VIII

Spite is a whip that cracks at both ends, and the rear lash inflicts

by far the sharper sting. Nannie felt its full force when she arose

early the next morning after the sowing of her peculiar crop, and

looking from the window saw the sad traces of her work lying upon the

ground. The evening before she had walked into the house tingling with

ignoble triumph, but this morning she felt nothing but shame as she

speculated on Steve's attitude. Possibly--this flashed across her

mind--Steve had not seen her work, and she might plant those wretched

things again before he wakened. But this poor solace was denied her,

for on peeping into Steve's room she saw that he was already up. Where

was he? Not working in the garden as usual; off--somewhere.

In her ignorance of character such as his and in the newness of her

emotions, for Nannie was not used to contribution, she exaggerated

matters and fancied that Steve, thoroughly disgusted with her conduct

(as well he might be), had walked off and left her. The sharpness of

her terror as she conceived such a possibility took even herself by

surprise. Until this moment it had never entered her mind that she

might love her husband. Even now she did not fully comprehend the

meaning of her unusual emotion. She only knew that she felt

shame-stricken over what she had done and terrified before possible

consequences.

Her fears, however, were without substantial foundation. Steve had not

as yet seen the uprooted garden, and consequently was still ignorant

of her ill-humor. Long confinement to a work for which he was unfitted

had worn upon him, and he felt the need of rest and change. As of old,

in his weariness he looked to the woods and streams for refreshment,

for although poorly adapted to the wringing of his daily bread from

the soil, he was nevertheless exquisitely keyed to the harmonies of

Nature, and her touch upon his soul was life.

It had been long since he had taken an early morning tramp. In the

city his midnight retirement forbade the snapping of his hours of rest

at dawn, but now that his life was ordered somewhat differently, he

could afford himself the luxury of a sunrise.

With this plan in mind he retired early after setting the hand of his

clock at the hour of four.

The alarm went off with a furious bur-r-r that brought him on his feet

through sheer astonishment. He had not been wakened in such summary

fashion since his last hunting trip, years and years ago. After

staring at the still whirring clock for a moment as he sat on the edge

of his bed stupid with astonishment, he collected himself and began a

hasty toilet. He experienced something of a boy's glee as he donned

his clothes, and when he crept softly downstairs and unbarred the

house door, he seemed to be reviving some of his boyish escapades.

It was not difficult to reach the woods, for the little suburb was

embraced by these primitive arms, and it was like a child's running to

a waiting mother to go out to them. He took no road or given path for

a time, merely tramping through the underbrush that tangled the

woodland; along the edges of ravines; down into their shadowy depths;

up again; now breaking through the bramble out into the open on the

edge of the bluff that skirts the lake; then bounding back again, like

a rabbit running to covert. He inhaled with delight the dampness that

rose from the ground and from the vegetation about him. In the spring,

and in the early summer there is something so hopeful, so suggestive

of awakening life in that fragrant moisture, that it seems to call

forth an answering energy. Steve felt its significance in full force,

and fairly thrilled with delight as it permeated his being.

Now he was out again, following the sweep of the bluff and looking

eastward over the big waters. Some days the sun appeared there in

regal splendor, but on this particular morning there was a delicacy

about the picture suggestive of the careful work on one of Turner's

loveliest. There was no gorgeous red, no blazing gold, but tints as

exquisite as those seen in the heart of an abalone shell--still lakes

of sea-green feathered about by a fleecy white just touched with the

yellow of the daisy; lambent wings of gray, kissed into a roseate hue

as they spread outward and upward toward the zenith; and the expectant

waters on the lake trembling 'neath their answering pink.

Steve stood and faced it all, hat in hand. His locks were stirred by

the slight fresh breeze that came over the lake, and something else

was stirred within him. There was a fine look on his face. The

physical had disappeared. He no longer felt that strong animal

buoyancy akin to the strength of the wild horse as he courses the

prairies, but his soul was answering "Here" to the call from the

skies.

He turned by-and-by and walked onward in a still mood--the receptive

mood into which God sows rare seed. He was walking away from the

sunrise now out toward the Skokie, that great bog, but he could see

the west flushing with delight--could see the windows of a cottage far

ahead blazing with reflected glory.

He reached the cottage ere long. There were no signs of life about it

as yet.

"I'm the first man up," Steve thought, smiling as he went on.

