CHAPTER ELEVEN

Lois, left in charge of a measles-stricken household, had plenty to keep

her hands busy, and yet, as there was no particular anxiety attaching to

the disease, plenty of time for meditation. She possessed the

unfortunate quality of being able to keep up two lines of thought at the

same time, so that little occupations really occupied only a small

corner of her mind, and the larger part was continually taken up with

the subject of larger interest—herself. While she rocked the children

and sang to them, and cut out pictures, and prepared their meals, and

took care of them all day with the aid of a young nurse-maid, she was

unceasingly traversing a country wherein she walked alone and in exile.

The quarantine had shut her in more rigorously upon herself; there were

now no distractions. Her husband was more anxious about the children

than she was, and seriously distressed at first that so much was thrown

upon her; he had wanted to get a trained nurse at once, but after her

assurances that she did not mind staying in, that her exertions did not

tire her, and that she much preferred matters as they were, he accepted

this version without further question or comment, and went about his

affairs, satisfied that she knew best in this her own department. It is

a well-known fact that quarantine, the observance of which is exacted

down to the last second of its limit from the women of a household, does

not affect the bread winner of it, who goes and comes immune; Justin

thought it his duty, in view of this fact, to be as careful as possible

about being much with the children. He stood obediently outside of the

nursery door and talked to them from there when Lois said, “You had

better not come in.” When she refused a service offered by him, he did

not press it again. He frequently stayed late at the office, and got his

dinner in town, or, if he did come home, he went out again to spend the

long evenings, in which she had to be up-stairs, at houses where there

were no children to be kept from contagion, and where he could talk to

men. He was really so busy that, though he was ready to help his wife in

any way that she would indicate, it was an immense relief to be able to

leave the conduct of affairs to her. There was, besides, a curious

hardness of manner in her which he unconsciously resented—she seemed to

hold herself aloof from him, and there was no allurement to follow. That

temporary indifference which those who love allow themselves sometimes,

with the clear knowledge that it is only indifference because they do

allow it, to be merged into dearest companionship at will—this had been

pushed too far. It is a dangerous thing to let love slip away, even for

the pleasure of regaining it.

It seemed pitiful beyond words to Lois that she should have to stand

alone now. She could have done this willingly if she had been by

herself, but to stand alone in this dual solitude, where she might have

had support—she could not understand it. She wept uncontrollably with

the pity of it, and dashed the tears away that she might smile,

red-eyed, upon her children, who could not feel the pathos of her

effort.

There is little provision made in most girlhood for that independence of

living which marriage unexpectedly forces upon a woman, in many

instances, in almost as great a degree as when she is thrown out into

the world upon her own resources. To be high and fine, rational and

spirited, cheerful and loving, quite by one’s self, without audience or

applause, takes a new kind of strength, to which the muscles are little

trained. A woman can reach almost any height on a spurt for praise or

recognition; but to get up, sit down, eat, drink, walk, read, sleep,

care for the children, order the meals, as a rational human being whose

business it was to perform these functions intelligently, with no

personality attached to it—to have it taken for granted that she would

naturally order her life as suited her best, and desired no

interference—it was like being pushed out into the cold.

If Justin’s indifference was unexplainable to Lois, it was equally

mysterious to him that she expected daily to be urged to seek amusement,

to “take something” for her cold, to stay in if it were wet or to go out

if it were dry, to avoid overwork, not to sew too much, and to be sure

and rest in the afternoon—all the little kindly round of woman’s

sympathies that keep the heart warm. Justin had been brought up in the

good old-fashioned way by a mother who, while requiring obedience and

honesty from her sons, never required them to think of anybody else. In

his conduct now he did entirely as he would be done by. He hated to be

noticed, himself, in little ways; he did as he pleased, with the

directness that is the inheritance of centuries of predominance, but he

had become affectionately parrot-wise in some of the sentences he found

were conducive to his wife’s happiness. In his new absorption he had

forgotten the sentences; he was deeply occupied with his own affairs.

