingfixedly down at his bare brown feet. 

But presently he moved nearer to his mother and leaned his head againsther breast. This time she put her arm around him and held him close toher, 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 thehigh upland pasture where the Powers cows fed during the day. On theupper 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 stillnone, Marise began to feel uneasy, although she told herself thatnothing in the world could happen to Paul on that well-knownmountain-side. He had taken Médor with him, who would certainly havecome for help if Paul had fallen and hurt himself. She excused herselfto the tall, awkward lad from North Ashley come to try over his part ina quartet, asked Touclé to help Elly set the supper things on the tableif she should be late, and set off at a rapid pace by the short-cut overthe ledges. 

As she hurried over the rough trail, frankly hastening, now franklyalarmed, she thought that probably for all the life-time of the peoplein the valley the death of Frank Warner would set a sinister element oflurking danger in those familiar wooded slopes. Nothing _could_ havehappened to Paul, but still she hurried faster and faster, and as shecame 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 familyassembly 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 hersaw his dog bounding through the bushes, and as she emerged from thewoods into the open pasture she saw Paul running towards her, pail inhand, evidently astonished to know her there. But there was about himsomething more than astonishment, something which Marise's mother-eyecatalogued as furtitve, that consciousness of something to hide whichalways looks to grown-ups like guilt. She gave no sign of seeing this, however, stopping short to catch her breath, smiling at him, andwondering with great intensity what in the world it could be. He lookeda little frightened. 

He came up to her, answering her smile uneasily, and she saw that he hadonly a few berries in his pail. At this she was relieved, thinking thatpossibly all that had happened was that he had lingered to play. Butwhen she glanced back at his face, she had the impression that there wassomething more, very much more. He had received some indelibleimpression and it was his instinct to hide it from his mother. Her heartsank forebodingly. 

"What is the best thing to do?" she asked herself. "To speak about itfirst, 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 ofeye, position of his hands, carriage of his head, bringing to this allher accumulated knowledge of Paul, afire with the sudden passion toprotect him which had flamed up with her intuition that something hadhappened to him. 

(Come and gone with the dry rapidity of fingers snapped, she hadthought, "The point is, that other people may be more clever thanmothers, but nobody else _cares_ enough, always, always to try tounderstand!")

"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 wastrying to hurry up and get enough for supper, anyhow. "

Marise in spite of herself, moved by pity for his confusion, offered hima way out. It always seemed to her too dreadful for anyone not to have away out, even if it implied a fib. "Weren't there very many on thebushes?" she asked. 

But he refused it with a characteristic integrity. "Oh yes, there werelots 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 athim. 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 thelong 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 didthese moments of crisis spring on you; something vital there, and nowarning, 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 uphere this afternoon. " He looked down at his brown, bramble-scratchedlegs. 

Marise's imagination gave an unbridled leap of fear. She had always feltsomething strange and abnormal about Ralph. But she thought, "I mustn'ttyrannize over Paul, even by a too-waiting expectant silence, " andstooped over with the pretext of tying her shoe. A lump came to herthroat. How terribly, helplessly, you _cared_ about what came to yourchildren!

When she lifted her head, Paul had come nearer her and was looking downat her, with troubled eyes. "Say, Mother, he didn't _say_ not to tellyou. Do you suppose it would be fair?"

She made a great effort at loyalty and said, "I can't tell, Paul. Yousaw 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 wouldcare, your knowing it, if you never told anybody else, nor said anythingto him. Mother, I was going along, up there by the big rock where thewhite birches grow, and I saw Ralph. . . . He was in front of a sort oftable he'd fixed up with a long piece of slate-stone, and he had somequeer-shaped stones on it . . . Oh, _Mother_ . . . He was crying so, andtalking to himself! And when he saw me he got as mad! And he told meabout 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, sototally other than what her fears had been foreboding. 