The little home put the finishing touch to the picture, and Steve

looked at it so long and so intently that he might have been accused

of rudeness had the occupants seen him. His thoughts, however, were

anything but rude, for a home had always been sacred to him. Had he

acted at the bidding of his fine instinct, he would have raised his

hat and stood uncovered in its presence. Since his marriage a home had

taken on a deeper meaning. Without losing a jot of its sacredness, it

had come to stand for something of pain. On his walk that morning he

had noted many things with new eyes--the flowers gladdening the face

of nature; the trees rearing their proud heads and standing each in

his own place--each doing his own work; the birds trilling their songs

of praise and stirring in the soul those holy aspirations whose feet

scarce touch the earth and whose face is set toward heaven--all these

doing the Father's work and answering with the quick response of

perfect obedience, perfect sympathy to the divine will. Viewing them

now with a soul made receptive by the tender sadness of real life,

Steve asked himself over and over again, Am I fulfilling the divine

mission?

When he reached home his face wore a thoughtful look, and the question

of the morning lay deep within his eyes as he walked into the garden

and came upon Nannie's work. For a long time he stood there gazing at

it. An ordinary man would have been intensely angry, and whatever good

he might have felt or purposed during his walk would have taken wings.

But it did not occur to Steve just then to be angry. Up to this time,

like most another really thoughtful person, he had done very little

actual thinking, but now he was entered upon a life which is God's own

school for the development of character, and in the mental and

spiritual awakening of which he was only dimly conscious he began to

see that many things which he had hitherto accepted as a matter of

course were in reality the result of causes which could and should be

removed. Passion blurs the vision, and Steve was straining his eyes to

see just then, so it was necessary above all things that he should

hold himself in hand.

"What makes Nannie act so?"

This was the question he was asking as he stood by his despoiled

garden, and the answer began to come to him in a shadowy sort of way.

It was not just what he imagined it would be--not just what he would

have wished it to be. Few answers take on the shape we anticipate or

desire, but it was undeniably an answer, and he turned, possibly in

obedience, to a cool, shady nook near by, and plucking a few late

violets which were growing there, went into the house where Nannie sat

alone at breakfast, and laying these gently on the table beside her,

without a word went on his way to the station and took his usual

train.

For a long time after he had left the house Nannie sat there, her

breakfast untasted, her elbows resting on the table, her hands clasped

under her chin. She was not looking at the violets, but their subtle

fragrance permeated her thought as it were. Never in all her life

before had she been treated in this way; never before had she known of

anything of this kind outside the covers of a book. She was not

conscious of shame, sorrow, or even regret; she was simply stupid with

wonder.

She got up by-and-by and walked toward the parlor, but looking back to

the table she saw the violets still lying beside her plate. She

hesitated a moment, then took them up and carried them to a vase in

the next room, but in the midst of arranging them there she

impulsively turned to a magazine near at hand, slipped them into

this, and then tucked the book away, coloring the while like a girl

detected with her first love letter.

"It wasn't so dreadful what I did," she muttered, to reinstate

herself. "It didn't matter about the radishes, anyhow. They were so

old it would have been disrespectful to eat them."

But she felt badly, nevertheless, as she caught up her hat, which lay

upon the sofa just where she had thrown it the night before, and

started off to Constance Chance's.

Something was stirred within her, and she felt uneasy with a

restlessness that inclined her to seek a friend.

A friend! She had not one in the world. Of all the women she knew,

Constance Chance claimed the most of her respect and admiration, but

Constance was wholly unaware of this feeling, and moreover, did not

like Nannie. In old days she tolerated her and was even attracted by

her beauty, but she had warmly resented her marriage to Steve--whom

she regarded as deserving a wife far superior to Nannie. She had, as

is the custom of women in such cases, leaped to the conclusion that

either Nannie had made advances to Steve--which he was too delicate

and kind-hearted to repel--or that she had in some way excited his

pity, and he had married her in order to protect and care for her, and

she held it as a grudge against her. That a man like Steve could be

attracted by such a girl as Nannie was inconceivable to Constance,

although Randolph regarded the matter differently.

When she found that the marriage really was to take place she resolved

to make the best of it, but it was not long before she decided that

Steve was unhappy, and then her smouldering dissatisfaction broke into

such a lively flame that Randolph was obliged to interpose to prevent

her from taking Nannie in hand.

"There, there, sweetheart," he said. "Don't get wrought up about it.