When Lois said to Zaidee, “Mamma is busy; she cannot attend to you now,”

she exemplified unconsciously her husband’s present position toward

herself. Many men regard women primarily in the light of children; and

the more occupied Justin became in his own affairs, the more reluctant

he became to talk of them at home to this child who was his wife. Her

vivid surprise at normal conditions, the unnecessary worry and shallow

generalization of ignorance, irritated him. He became more and more

taciturn, though he was always kind and affectionate, even if his

kindness and affection lacked, as she felt, the true inner glow; but in

the state of mind which Lois had now made her own, no evidence of

affection, however great on the part of her husband, would have meant

anything to her more than momentarily, for it was seen afterwards

through a medium which at once distorted and nullified, and not even the

complete absorption in and surrender to herself that she craved could

have satisfied the insatiable. She was drifting to a place among the

great and terrible company of nerve-centered people, revolving wheels of

centripetal force, sweeping into their own restless orbit all with which

they come in contact as they go on their devastating way through the

universe.

Dosia, on the night when she had hurried down to the house with Lawson

Barr, had found nothing out of the ordinary; the doctor had been delayed

until late by a case of more insistence, that was all. She came down,

however, on other evenings, luxuriously cloaked and wrapped, rosy and

smiling, with radiant eyes, and held rapid conversations with Lois

down-stairs, while Lawson waited in the hall, or sometimes went on

farther and came back for her. Lois herself had never considered Lawson

of importance, although she had warned Dosia against him; his

sympathetic manner now pleased her. As the children improved, the

measles threatened to become at once epidemic and more virulent in the

town, so that it was thought wise to avoid comment by having no

communication by daylight with the Alexander household. Dosia was thus,

for a few minutes at a time, Lois’ one social link with the outside

world, for Justin, as she said bitterly, told her nothing. After three

weeks of solitude and self-communing the barriers began to give way.

She was glad to hear her husband come in one afternoon much earlier than

usual. Something had been said the day before about her going out for a

drive. Her heart beat at the sound of his voice, and she ran down-stairs

eagerly, but checked herself, as she had a way of doing lately, when she

came near him. Her face, devoid of expression, was lifted to his to be

kissed; for all her forbidding manner, she was ready to thaw if he would

only take the trouble to shine directly upon her. It was a beautiful

spring afternoon, and she felt the invading monitions of happiness, in

spite of herself, as he kissed her, saying at once hurriedly, if very

kindly:

“I’ve got to dress and take the five-o’clock train back to town.”

“Oh!” She was chilled to ice. “Won’t you be here to dinner?”

“Why, no. Girard—do you remember my speaking of him? He’s sent me a

ticket for the Western Club dinner in town to-night. There will be fine

speaking; not that I care for that particularly, but it is really

important for me to be there. There are not many tickets; I’m in luck to

get one.” He stopped irresolutely. “You don’t mind my going? I thought

you’d be with the children.”

“No, I don’t mind your going.” She added under her breath, “And it

wouldn’t make any difference to you if I did.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

“If it were any place to which you could have gone with me, I would have

refused.”

“Oh!”

He looked at her uneasily, but said no more; she heard him whistling

softly as he was getting dressed. In reality his conscience was

uncomfortably pricking him. He felt that he had let her bear too much

alone, that he might have been more thoughtful—he couldn’t exactly tell

how. He registered a mental vow to take her out somewhere the very first

chance he got.

He came in the nursery to say good-by to the children and to her. She

asked:

“What train will you take back to-night?”

“I don’t suppose I can get anything earlier than the twelve.”

“You mean the one that gets here at a quarter to one?”

“Yes, of course. Don’t sit up for me.”

He was gone; the door had closed behind him—he was gone. Almost before

she realized it, he was gone. It could not be—she was not ready to have

him go yet! There were so many things she had meant to say to him. She

would have rushed to the door to call him back, but Redge cried out for

her. She took him from his crib and ran to the window with him, over the

floor that was strewed with play-things—Justin was already nearly out

of sight. He must, he must, he _must_ come back again! He must. She

willed it so intensely that he must feel it, if he loved her, and come

back. If you willed things hard enough, they happened; people said so.

She was willing, willing, _willing_ him to come back. She watched the

clock, and listened for the sound of the passing train. Seven minutes to

walk to the station—seven minutes to walk back again, as she willed him

to come. Thirty minutes had passed; he had stopped here, there, or yon,

on his way home. An hour—and he had not come! She had willed in vain.

He had gone.