"Yes, an altar, and he says the stones on it are idols, and he bows downand 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 hisprayers to him any more. He says God let his father and mother both getkilled, 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 fromwhat the Bible said that if you did you'd be so wicked lightning wouldstrike 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 forthe moment seemed of any consequence. She drew Paul to her with a longbreath of what was, she recognized it the moment afterward, her old, clear, undiluted, ferocious, hateful mother-egotism. For that instantshe had not cared an atom what happened to another woman's child, solong as hers was safe. 

But the next instant, the awareness of her hard heart cut across herlike the lash of a whip. She shrank under it, horrified. She hung herhead guilty and ashamed, divining the extremity of the other child'smisery. 

As she sat there, with her living arms around her own little son, theboy whose mother was dead came and stood before her in imagination, showing those festering, uncared-for wounds of sorrow and bitterness andloneliness, and furious, unavailing revolt from suffering too great tobe borne. 

She felt the guilt driven out from her narrow heart as it swelled largerto take him in. Any child who needed a mother so much, was _her ownchild_. He had no longer any mother who would care enough to try tounderstand, but _she_ would care enough. 

"He bowed down and worshiped, " said Paul, in a shocked, frightenedvoice. "He knocked his head on the stones and cried like anything. Hesaid he hated God. "

"Oh!" cried Marise, intolerably stung by sympathy and pity. She startedup to her feet, her heart burning, the tears on her cheeks. Her armsached with emptiness till she should have drawn that suffering intothem. 

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'tyou 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, asshe did not often kiss Paul, and he clung to her with all the strengthof his strong little arms. "Yes, yes, you darling, you darling, " shetold him brokenly. "Yes, yes, yes. "

II

September 10. 

Marise was slowly going through a passage of Scriabine, which had justcome in the mail. She was absorbed in the difficulties and novelties ofit, her ear alert to catch a clue to the meaning of those new rhythmsand progressions, her mind opened wide to understand them when she heardthem. 

It was with an effort that she brought her attention back to Elly, whohad come in behind her and was saying something urgently. Marise turnedaround on the piano-stool, her head humming with the unfamiliar, tantalizing beauties and intricacies of the page she had left halfunread, and considered the little girl for an instant before she heardwhat she said. How Elly did grow! That dress was already much too smallfor her. 

Well, Elly was not the only one who had grown out of her old clothesthis summer . . . The old garments that had been large enough and now mustbe laid aside! . . . Elly was saying, "Mother, one of my chickens lookssick, 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 imploringeyes. "Mother, he looked awfully sick. And he is my nicest littleDowny-head, the one I've always loved the best. I've tried to take suchgood care of him. Mother, I'm _worried_ about him. "

Marise decided that Scriabine had at least the capacity to wait, whilethe chicken might not. She got up, saying, "All right, Elly, we'll seewhat we can do. "

Elly pulled her along rapidly to the chicken-yard where grosslyself-satisfied hens scratched in trash and filth undiscriminatingly, and complacently called their families to share what they had foundthere, or indeed at times apparently to admire them for having foundnothing. Marise stood regarding them with a composed, ironic eye. It wasgood, she reflected, to be able to know that that was the way you lookedfrom the outside, and not to care a bit because you knew firmly thatthere was something else there that made all the difference. All thesame, it was a very good thing to have had the scaring thought that youwere like that . . . "there but for the grace of God. . . . " Was itcomplacent to say that? Oh, what did it matter what you calledit, --complacent or not, if you knew! It all came back to not caring somuch about what things could be called, if you knew what they were. 

Elly had disappeared into the chicken-house and now came back with aperplexed 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 andthrilled to it, as she always did to any real emotion. "I'll help youlook, " she said, turning her eyes about the chicken-yard, crowded withvoluble, intently self-centered, feathered personalities. "Which hen ishis mother, Elly?