I'm afraid you'd only make matters worse. Better let them rest as they

are. We're not certain that it's so. Steve's a queer fellow."

"I _know_ he's unhappy!" Constance exclaimed. "It's not necessary for

him to speak. There is a silence that is eloquent; then his looks have

changed. There's something so pathetic about his whole bearing."

"Yes, I've noticed that. Poor old man! Well, we can't help it. These

aren't matters for outsiders, my sweetheart--you know that even better

than I do."

"Yes, I know, but I'm so angry with that little minx! See how she has

estranged him from us. He hardly ever comes here now."

"Oh, well, I don't think that we ought to put all the blame of that on

Nannie. A man isn't apt to run around after he's married. Look at

me--you can hardly get me out at all, and I used to be a great

gad-about."

"I dare say, sir, I dare say," said Constance, nodding her head as one

who knows.

Randolph laughed.

"I certainly was over at your house often enough," he said, "but now

that I've run the race and won the prize, I can stay at home and enjoy

it."

"Well, I wish poor Steve had a home to enjoy," murmured Constance as a

last word.

As a matter of course this conversation and the reflections which

followed it did not prepare Constance to give Nannie a very cordial

greeting when she came over that day. Had she known Nannie's state of

mind; had she guessed that the child-wife looked up to her and was so

ready to be influenced by her, the older woman, she would have done

altogether differently. It is the lack of this very knowledge that

makes much of life a mere blundering about in the dark.

She received her coolly, and Nannie was sensitive enough to feel this

so deeply that Randolph's hearty welcome could but partially heal the

hurt. This pain, however, was not without its resultant benefit,

although the lesson for which it opened the way might have come more

gently. Stung to the quick, aching with loneliness, and with a

yearning which she did not understand, the young wife was roused as

never before and her eyes opened to things heretofore unseen. She

noticed the orderliness of the home she was in, its air of thrift and

good management, and its artistic beauty. Nor was this all, for the

best of a home is that which is too elusive, too subtile to remain

under any of these heads, and this indefinite something attracted and

touched Nannie to-day. Fog and mist, cloud and rain had softened the

soil into which these seeds fell. Pain is a strong note in the prelude

to life.

It was characteristic of Nannie's crude resentful type of pride that

she prolonged her stay at Constance's, even though she realized she

was unwelcome. She would not allow any one the satisfaction of seeing

that she felt hurt.

As far as possible, Randolph tried to atone for his wife's lack of

cordiality, and in pursuance of this aim he made an essential point of

taking Nannie around the little place and showing her the latest

arrivals in the vegetable line. He had considerable to show, for his

tiny plantation was a model of thrift and comeliness. Many varieties

of vegetables were holding out their succulent wares, all ready for

table use, and many more were absorbing sunshine and balmy air in

preparation for future calls. Near the house cheery and fragrant

flowers gladdened the pretty beds in which no weed was allowed to rear

its vicious crest. There was, it is true, one ugly, uncivilized

portion of the place, in which the primitive, the barbaric reigned

supreme. As yet Randolph had not found time to attack this spot and

bring it within the pale of garden orthodoxy. Secretly he had for a

time been hoping that Constance would take it in hand, although he

would have been ashamed to let her know he dreamed of this. Certainly

he would have been shocked at the idea of setting her at any such

task, but he would as certainly have winked at her own voluntary

performance of it. To be entirely frank, he had a little scene all

ready in his imagination, in which this unsightly corner was found

clothed and in its right mind--the noxious weeds having been cast out

by Constance's gentle hands. In this delightful scene Constance always

stood by smiling in a deprecatory way, and he was always gently

upbraiding her--"Now, Constance! Why, this is shameful! The idea of

your doing such a thing! It wasn't right of you! You must promise me

you will never, never do anything of this sort again!" and so forth,

and so on.

But alas! this scene, like many another, remained in the author's

possession, Constance giving no occasion to act it out, but going

circumspectly and quietly on her way, ignorant of this delightful

little fancy of her husband's. Just now she was busy, very busy, and

very happy indoors. She sat sewing in the cool, beautiful library, and

the house door was open.

