"THERE ARE SOME THINGS WE HAVE
TO SETTLE FOR OURSELVES"
John's being away from home those first days of Hugh's illness--he had
gone to Colebyville to dispose of Patsie's body and secure a new team to
finish harvesting--kept him from getting the run of the affairs of the
sickroom, and enabled Elizabeth to assume the care of the invalid in her
own way. An idea once fixed in John Hunter's head was fixed, and having
accepted the plan of Doctor Morgan that Elizabeth was to be in sole charge
of care and medicine, he went his way without thrusting his suggestions
upon her, and Elizabeth, having learned not to discuss things with him,
did not speak of her work nor of anything connected with the invalid. In
fact, as soon as John entered the sickroom she went out, as one of the
best ways she knew of to avoid accidents of conversation. John came to
Hugh's bedside but little, supposing that he needed rest, and willing to
sacrifice his all to the comfort of the pale invalid. With the tears of a
woman in his heart if not in his eyes, John watched from afar the face of
the man he had been the unconscious means of injuring, and tiptoed about
the outer rooms with a fear of death which only John could feel. Another
thing kept him out of the sickroom: impressed with the idea that his
carelessness in the purchase of the first team had led up to this trouble,
he had gone to the other extreme in replacing them, and had paid three
hundred and twenty-five dollars for one of the best and most thoroughly
proven teams in the country. There were no available funds and he had been
obliged to give a note for them; this must in time come to Hugh's notice,
and John had a distinct remembrance of a former note, and did not wish to
repeat the experience. Luther, who came often to see Hugh, had spoken to
John of Patsie's death in Elizabeth's presence, and after the first pained
expression of surprise and grief, Elizabeth had never mentioned it again.
John had noticed also that Elizabeth had never asked the price of the last
team, nor seemed to take any interest in them, and he hoped by the same
means to avoid confessing to Hugh.
John Hunter was glad at this time to escape discussions of an unpleasant
nature; he was more broken by the accident than he ever admitted; he
accused himself more bitterly than any one would ever accuse him; he had
broken up a working team, he had killed his best horse, and he had been
all but responsible for the death of his best friend, and when John
Hunter's own misdeeds hit hard enough, he would face things squarely, and
no matter how hard he worked to avoid owning up to others, would
acknowledge to himself that he was in the wrong. Hugh's white face grew
whiter each day and accused him enough without further words. To escape
it, John worked busily, and there was need of work, for the rapidly drying
fields required his entire attention during the day, and he left Hugh to
his wife's care, glad to do so.
There were times, however, when John was alone with Hugh, and at such
times, because he was full of self-blame and humiliation, he listened to
what Hugh said with a peculiar attention. Hugh saw that John worried
himself half sick over his misfortune, and reached out the hand of love
and fellowship for which John hungered at this time. He talked of his
possible death as if it were but a journey, which always convulsed John's
face with child-like emotions. He talked of the farm work, and kept close
track of what was done. He knew that John had had to go into debt for the
team, and he wanted John to tell him, without being asked, that a note had
been given. When he did not, Hugh passed the matter over without reference
and with a sigh. Hugh Noland was not criticising John Hunter or any of his
actions these days, but Hugh studied John and found his weaknesses, and
tried to give him such help as he thought possible. Hugh had long days to
think, and he began to yearn over this man to whom he had been a sort of
traitor. He saw John's wilfulness with Elizabeth--heard many things
without being able to avoid hearing them, being pinned to his bed--he saw
where John's irritability lost good help during the busy season and left
double duty for faithful Jake, his supercilious attitude toward Luther,
and his illy concealed contempt for the farmers about them, and one of his
ways of keeping his mind off John's wife was to keep it on John and John's
needs. Hugh kept Luther with him whenever Luther could be spared from his
home in the evenings, and he spoke to John of Luther with growing
affection. When he grew stronger, he discussed farm work and farmers with
John in a way that savoured of interest in their problems; he asked Nathan
and Silas and Carter and Bob Warren in and talked to them of fertilizers
and drainage, and when John insisted that those things were in the future,
he said:
"Yes, but they will come up in our time; you see I come from a place where
those things were already a necessity to the farmers. I am a farmer myself
now and I think about those things."