"This one, Old Speckle. Oh, Mother, there he is, lying down. He must befeeling worse!" She ran forward and stooped over a little panting yellowball. Across the intervening space and beyond all those carelessly alivebodies, Marise's eyes caught the unmistakable aspect of death in thetiny 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 herheart. She looked down helplessly at the dying creature. That tiny, tinyscrap of down-covered flesh to be alive, to contain the miracle andmystery of life, and now to be struggling, all alone, with the miracleand 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 Ellywhat bad happened. She gave a scream, picked it up and held it in hercupped hands, her little face drawn in horrified incredulity. She lookedup at her mother and said in a whisper, "Mother, he's _dead_. "

Marise nodded silently. Poor Elly! She wished she could think ofsomething comforting to say. But what is there to say? For her there hadnever been anything but stoic silence. The mother hen cluckedunconcernedly at their feet, and with coaxing guttural sounds called therest of the chickens to eat a grain. The strong ammonia smell of thechicken-yard rose in the sunshine. Elly stood perfectly still, thelittle ball of yellow down in her hand, her face pale. 

Marise looked down on her with infinite sympathy. Her child, flesh ofher flesh, meeting in this uncouth place the revelation of the blackgulf! But she remained silent, not knowing what to say. 

Elly spoke in a low voice, "But, Mother, how _can_ he be dead, just soquick 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 likethat . . . 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 shestill only shook her head without a word. She did not know any more thanElly where his life had gone. And surely loving silence was better thantinkling words of falseness. 

Elly looked up at her, glistening drops of sweat standing on hertemples. "Mother, " she asked, urgently, in a loud, frightened whisper, "Mother, do we die like that? Mother, will _you_ die like that? All in amoment . . . And then . . . Nothing?"

It came like thunder, then, what Marise had never thought to feel. Witha clap, she found that this time she had something to answer, somethingto say to Elly. Looking deep, deep into Elly's eyes, she said firmlywith a certainty as profound as it was new to her, "No, Elly, I don'tbelieve we do die like that . . . All in a moment . . . Nothing. "

She was astonished by what she said, astonished by the suddenoverflowing of something she had not known was there, but which was sogreat that her heart could not contain it, "comme une onde qui bout dansune urne trop pleine. " And she was as moved as she was astonished. Ellycame into her arms with a comforted gasp. They clung to each otherclosely, Marise's ears humming with the unfamiliar beauty and intricacyof that new page at which she had had that instant's glimpse. Here was anew harmony, a new progression, a new rhythm to which her ear had justopened . . . Heard here in this uncouth place!

 * * * * *

That evening, after the children were in bed, she stopped her reading ofthe new music for a moment to say to Neale, "You know those ideas thatother 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 weremeant, " 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 awhimsical suspicion of this, "Why so?"

"Because you are so entirely you, " she told him, and went back toScriabine. 

III

September 22. 

It was the half-hour of pause after lunch. The children played idly withthe fox-terrier and lounged on the steps of the side-porch, strong andbrown, living cups filled to the brim with life. Neale had pushed hischair 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 tolook down the sun-flooded valley. 

It was high-noon, dreamy, entranced, all the world golden with themagnificent weather as a holly-hock is golden with pollen. From thebrook came the living voice of the water, with the special note of braveclarity it always had for brilliant noons. 

It seemed to Marise that she too was all gold-powdered with themagnificence of life, that in her heart there sang a clear living voicethat did not fear high-noons. 

IV

October. 