When Randolph excused himself from Nannie by-and-by to talk with a man

who called on business, the latter started toward the house. On the

gallery she paused, for she heard Constance's voice within, and she

did not care to go to her. There was a hammock, shaded by a vine,

near at hand, and she crept into this, and lying there the waves of

Constance's low, sweet voice, mingled with the perfume of the

honeysuckle, stole out to her and stirred new longings. Nannie leaned

forward and caught a glimpse of Constance, who was at work, doing some

of that fine sewing which gentlewomen love to put upon things of sweet

value. Nannie could not discern what it was, but as Constance shifted

the contents of her work basket a little article came in sight, and

all at once Nannie felt, as it were, an imprisoned soul within her

fluttering against the bars of its cage.

Dickens tells of a character whose unworthy life had apparently

extinguished the divine spark, and yet, down deep within her, at the

end of a tortuous passage, there was a door, and over this door was

the word womanhood. Nannie had such a door, and at sight of that tiny

article of clothing it opened. The girl's heart--the woman's heart was

crying out now, and her eyes were dim with tears she did not

understand.

All unconscious of the pathos of the scene, Constance plied her dainty

needle, and in a sweet low voice talked with a young girl (Gertrude

Earnest) who sat at her feet.

"A story?"

"Yes, please, Mrs. Chance."

Constance, you must know, was a story teller--not of a reprehensible

sort, but a legitimate, orthodox one, and locally she was not without

honor on this account.

"Well, then, long, long ago," she began, "in the dim dawn of creation,

the gods looked down upon man whom they had made, and realized that he

was but a poor piece of work.

"'He needs other gifts,' said one.

"'Yea, verily,' murmured another, 'but they are fraught with such

peril!'

"'Nevertheless he must have at least one more. He must not continue

unconscious even of what is taking place around him--the acts of which

he himself is a part.'

"And so they sent a spirit whose eyes were large and somber, and

mankind received her with open arms, not knowing that her name was

Realization. Endowed with this immortal gift, they no longer groveled,

for they knew what was passing around them--knew what part they were

playing in the great drama, Life. And when she turned her happy face

toward them they waxed merry, but when they saw her sterner visage

they wept.

"Still they lacked painfully, living as they did wholly in the

present, sending never a backward glance along the echoing corridors

of the past--never a swift shaft of sight along the dim shadowy vistas

of the future. And the gods noted this lack.

"'It must be remedied,' said one.

"'Nay! nay!' pleaded another. 'Let them be as they are. They are

spared so much of grief.'

"'They are also denied so much of joy,' said the first with gentle

firmness. 'They must receive their gift and must pay its price.'

"'Ah the price! So heavy!' still pleaded the other.

"'The end is worth the pain,' was the reply.

"And so another spirit was sent to earth, and she too had a double

aspect. One face was lighted by a happy, dreamy smile; the other was

lined with sharpest pain, for her name was Memory.

"'One more gift and the trio is complete,' the gods decreed.

"'Let them alone; in mercy let them alone!' pleaded the pitying

spirit. 'They have enough to bear--enough of joy; enough of grief.'

"'Nay, nay. They are but imperfectly endowed. They look about them at

the waves that lap the beach on which they stand, and look backward

o'er the sands of Time, but send never a glance forward over the great

misty ocean of the Future.'

"Then down from the other world there shot a gleam of golden light

that rested on a shadow, and willy-nilly--not knowing, not caring,

possibly resisting had they fully comprehended--mankind was endowed

with another gift, and its name was Anticipation. One face was

dazzling in its radiance--that they called Hope; the other was deep

with gloom, and that was Dread. With the coming of this gift the veil

that hung athwart the future was pierced, and mankind saw as the gods

see, not only what was, not alone what had been, but what was to be as

well.

"And on a day when all went fair they clung to these three

gifts--Realization, Memory, and Anticipation--and thanked the gracious

gods, but on another day, when Life pressed hard, they tried to fling

them off and cried in bitter reproach: 'Why didst thou burden us with

double-faced, tormenting creatures? Why wore they not a single face,

and that a happy one?'

"Then down through the immeasurable quivering ether that veils

eternity came the answering murmur, tender and pitiful as a strain of

music upon a broken heart:

"'Thou canst not know--not yet--some day; for "now we see through a

glass darkly, but then face to face."'"

And when the story was told Nannie was weeping, for all at once she

knew where she stood--all at once looked backward and saw what she had

done; looked forward and saw what was to come.

But betwixt herself and Constance there was a high stone wall, called

Misunderstanding, and Constance did not scale this wall, and so lost

one of the sweetest pleasures known to mortals--helping a fellow-being

out of the dark into the light.

And Nannie hungered and went home unfed.