From six o’clock until a quarter of one,—until one o’clock, for the

midnight train was always late,—that was seven hours. Seven hours to

wait, seven hours to think and think. She gave the children their

supper; she laughed with them, she played with them, helped the nurse

undress them, sang them to sleep, with that dreadful undercurrent of

thinking all the time. She had her dinner, eating without knowing what

she ate, trying to take a long while at it. Afterwards she lighted the

lamp in the little drawing-room, took out her sewing, and sat down there

to wait. There were five hours and a half yet.

There was a ring at the door-bell about eight o’clock, which proved the

herald of little Mrs. Snow, holding in one hand a provisionary vial.

“No, thank you, I won’t sit down,” she said, in answer to Lois’

invitation. “I just ran over to see if you could let me have a little

cough medicine for William to-night, he has a little tickle in his

throat that keeps him coughing, I knew it was no use telling _him_ to

get any medicine, so I said to Bertha, ‘Bertha, I’m just going to run

over to Mrs. Alexander’s and see if she can lend me a spoonful of cough

mixture.’ I’ll have my bottle renewed to-morrow.”

“I’m sorry,” said Lois, wondering at her power of suspending a

heartbreak, “but we haven’t a drop left in the house.”

“There is so much bronchitis around now,” continued Mrs. Snow, oblivious

of the fact that the same impetus that had brought her as far as the

Alexanders’ would have taken her to the druggist’s. “No, thank you; I

can’t sit down.”

She stood by the mantel in a drooping attitude that gave her a plaintive

effect, in combination with her soft crinkled black garments and her

small white, delicate, finely wrinkled face. Mrs. Snow had, as a usual

thing, only two tones to her voice—the plaintive and the inquisitive;

the former was in evidence now.

“There is so much bronchitis around now. I think if you can take hold of

it at the first beginning, with a little cough medicine, when it’s just

a tickle in the throat, you can often save a great deal.”

“I suppose you can,” said Lois. She felt a vague duty of conversation.

“Isn’t William well?”

His mother shook her head. “No, my dear, not at all, though he will not

own it. I ask him every time he comes in the house how he feels, and

sometimes he won’t even answer me.” She heaved a sigh. “You’re not

looking well yourself, Mrs. Alexander; you mustn’t take care of the

children too hard.”

“Oh, nothing ever hurts _me_,” said Lois in a hard voice.

“I’m glad they’re so nearly well. I met Mr. Alexander to-night on his

way back to town. It was a pity you couldn’t have gone with him; if you

had sent for me, I could have come and stayed with the children as well

as not.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Lois.

“I suppose you don’t see much of Miss Dosia?”

“No, not much as yet.”

Mrs. Snow cleared her throat deprecatingly. “A number of people have

been asking me lately if she and Mr. Barr were engaged.”

“Engaged! Why, of course not,” exclaimed Lois contemptuously. “There is

not the slightest question of such a thing; in fact, she dislikes him.

He simply takes her around because she is at his sister’s.”

“Oh!” said Mrs. Snow, “Miss Dosia dislikes Mr. Barr—does she really,

now! I’m sure I told everybody that I knew they couldn’t be engaged,

although they do seem to be so much together. So she dislikes him; Ada

dislikes him, too. There’s something about Mr. Barr so—well, you can’t

exactly tell what it is, can you, but it’s there; something that’s not

exactly like a gentleman—not like Mr. Sutton. Ada likes Mr. Sutton so

much. It’s such a relief to me to find that Miss Dosia is so sensible;

she’s a sweet young girl—a little fond of attention, perhaps, but many

young girls _are_. No, I thank you, my dear, I cannot sit down, I _must_

go now. I don’t think you’re looking well; you must be careful and not

overdo.”

“Oh, nothing hurts me,” said Lois again, with a peculiar little smile.

The insinuation about Dosia did no more than swell the undercurrent of

bitterness by another unnecessary drop.

And Mrs. Snow was gone. Lois had not wanted her, but how alone it was

now! Even Mrs. Snow had seen that she did not look well—had pitied her.