Would Vincent come back at all? Marise had wondered so often. NotVincent in the flesh; that last angry bewildered gesture had finality init. He had given her up then, totally. But would he come back to haunther in those inevitable moments of flat ebb-tide in life, when whatshould be moist and living, withered and crisped in the mercilessdrought of drudgery and routine? She feared it, frankly dreaded it atfirst, and tried to think how to brace herself against it. But it wasnot then that tie came, not when she was toiling with dishes to wash, orvegetables to pare, or the endless care of the children's never-in-orderclothes. 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 Tolstoyannonsense and sentimentality, " she told herself mockingly, "there isnothing sacred about scrubbing the floor. " Or on another day, "I wonderif 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 tothe bourgeoisie. " But no matter what skeptical name she called it, norhow much she minimized the reality of it, she felt some odd value in itwhich she would not have gone without. Once she said to herself, "It'sballast, to a person like me, " although she did not know exactly whatthis meant. And another time she said, "Perhaps it's that I'm making anhonest effort to do my share. " But it was true and real, the fact thatafter such work the reading of the day's news of the world brought her aless oppressive sense of guilt. And stranger than this, music hadgreater vitality for her. She felt it a deeper, richer soil than evenshe had dreamed of, and struck her roots profoundly into depths whichkept her whole complicated organism poised, steady, and upright. 

And here it was that Vincent came back. Not the Vincent of the hawk-likeimperious face, or burning eyes of desire, which had seemed to him hisrealest self. But the Vincent who had come in from the porch that day inMarch 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. " Itwas the same Vincent of the afternoon in Cousin Hetty's garden when thevulture 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 andsaid, "Go on. " And thus Marise knew he would always come. And thus shewelcomed him. 

This was what was left of him in the house he had so filled with hissmoky, flaming brilliance. 

V

December. 

They had been talking around the fire of the stars and their names andstories, she and Neale and the children. Presently interest overcominginertia they decided to go out and see if the clouds had blown away sothat the stars could be seen. They huddled on hastily found wraps, thrust their feet into flapping, unbuckled overshoes, and leaving thestill, 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 atmospherethat it hung about them like warm fog, shielding them from the fiercelypure, still cold of the air, and from the brilliant glitter of themyriad-eyed black sky. They went on talking and laughing, pointing outthe constellations they knew, and trying to find others in the spangledvault 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, butthere's no belt to it!" And from Elly, "Aldebaran! Aldebaran! Red-eyedAldebaran!"

But little by little the house-air began to be thinned about them, toblow away from between them in wisps and wreathes, off into theblackness. The warmed, lighted house dwindled to nothing. There wereonly the great cold black sky and the small cold white earth. Theirvoices were lowered; they stood very still, close together, their headstipped back, their faces and hearts upraised silently to receive theimmensity above and about them. 

Elly murmured under her breath, "Doesn't it seem funny, our world beingjust one of all those, and such a little one, and here we are, justthese 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 littleglow of life they made!

Tiny but unquenchable! Those myriads of hard staring eyes could not lookdown the immortal handful of human life and love which she and Neale hadcreated between them. 

There was a silence, filled with still, breathless cold; with enormousspace, with infinity. 

Marise felt a rigorous shudder run over her, as though something vitalwere coming to her, like the rending pang of pain which heraldschild-birth. After this, did she close her eyes for a moment, or did itcome to her while she continued to gaze wide-eyed at the stern greatnessof the universe? What was this old, familiar, unknown sensation?

. . . As though, on a long journey in the dark it had grown light, so thatshe had suddenly recognized which way she was going. 

Then she knew what it was. Conscious and awake, she was feeling herselfone 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 atthe end of the hall, upstairs, her mind entirely on the prosaic task, wondering when she would have to replace some of the older ones, andwishing she could put off buying till the outrageous post-war priceswent down. Someone stirred behind her and she turned her head quickly tosee who was there. It was Neale, come in early. He was standing, lookingat her back; and in the instant before he saw that she had turned, shecaught the expression on his face, the tender fathomless affection thatwas there. 

A warm gush of happiness surged up all over her. She felt a suddenintense 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, andopening his arms he drew her into them. The ineffable memory of all thepriceless past, the ineffable certainty of the priceless future was intheir kiss. 

That evening, after a long golden hour at the piano, she chanced to takedown the Largo in the Chopin sonata. As she began it, something stirredin her mind, some memory that instantly lived with the first notes ofthe music. How thick-clustered with associations music became, waking ahundred echoes and overtones!