Hugh knew that his consideration of fertilizers was superfluous in a
country that was hardly past the sod-corn stage, but he longed to dignify
this work to John Hunter, since John would give his formative years here
and be unable to do other things if he ever made money enough to get away,
as he hoped. Hugh had had enough work in the agricultural department of an
eastern university before he had come to Kansas, to make it possible for
him to interest these men in the future development of their state. Doctor
Morgan, who had been rather unwilling that serious subjects should be
discussed in the sickroom, asked curiously one day:
"What the devil do you want to prate such nonsense as that to these folks
for? They won't need any kind of fertilizers in this country for twenty
years. You'd better be resting instead of shooting such useless stuff as
that at _them_."
"I want to talk farming to John Hunter as if it were a respectable
business to engage in, Doctor. I don't have to tell you how he views it."
"What in Sam Hill's the difference how he views it?" the doctor asked in
astonishment. "He's nothing but a cheap skate, and you can't make anything
else out of him."
Hugh Noland looked at the doctor and made no reply; he understood that the
unfortunate vision of John Hunter which Doctor Morgan had got would
prevent him from seeing the point he was trying to make, and so let the
matter drop, but he kept John with him evenings and worked along on his
own lines and with persistence. He wanted to feel right about his stay in
John's home, and one of the ways of doing it was to get close to John's
heart on important matters. He spoke of Jack as a future farmer, and when
John indignantly resented the implication and said that he expected his
son to be an educated man, Hugh replied:
"Why, of course you do, but an educated farmer is exactly the thing to
make of him. Look at the clean life you'd place him in."
And so the days ran on in the sick-chamber. If John was with Hugh,
Elizabeth busied herself about the house elsewhere, and John rarely saw
them together, unless there was medicine to administer, and then the girl
gave it without remark. A growing fear had taken possession of her lest
John should fly out at her in unpleasant fashion before Hugh. The
situation between the two had been made so much more acute by Hugh's
accidental reference to it when he had thought that she was crying about
him, that she was supersensitive regarding her half-formed complaint in
explanation. But for that reference, they could have gone along
indefinitely with a pretence of indifference, but enough had been said to
tear away the veil and leave them self-conscious and mutually humiliated.
Their little avoidances of touch or tenderness spoke in a language not to
be misunderstood, and their eyes told unconsciously all that they refused
to say with their tongues.
Elizabeth, in her own way, worried herself half sick in her endeavours to
care for him gently and yet give him no cause to think she was making a
demand for a love of which neither approved, but which having once been
put into words was a constant factor in their association. Once when she
was bathing his face, Hugh thought she lingered longer over it than was
necessary and drew himself back on his pillow suddenly, saying:
"Don't Elizabeth. I should have my arms about you in a minute if you did
that, and you are John's wife--and I couldn't look him in the face if I
did a thing of that sort."
Elizabeth turned away without replying, her eyes full of tears. He had
misunderstood her cruelly. The one thing Elizabeth Hunter was trying to do
was not to show her affection for this man who was not her husband, but as
she became worn and tired from duty at the sick-bed it became more and
more evident that she could not accomplish it.
Hugh had the daily fear of her peritonitis coming back upon her; Doctor
Morgan had warned him while John was away. Unable to lift his head from
his pillow without assistance, Hugh saw her growing thin and discouraged,
and knew that it was the enforced condition of caring for him which made
her so; yet when she tried to avoid his sympathetic eyes, he instantly
misunderstood her and was hurt. That she was not really strong enough to
assume the care of him added to his uneasiness, and often when he was on
the point of saying so, she mistook his glance and was so distant that it
died on his lips. And so the days ran into each other with the pair. If
for any reason one advanced, the other retreated, and at last the
condition became unbearable.