The children were asleep up-stairs, the maids were in the kitchen. The

clock in the hall ticked. People walked past the house: a man

alone—another man; young people, laughing and catching up with those

ahead; some shuffling, hobbling toilers; then the light step of a woman

returning from work; then another man. Occasionally, but not often, a

carriage rolled down the street. The footsteps were always clear and

distinct from the corner below to the upper crossing; when it was a

train-time, there were more footsteps coming and going—between trains

only the solitary footsteps again. She heard the man in the house across

the street run up the steps to his front door, and turn the key in the

lock. The door opened and shut behind him. The clock in the hall struck

the half-hour—it was half-past eight. Oh, if there had been a life-time

of misery in that last half-hour, what was there to come? An eternity,

an eternity of desolation!

If she were to will him now to come home, if in the midst of the

glittering lights and flowers he could hear her cry to him,—“_Justin, I

want you!_”—he would _have_ to come. “Justin, I want you!” She rose and

paced the floor, sobbing out the words. No, he would not hear her—he

did not want to hear her. Perhaps he was laughing now. She would have

gone to _him_, if he had wanted her, though she had had to crawl upon

her knees through thorns and briers. Ah, how she would have gone! A rush

of blinding tears filled her eyes. He did not care. She had been ready

to cling to him, and sob her heart out on his breast, and beg him to

love her and kiss her and stay with her, and he had not seen. She had

asked—in the tone that mutely pleaded—_You will not leave me so

long?_—“The train that gets here at a quarter to one?” and he had

answered, “Yes, of course.” That was all. If her lips had touched his so

coldly when he had said good-by, it was because she had longed to have

him notice it, and ask her why. But he had not noticed the coldness, he

had not asked her why. He had not wanted any more warmth in her. He did

not care!

There came swift moments in those long and passion-freighted hours when

the darkened, distorted vision cleared in wonderful flashes that brought

the healing of light. In these moments she caught glimpses of herself,

not as this draggled, pain-gripped, hungry creature, the prey of

frenzied, torturing moods, but as a wife tenderly beloved, a happy

mother of little children, the mistress of comforts that her husband had

won for her, the appointed dispenser of blessings; a wife tenderly

beloved, the true owner of her husband’s heart, a woman whose work it

was to grow daily in strength and grace, that she might be more and more

his helper, his lover. Even as this glimpse was shut out again, there

was the piercing thought: If that were real, and what her darkened eyes

beheld untrue! Things are what they are, no matter how one’s distorted

vision sees them. If it were really true, no matter how she saw it now,

that she was a wife tenderly beloved, with happiness within her grasp,

and a miserable woman indeed only that she was blind to its

possibilities! She had said, _The train that gets here at a quarter to

one?_ with what a longing for him not to leave her, and he had answered,

_Yes, of course_. Nothing could make those words any different. And she

wanted him, and he did not care—he did not care. Justin, Justin! The

long, long, torturing fangs of self-pity had her by the throat.

The house was silent, the children slept, the maids had gone up-stairs.

The hours wore on into the night. The footsteps passed up and down the

street only at long intervals. The air grew chill in the house. In the

quiet, the watcher could hear the trains far, far off across the flats.

At twelve o’clock the spring rain began to fall, gently at first, and

then in torrents, coming straight down with a rushing sound that blotted

out both trains and footsteps. And the train was late, as she had said

it would be, it was after one o’clock when Justin ran up the steps with

that firm, quick tread of his, opened the door, and came in. His face

was bright and eager; he was full yet of the pleasure of the evening,

and anxious to make her a sharer of it. He turned to speak to his wife,

and the glow on his countenance died out instantly as with a breath from

the tomb.

Lois sat stiffly upright in a chair, facing him. The light had gone out

in the lamp, and the one gas-burner above, with its meager flicker, cast

the room into the desolate half-shadows that speak of the late hours of

the night. She had worn a scarlet house-gown in the evening; the

trailing folds swept the floor around her slippered feet now, her bare

arms gleamed below the sleeves that only reached beyond the elbow.

Around her was flung a gray cloak, buttoned askew at the throat, and in

one of her folded hands she held a black lace scarf. Her face was white,

and her large eyes stared straight before her rigidly, yet with a wild

gleam in them; as he looked at her she rose and moved as if to pass him.

He stepped forward with his dripping overcoat half off.

“Where are you going?”

She made no answer, but looked at him as she edged on farther to the

door.

“Where are you going? Answer me.”