Her blood coursed drummingly as she went back along the road, half
running, her hat fallen, held by the loose ribbon under her chin, her
hands opening and closing nervously. Her head was high and her mood
struck through her like the smell of turned earth to a wild thing of
the jungle. She wanted action, hard movement, and she ran with fingers
spread to feel the breeze. Her thoughts were a tumult--her feelings
one massing, striving storm of voices, through which ran constant,
vibrating, a single, insistent, dominant chord.
“You _shall_! You SHALL!” she repeated under her breath. “Why do I
like that? It’s sweeter than bells! I can hear him say it yet. It was
like a hand, pulling me!”
She stopped stock-still, suddenly, gazing at the fallen
purple-and-crimson autumn leaves, a poured-out glory of color at her
feet. “Splendid!” she said. She bent and swept up a great armful and
tossed the clean, wispy, crackling things in the air. They fell in a
whirling shower over her face, catching in her hair. In the midst of
them she laughed aloud, every chord of her body sounding. Then, with a
quick revulsion, she threw out her arms and sank panting on the selvage
of the field.
“What can I do? What can I do?” she said. “I’m afraid! I can’t go on
fighting this way! It--drags me so.” Her fingers were pulling up the
tapery grass-spears in a sinister terror. “I felt so strong the last
few weeks, and it’s gone--utterly gone! Why--it went when I first
looked at his face. If he had kissed me again, this time; if--if he had
held me as he did that other day--in the woods--oh, my heart’s water!
There’s something in me that _won’t_ fight. The ground goes from under
my feet. It’s dreadful to feel this way! His hair smelled like--roses!
If I had dared kiss it! I ought to be sorry and I’m--not! I’m ashamed
to be glad, and I’m glad to be ashamed!”
She felt herself shivering, resentful of the ecstasy of sweetness that
lapped and folded her. The dull glow of the sky irritated her with its
very serenity.
“If I only hadn’t seen him! If I had been strong enough not to! It’s
ungenerous of him. He ought to leave. He ought to have gone away after
that last time! He _ought_!”
But if he had! The thought obtruded itself. She had longed for him to
come; she knew, down in her soul, she had. Her heart had given her lips
the lie. The woman in her had betrayed her conscience.
“It’s the truth!” she cried, lifting her hand. “It’s the truth! Oh, if
he hadn’t come--_if--he--hadn’t_!” She muttered it to the wind by the
loneliness of the slashed hedges. “That would have been the one last
terrible thing. It would have crushed me! I could never have been glad
again. I’m sick now with desolation at the thought of it! It’s easier
not to be able to forgive myself than it would be not to be able to
forgive him! But he _did_ come! He wants me!” Her voice had a quiver of
exultation. “Nothing on earth ever can rob me of that!--nothing!”
She pressed her arm against her eyes till her sight blent in
golden-lettered flashes. The one presence was all about her; she could
even feel his breath against her hair. His eyes had been the color of
deep purple grapes under morning dew. The old hunger for him, for his
hand, his voice, swept down upon her, and she crouched closer to the
ground wet with fog-dew, striking the sod hard with her hands. He had
come. He was there. He never would go--she knew that. If he stayed, she
must yield. She had been perilously close to it that day.
* * * * *
After a time she became quieter and drew from her skirt pocket a
crumpled letter, received that morning after three re-forwardings. It
was in a decisive feminine hand, and spreading it before her, Margaret
turned several pages and began to read:
“Your letter has somehow distressed me,” it read. “It seemed unlike
your old self. It seemed sad. I imagine that you are troubled about
something. Is it only that you are tired and dissatisfied? I have
wondered much about you since you left the city in the spring. What
have you been doing? How have you spent the time in the stale places
of idleness? I have been so busy here at the hospital that I have
seen none of our old friends. Time goes so quickly when you like your
work! And I enjoy mine. It has come to mean a great deal to me. Dr.
Goodno intends soon, he says, to put me in charge of the children’s
ward. Poor little things! They suffer so much more uncomplainingly
than grown folks. Dr. Goodno is our superintendent and Mrs. Goodno is
superintendent of nurses. She has been so dear and kind to me, one
could not help loving her. It hardly seems possible that I have been
here three whole years.
“Margaret, have you ever thought seriously of the last letter I wrote
you? There is a great deal of compensation in this life, and I have
thought sometimes (I know you’ll forgive me for saying it) that you
needed some experience like this. Every woman ought to be the better
for it. You are my dearest friend, and if I could only show you
something--some new satisfaction in living--something to take you out
of yourself more, I would be so glad.
“I have told Mrs. Goodno so much about you, and she would welcome you
here, I know. It might be just what you need. You know the nurses are
taken on three months’ probation, and there is no compulsion to stay.
If you did not like it, you could leave at any time, and you would be
the gainer by the experience. You need no preparation. Just telegraph
me at any time and come.”
A resolution had formed itself rapidly in Margaret’s mind. Thrusting
the letter deep into her pocket, she walked swiftly up the path to
the house. She sent Creed with a telegram before she entered the
library. Melwin was standing with his back to her, staring out through
the leaded diamonds of the window. He turned slowly, gazing over her
shoulder. His face had lapsed into its habitual neutral passiveness.
His pupils had contracted into their peculiar unrefracting dulness, and
his hands hung without motion.
“Melwin,” she said, “I’m going back to the city. I have received a
letter which makes it necessary. I think I will take the evening train.”
He turned again to the window. “Must you--go?” His voice was toneless
and dull.
“Yes,” she answered. “I will look in and say good-by to Lydia.” She
waited a moment uncertainly, but he did not speak, and she left him
standing there.
* * * * *
Turning the knob of Lydia’s door softly, she pushed it open and
entered. Lydia lay with her face turned toward the wall; her regular
breathing showed that she slept. Margaret could not bear to awaken her.
A wavering smile was on her parted lips and gave a fragile loveliness
to the delicate transparency of her skin. Perhaps a happy dream had
come for awhile to beckon her from ever-present pain. Perhaps she was
dreaming that she was well and knew and filled a strong man’s yearning.
Margaret closed the door noiselessly. Going to her room, she pencilled
a little note, and tiptoeing cautiously back through the hall, slipped
the missive under Lydia’s door.
And this was her farewell.