Elizabeth gave much and consuming thought to the issue brought about by
the fact that her husband, still living in the house with her, had no idea
that she could be in love with another man, even though her husband no
longer loved her. Any sort of love-making was a violation of her marriage
vows, and for her to put love for another man into words was to fall to a
level to which she had never in her life thought of doing.
What was she to do? John never saw anything except in the light of his own
instincts and emotions, and an idea or a prejudice once fixed in his mind
could be uprooted by nothing but death; therefore to confess to him and
thereby make it possible to get away from Hugh would prejudice him against
Hugh, whom he would be certain to think had stolen something to which he
alone had the right, and against her whom he felt that he possessed, and
upon whom he could wreak almost any form of public revenge. Hugh had tried
to get away and John had himself held him, but John could not remember
that nor listen to it if told. Every effort had been made by Hugh to avoid
Elizabeth since he had found out the true situation, but nothing would
convince John of that. Had John Hunter the right then, being the kind of
man he was, to a confession from her that would confuse the whole issue
and do vital wrong to everybody concerned, including the baby, who must
suffer with the mother who would be made to seem much worse than she was.
This Elizabeth Hunter asked herself daily, and with the fear that her
conscience would force her to confession should she permit any
demonstration of affection, and to avoid any possibility of it, she became
colder and colder in her manner toward the sick man.
The effort to keep off dangerous ground was disastrous, for Hugh instantly
misunderstood it, and the gloom which settled over him increased the
difficulties with which Elizabeth had to contend. Doctor Morgan saw that
his patient, who had seemed slightly better, fell back again, and he
worried about his despondent condition.
"Cheer him up, Mrs. Hunter! Read to him! Anything!" he would exclaim.
"He's got to have peace of mind, or there's no hope in the world of his
recovery. Something more 'n staved-in ribs is keeping him down," the
doctor urged, not knowing that he laid impossible burdens on shoulders too
young to bear them.
The two duties, the one to her husband and the one to her patient, stared
her in the face, and she had no one with whom to advise or consult.
"I don't care! His life's worth more than for me to approve of myself as a
wife," she decided at last, and yet when she gave Hugh his next dose of
medicine she was colder and more on her guard than ever.
Luther Hansen came to see Hugh that afternoon. Elizabeth received an
inspiration when he started away and followed him out of the house.
"Luther, will he die?" she asked.
"I don't know, Lizzie," Luther said quietly, not knowing what to say to
such a question, and too honest to evade.
At the time of the accident to the binder, when Elizabeth knelt, broken
with exhaustion and terror, looking at the man she loved who lay under the
mass of machinery with the colour of death upon him, no one but a blind
man could have mistaken the utter abandonment of her grief, and certainly
of all men Luther was not blind. Now he recognized the heartache back of
Elizabeth's question and with an instinct to cheer was almost persuaded to
answer in the negative. In his heart he thought Hugh would die. The
rapidly failing strength of the man indicated that he would do so unless
something came to buoy him up.
"I don't know, Lizzie," he added, as if squaring his conscience, "he looks
so weak and troubled like."
Luther realized the moment it was out of his mouth that he had said the
wrong thing. Elizabeth's lips grew white and she held her breath a moment
as if preparing to accept what she knew must be the truth.
"Lizzie," asked Luther gently, "would you like to talk to me about it?"
The girl's face tensed strangely and her quivering lips refused to do her
bidding for a full minute, the relief was so great.
"I--I came out for that," she said simply when she could speak. "It's so
good of you to understand and make it easy for me. I'll walk over toward
home with you."