This was the memory of the time when she had played it, almost a yearago, and had thought how intimacy and familiarity with music butdeepened and enriched and strengthened its hold on you. It was only thelower pleasures of which one grew tired, --had enough. The others grewwith your growing capacity to hold them. She remembered how that day shehad recalled the Wordsworth sonnet, "A beauteous evening, calm andfree, " and had thought that music took you in to worship quite simplyand naturally at the Temple's inner shrine, that you adored none theless although you were at home there and not breathless with adorationlike the nun: because it was a whole world given to you, not a mere pangof joy, because you could live and move and be blessedly and securely athome there. 

She finished the last note of the Largo and sat silent. She was thinkingthat her marriage was like that, too. 

Presently she got up, took out the old portfolio of photographs, andpinned 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 themen's working-hours, and now in the dimming light of the early eveningwas going home on snow-shoes, over the hill-path. She liked to usesnow-shoes and occasionally said that she could walk more easily andmore lightly on them than on bare ground. She trod over the tops of thedeep drifts with an accentuation of her usual strong free step. 

The snow fell thickly and steadily, a cold, finely-spun, straight-hungcurtain, veiling all the muffled sleeping valley. There was aninconceivable silence about her as she drew her snow-shoes over thevelvet-like masses of the snow. But within her were ringing echoes ofthe rhythms and cadences of the afternoon's struggle, imperfectly sungmost of them, haltingly, or dully, or feebly, or with a loudmisunderstanding of the phrase. At the recollection of these failures, she clenched her hands hard inside her fur gloves with an indomitableresolution to draw something better from her singers the next time. 

But mingled with them was a moment of splendor. It was when the men hadtried over the passage she had explained to them the week before. Shehad not known then, she did not know now, how clearly or definitely shehad reached them with her summary of the situation of the drama: thedesperate straits of the Israelites after the three-year drought, thetrial by fire and water before the scorning aristocracy, Elijah starkand alone against all the priesthood of Baal, the extremity of despairof the people . . . And then the coming of the longed-for rain thatloosened the terrible tension and released their hearts in the greatgroaning cry of thanksgiving. She had wondered how clearly or definitelyshe had reached their understanding, but she knew that she had reachedtheir hearts, when suddenly she had heard all those men's voices pealingout, pure and strong and solemn and free, as she had dreamed that phrasecould be sung. 

[Illustration: Thanks be to God! He laveth the thirsty land. ]

The piercing sweetness of the pleasure this had brought to her came overher again in a wave. She halted on the crest of the hill, and for amoment in place of the purples and blues of the late snowy afternoonthere hung before her eyes the powerful, roughly clad bodies of thosevigorous men, their weather-beaten faces, their granite impassivity, under which her eye had caught the triumph of the moment, warming themas it did her, with the purest of joys this side of heaven, theconsciousness of having made music worthily. The whole valley seemed tobe filled to its brim with that shout of exultation. It had taken all ofher patience, and will-power, and knowledge of her art and of thesepeople to achieve that moment. But it had lifted her high, high abovethe 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 afine, soft mantle of white. She had heard the men that afternoon sayingthey 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 frozentowering mountains, breathing in the cold air, as pure as the etheritself. It seemed to her that spring was as remote and unreal andimpossible an imagination of the heart as a child's fairy-tale. 

Then suddenly, bursting out of the dimming distance, close in front ofher, flying low, silently, strongly, a pair of wild geese went wingingoff towards the north, their gray shapes the only moving thing in allthe frost-held world. 

Marise drew a great breath of delight in their strong and purposefulvitality. She looked after them, her heart rising and singing withcomradely pride in them. She would have liked to shout an exultantgreeting 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 roadthawed on top and glistened. The snow-banks shrank visibly from one hourto the next under a warm wind and a hazy sun. The mountains wereunbelievably beautiful and seductive in a shimmer of blue and silver. The children had brought home a branch of pussy-willows, and as Mariseand Neale stood for a moment at the open door breathing in the newsoftness, they saw Touclé, old and stooped and shabby, her reticule bagbulging, her flat feet in enormous overshoes plodding up the roadtowards 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. "Becauseshe's an Injun, " he conjectured casually. 