They walked slowly through the barnyard, across the creek, and over the
pleasant pasture land. Neither spoke. Elizabeth, now that she had decided
to talk to Luther about the circumstances with which she contended, could
not bring herself readily to do so. Luther had always the insight of true
wisdom, which let others gauge their own inclinations. When they came to
the fence which was the boundary line between Luther's and John Hunter's
farms, they stopped. There was a line of willow trees running at intervals
down the fence, and Luther waved his hand in the direction of a shady spot
beside them.
"Set down, Lizzie," he said, seating himself half-facing her.
Elizabeth Hunter crumpled up on the grass with her back against a fence
post, and thought while Luther got out his knife and looked for something
to whittle.
"Tell me about it," he said at last. "You want to--and--and I'm a safe
person."
She looked up at him, glad that he had assumed it, and smoothed the path
to confession.
"I know you're safe, Luther. You're more than that, God bless you!"
And to this man whom she had always trusted Elizabeth poured out all her
fears, her feelings, and her frantic cry for help.
"I've had no one to talk to, Luther," she ended, "and I don't believe a
human being can go on always and not put things into words."
They talked on and on. Having started, she let him see the consuming
struggle between right and wrong which she waged every day.
"Doctor Morgan says, 'Cheer him up! Cheer him up,' and what am I to do?"
she closed in desperation.
Elizabeth Hunter had told far more than she supposed. She had bared a
yearning, struggling heart to Luther's gaze, a soul seeking a right path
where there seemed no sure road, nothing but confusion.
Luther longed to help, but the problem presented insurmountable
difficulties; to adopt a rigid code of morals as such was to come out at
the end of the journey with something in herself and society satisfied,
and Hugh Noland's life sacrificed, as Doctor Morgan had said; to adopt a
sympathetic attitude would spare the life of a useful man, but with her
code shattered. If only she could take John into her confidence both might
be possible.
"Lizzie, you couldn't tell Hunter, could you?" Even as he asked it he knew
it could not be done.
"I would tell John instantly if he were like you, Luther," was her reply.
"I think Hugh himself would have been glad to. If he could have explained,
he could have got away. No--John isn't the kind of man. He wouldn't
understand, and he'd make it a great deal worse than it is to everybody.
He'd accuse me and spoil Jack's life, and----"
The hopelessness of it left her silent for a minute, and then Doctor
Morgan's warnings came up to be reckoned with.
"The doctor says he'll die if he's worried, Luther. What am I to do?" she
demanded, wanting him to settle the question for her, and letting the
tears run unrestrained down her cheeks.
Luther Hansen looked at her pityingly and shook his head.
"There are some things we have to settle for ourselves, Lizzie, and this
is one of them for you. I do know," he said trustfully, "whatever you do
'll be right."
The interview was ended. Luther helped Elizabeth to her feet, and went
away to his own house and waiting chores, leaving the question with
her--Elizabeth Hunter--whose life had been punctuated with interrogation
points.
Elizabeth walked back slowly, going over every hint and suggestion to be
gained from Luther's discussion of her situation. Nothing was clear except
that whatever her decision, it must be the nearest right of anything she
was able to understand. She remembered as she stopped to fasten the
barnyard gate behind her that Luther had said as he left her:
"He'll go away as soon as he is able, you say, Lizzie," and she remembered
the lingering tones of fondness in Luther's voice when Hugh's name was
mentioned.
It was not easy for Luther to say, let him die, either.
Elizabeth remembered at that point that Hugh's medicine was long overdue,
that medicine was more important just now than any of the questions with
which she had been struggling. With a frightened little cry she ran to the
house and to the sick-chamber.
"Never mind, Elizabeth," Hugh said when he saw her shuffling the papers
about in search of the bottle. "Jack came in and I had Hepsie give it to
me. I've decided that it isn't a good plan to have it there, and I'll keep
it under my pillow hereafter."
"I--I went out with Luther, Hugh, and I didn't realize that I was gone so
long. You've missed two doses!" She noticed that Hugh called her by her
given name altogether now.
Hugh laughed a sad little laugh.