"She told me once, " said Marise, with a sudden wonder what Neale wouldthink of that glimpse into the old mystic's mind, how he would (for sheknew beforehand he would) escape the wistfulness which struck at hereven now, at the thought of that door to peace. She repeated to him wordfor word what Touclé 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'sideas. " But when she finished he made no comment. She asked him, "Didyou ever think that old carven-image had that in her? How profound adisdain for us busy-about-nothing white people she must have!"

Neale nodded. "Most likely. Everybody has a good deal of disdain forother people's ideals. "

"Well, you haven't for hers, have you?" challenged Marise. Neale lookedthoughtful. "I'm no mystic. Their way of managing life often looks to melike sort of lying down on the job. I'm no mystic and I'm no fish. Looksto me as though the thing to do isn't to go off in a far corner to getyour momentary glimpse of daylight, but to batter a hole in the roof ofyour cave and let daylight in where you live all the time. I can't helpbeing suspicious of a daylight that's so uncertain you have to go awayfrom life and hold your breath before you can see it for a minute. Iwant it where I do my work. "

Marise looked at him, thinking deeply. That was just what Neale did. Butwhen she looked back at the old Indian woman, just now turning into thewood-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 Malayjungle. Biskra was deadly, and Italy worse . . . Vulgarity and commonnesseverywhere. What an absolutely dreary outlook wherever one turns one'seyes! There is no corner of the modern world that is not vulgar andcommon. 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 onmy dusty old heart to see the vitality of the joy-in-life of thesehalf-disinherited people. I'm ashamed to tell you how they seem to loveme and how good they are to me. Their warmness of heart and their zestin life. . . . I'm just swept back into youth again. It makes me very muchmortified when I think what a corking good time I am having and whatsanctimonious martyr's airs I put on about coming down here. Of course acertain amount of my feeling younger and brisker comes from the factthat, working as I am, nobody feels about me the laid-on-the-shelfcompassion which everybody (and me too) was feeling before. I _am_somebody here and every time I say 'Dr. Martin' to a well-educated Negrophysician whom another white man has just hailed as 'Andy' I feel notonly a real sense of righteous satisfaction but the joyful mischievousfun 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 Igo fishing with him next summer. He said in his last letter he wanted tocome down here and make me a visit; but you tell him I think he'd betterget his growth before he does that. "

X

March 15, 1921. 

From a profound sleep, serene warm infinity of rest, Marise was wakenedby a little outcry near the bed, a sobbing voice saying throughchattering 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 withyou?"

"Why yes, come along, you dear little silly. "

The fumbling approach to the bed, Marise holding the sheets open andstretching out her hand through the cold darkness towards the littlefingers groping for her; the clutch at her hand with a quick anguish ofrelief and joy. "Oh, _Mother!_"

Then the shivering body rolling into bed, the little cold arms tightaround 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. Shewondered if he had been awakened by Elly's voice, and the little stir inthe room, and hoped he had not. He had been off on a very long hardtramp 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 onceas she felt herself doing now, conscious sleepily and happily of Elly'sdear tender limbs on one side of her and of Neale's dear strong body onthe other. 

 * * * * *

The strong March wind chanted loudly outside in the leaflessmaple-boughs. As Marise felt her eyelids falling shut again it seemed toher, half-awake, half-asleep, that the wind was shouting out the refrainof 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 trieddrowsily to remember, but instead felt herself richly falling asleepagain, 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 andwondering, 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 forher hand and hold it firmly . . . Neale's strong hand!

She knew what she was saying. Yes, she knew all that it meant when sheanswered, "No, Elly, I don't believe we are. "