"Well, I've had the one for this hour at least. I--I tried to take it
alone. I guess I won't try that again. It stuck in my throat and I got a
strangling spell. I coughed till--well, I thought I was going to get out
of taking medicine altogether. It's a terrible fear that grips a fellow
when he gets something stuck in his throat and knows that he can't lift
his head off his pillow. It isn't so much that he's afraid to die--it's
the death struggle he's afraid of."
Absorbed in his own thoughts, Hugh Noland closed his eyes and did not see
the effect his words produced upon Elizabeth. By some sort of
psychological process he had placed that death struggle before her very
eyes. Hugh, all unconscious that he had made any impression, unconscious
that her attitude toward death differed from his own, or that his death
could mean much more to her than deliverance from the presence and care of
him, lay with his eyes closed, thinking his own bitter thoughts.
There was indeed enough in Hugh Noland's appearance to terrify the girl as
he lay before her, wasted and woebegone, his low forehead blue-veined and
colourless, his hands blue-veined and transparent, and all his shrunken
figure sharply outlined under the thin summer covering of the bed with
ghastly and suggestive significance. Instantly she wanted to go down by
his side and with her arms about him give him the sympathy and comfort his
lonely heart craved, but because it was so deliciously tempting she
distrusted the impulse and, turning hastily, walked out of the room and
out of the house, going on a run to her refuge in the willows. But though
she agonized till dark she found herself no nearer a solution than
before.
Hugh felt the distance Elizabeth maintained and also the fact that she was
not well. How he hated it when she had to lift him for his medicine.
Doctor Morgan had especially talked about her lifting when she was at
first convalescing. His heart was very bad that night.
About three o'clock the next afternoon Elizabeth tiptoed in to see if he
slept.
"I'm awake," he said without opening his eyes.
Always when Hugh did not open his eyes Elizabeth was filled with
premonitions. He was very pinched and wan to-day. With a pain at her own
heart, Elizabeth brought a fresh glass of water for his medicine. She had
to speak to him to get him ready to take it from her hand. Kneeling, she
put her arm under the pillow to raise his head while he drank.
Hugh fumbled with the little bottle as he tried to return the extra disks
he had accidentally poured out into his hand. Elizabeth waited till he had
the cork in place, with her arm still under the pillow. He turned his face
toward her as he thrust the bottle back, and accidentally touched her hand
under his head. He glanced up consciously. Her breath, fresh, warm, full
of the life man adores, came to him from her parted lips, and to get away
from the impulse to say things he was resolved not to say, he closed his
eyes and turned his head feebly.
A gasp of fright came from the girl as she saw the contortion of his
haggard face.
"Hugh!" she exclaimed.
The glass she held fell from her fingers and rolled to the foot of the
bed, scattering its contents abroad unobserved, as she threw her other arm
across him and lifted him for the air she supposed he needed. Their
breaths mingled. Human nature is but human nature, man is but man and
woman is but woman in the final analysis: they were in the hands of a fate
stronger than either of them at that moment.
Elizabeth struggled no more; right or wrong, it had happened, and she
brought her rocking chair and with her free hand clasped in his, read and
took life as it came. After that, sin nor sickness could keep them from
being happy. If the girl talked of the better course of restoring the old
reserve, Hugh's hand would reach out imploringly:
"Only till I get well, dearest; I won't trouble your conscience after
that. I know you don't feel right about this, but I can't go back to a
life without any affection again while I'm here," and Elizabeth always
responded to that call. She reflected that even Luther could not condemn
her for it.
Yet when John was in the house or whenever she was obliged to be careful
about Hepsie, as she often was, she was outraged in her own sight, and her
colours trailed in the dust of humiliation, for she saw that the path she
was treading was one of unaccustomed duplicity.
"If I could only approve of myself," she said to Hugh, and then was sorry
she had spoken, for Hugh Noland's face grew more white and he closed his
eyes with a little sob.
"Oh, my darling," he said when he could speak again, "you long for that
and I like you for it too, but I'm weak. I want to be loved and petted,
and--I'm so tired that I don't want to think about it at all. Kiss me,
sweet," and Elizabeth kissed him, and was glad in spite of herself.
"You shall not have to think till you're well," she promised, and the days
ran on throughout the blazing summer, and Hugh improved, and Elizabeth won
Doctor Morgan's admiration as a nurse.
In the midst of the deceptions which Elizabeth Hunter was called upon to
practise, however, she followed the natural trend of her character in ways
which proved how fundamental truth and outrightness were in her make-up.
Having discussed Hugh with Luther, she told Hugh that she had done so.
This gave Hugh a wrong impression of affairs between the two which she was
obliged to set right.
"No, Luther never loved me--that is, he never said that he did. That isn't
the way we feel about each other. We've just been good friends always. We
herded cattle together and told each other things all our lives. I could
tell Luther anything."
"Well, he couldn't love that black-eyed thing he lives with," Hugh said.
"I don't know how it is myself, but he does, and Luther never lies. You
can see that he's square with her. He gives her a kind of companionship
that will keep her out of the position I'm in, too," she said with
conviction, and then saw the kind of blow that she had dealt, and covered
her face with her hands for shame.
Elizabeth heard the invalid sigh deeply. When she could speak again, she
slid down on her knees by his bed and, laying her arm across the shoulders
of the man she had hurt, faced herself and her deeds squarely, as was her
way.
"It's of no use, Hugh. We've got to face it. I didn't intend to hurt you,
but I'm in a serious position. I must think of this thing all my life--and
I shall shrink whenever I do. I shall see everybody in the light of my own
life. I made no comparison between you and Luther. There's love and love
in this world, as I've found out. John thought he loved me and I thought I
loved him--and look at us! I don't know what Luther would do if he were
placed where we are, but that is not the question. I hurt you just now;
but, oh, Hugh! I love you too--God help me, and in the midst of it all I
want my self-respect back till I could almost die to get it. Sometimes I
think I'll go and tell John yet."
When for sheer want of breath Elizabeth stopped and looked at Hugh Noland
inquiringly, he asked eagerly:
"Could we?"
And for a long time she looked at him, till her eyes took on a faraway
look which said that she was going over details and experiences of the
past. In the light of those experiences she finally shook her head.
"No," she said with simple conviction. "You don't know John. He'd never
understand that---- Well, he'd mix everything uselessly. It would fall
hardest on Jack; his future would be spoiled by the humiliation of having
everybody think I was worse than I----"
Elizabeth could not finish her sentence for the pain on the face before
her, and hid her face on the same pillow and cried out her grief and
heartache till Hugh had to warn her that Hepsie might come in.
It was well that Elizabeth's mind was occupied with Hepsie while she
bathed and cooled her swollen eyelids. Long afterward she remembered Hugh
had laid his arm across his white face at that moment, but she was never
to know the fulness of the self-reproach nor the depths of the despair
which Hugh Noland suffered--Hugh, who loved her. For himself, he did not
so much care, being a man and accustomed to the life of men in those
things, but he saw the endless round of her days, carrying with her
through them all the secrecy and shame of it; she who loved openness! If
she had been a woman who looked herself less squarely in the face it would
have been less hard.
"I think I'll talk to Luther too," he said at last. "You couldn't drive
Patsie over for him this evening, could you?" he asked.
Elizabeth looked down at him in surprise as she wiped her hands.
"Why--why, I thought you knew about Patsie," she said hesitatingly.
"Patsie's dead."
"Dead?"
"Yes. She died the night you were hurt. John drove her for Doctor Morgan,"
the girl said, wishing that she could keep the news from him.
After that first startled exclamation Hugh did not remark on the mare's
death; he noticed that Elizabeth never blamed John for things when talking
of him, and he liked her for it.
"What became of the horses that day--the ones on the binder? You kept me
so stupefied at first that I sort of forgot about them."
He forced from her all the vital details of the purchase of the new
horses. After he had received the answers she felt obliged to give he did
not comment upon any feature of the story. They never criticised anything
John did between them; in fact, they rarely mentioned his name, but Hugh
was struck with the necessity of knowing methods and facts regarding the
business and asking such simple questions as he was warranted in asking.
When the discussion was finished he asked again for Luther, and she
promised to get him as soon as possible.
Hugh Noland had a long afternoon to think out the situation into which he
had thrust Elizabeth, for when Elizabeth arrived at Luther's house he had
gone to town and the sun was so hot that she rested before starting home.
Hugh was only disturbed by Hepsie, who came once an hour to give him the
drink necessary when medicine time came around. It was lonesome with
Elizabeth away, but it let him think more clearly. Hugh saw that he had
entangled Elizabeth in a life which contained something altogether
extraneous to her whole character. Because she was perfectly open, the
greater would be the damage which must result to her if this life went on.
One wild moment of hope had been granted him when they had discussed the
possibility of telling John. How well Hugh remembered the searching
thought Elizabeth had given his question before she had shaken her head.
The time taken to think soberly of confession told more plainly than all
her words how much she desired it. The one thing in life which Elizabeth
most disliked was duplicity, and yet so long as he remained an invalid
their relations would be kept up. For this alone he would have been glad
to crawl on his knees to Colebyville, though he died on the way. Something
must be done to free the girl and put her back into a life of which she
could approve. With self-respect restored, Elizabeth was the kind of woman
who would take hold of the merely unpleasant features of her life, and in
time find a way of overcoming them. A plan began to formulate in Hugh
Noland's head.
The next morning Hepsie came and asked for a few days off to get some
needed sewing done. With Hugh's illness and the extra work of it she had
let her own work drag till she felt that she could neglect it no longer.
Elizabeth let her go, thinking guiltily that there would be less danger of
the discovery she seemed to be ever fearing these days. How they had gone
so long without it she could not understand. To get her dinner dishes out
of the way early she put Jack to sleep immediately after they were through
eating and then hurried the dishes so as to get in a long afternoon's
reading. The dishes took a long time in spite of her efforts to hurry.
When at last she did finish she hastened to the bedroom with a glass of
water in her hand. Hugh had been thinking seriously and was worn out with
the tangle of wrongdoing in which he found himself, the solution of which
involved such unsatisfactory changes, and now just weakly wanted to be
loved. He did not speak, but after the tablet was swallowed invited a kiss
by a glance of the eye, and when it was given, drew her head down on his
breast and lay patting it.
Jack had wakened and toddled into the room on his sleepy little legs. The
child staggered over to his mother and laid his head against her arm,
murmuring sleepily:
"Love oo too!"
Elizabeth Hunter sprang to her feet as if a clap of thunder had
unexpectedly sent its report through the hot afternoon air. Her guilty
eyes sought Hugh's. Jack encircled her knees with his fat little arms and,
standing on his tiptoes to be taken, repeated:
"Love oo too!"
There was a noise at the well and Elizabeth, glad of a chance to escape
from the room, went out. John was pumping water over a jug to cool it
before he filled it. The sight of the man who was her husband had a
curious effect on Elizabeth; everything in her, mentally and physically,
became chaotic, her ears buzzed, her temples throbbed, and there was an
inner shrinking which could scarcely be controlled. John had seen her and
waited for her to come out to the well.
When the jug was full, John leaned forward to kiss Jack and a sick sort of
fear took hold of her lest he would offer to kiss her also. His breath
fell hot on her neck as he sought Jack's face on her shoulder, but he did
not offer to kiss her, and she turned away with an unspeakable relief.
"Take Jack and I'll carry the jug out to the boys while you have a chat
with Hugh," Elizabeth said suddenly.
John was very tired, the field where they had been cutting shock corn was
very hot, and the house looked cool and inviting.
"Well, I guess I will."
The jug was heavier than Elizabeth had thought and she sat down to rest on
the way, observing as she did so that Doctor Morgan was driving into the
lane.
"I am not absolved from blame because he scolds," she told herself.
As she thought of her duties in life, Jack's affectionate little speech of
half an hour ago came to mind. Aye! there was the crux of the whole
difficulty. She was Jack's mother! A line of Emerson's which she had read
with Hugh once came to her mind: "In my dealings with my child, my Latin
and my Greek, my accomplishments and my money, stead me nothing. They are
all lost upon him: but as much soul as I have avails." Her whole mind was
taken up with the quotation as soon as it came before her.
"As much soul as I have avails!" Over and over she repeated it, and when
she at last saw John bearing down upon her she got up guiltily and waited
instead of going on with the jug alone.
"Was it too heavy?" he asked. "I'll take it over and come back for you.
Doctor Morgan wants to see you. I'll come back; it's too hot for me; I'm
going to rest."
The cool house had appealed to John Hunter.
At the house Hugh Noland was asking searching questions of the old
doctor.
"When do you intend to let me get out of here, Doctor?" he asked.
"Out of here?" the doctor exclaimed. "Not till you're well enough. Just
what do you mean by 'out of here?'" he asked in return.
"Just what I said. When will I be well enough to go to Mitchell County?"
There was an intensity about it which caught the doctor's attention.
"Now look here, Noland, you won't go to Mitchell County for a year with
such a heart as that--it's too far from your friends, my boy. Be good and
don't you get to worrying. You've got to stand it. Be a man."
Had Doctor Morgan shown any tenderness Hugh Noland would have told him the
real reason for wanting to get away, but something in the banter of being
admonished to be a man took away the thing which made it possible.
"Then can't I be taken into town?" Hugh asked when he had had time to
swallow the bitter pill.
"Into town? Now? Well, not that anybody knows of at this time. Now look
here, you've got a splendid place to stay; why can't you be sensible and
lay here and get well? You worry till I might as well go and turn this
medicine down the gullet of one of Hunter's pigs. Be a man," he repeated,
hoping to whip the discouraged patient into line with good sense.
"It isn't a case of being a man, when a woman's got to take care of you
that had better be taking care of herself," Hugh said bitterly.
"Is Mrs. Hunter getting down on our hands too? That won't do. I'm glad we
sent for her."
Hugh Noland knew that he had played his last card, and he knew that he had
lost. Elizabeth walked in at that moment, followed by John. Doctor Morgan
addressed himself to her, taking her aside while they talked.
"All moonshine, Noland, old boy," he exclaimed when he followed Elizabeth
back to the sickroom a few minutes later. "This girl's as sound as a
dollar. Noland's been thinking he's too much trouble, Mrs. Hunter."
Doctor Morgan saw Hugh Noland's colour die out, and dropped his finger on
the patient's wrist apprehensively. Neither spoke. To change the subject,
and also to get a chance to observe the sick man under less conscious
circumstances, Doctor Morgan addressed John:
"By the way, Hunter, that man you bought the team of got in a pinch and
asked me to shave the note for him. It's all right, is it?"
A sort of electric thrill ran from each to all in the room. Doctor Morgan
understood that he had unwittingly opened Pandora's box; Hugh gave no
sign, but though John answered promptly and positively in the one word,
"Surely," a warning was somehow conveyed to John that this was more than a
merely unfortunate moment. He had been uncomfortable about the note, and
under ordinary circumstances would have been glad to have the first
knowledge of it come to Hugh in the presence of a third party, but now, by
some indefinable thing which was neither sight nor sound, he knew that the
news was not news to Hugh, and by the same intangible, vague thing, by
some prophetic premonition, John knew that this matter of the note was a
disaster.
There was a long pause, finally broken by Hugh.
"Will you be going home by Hansen's to-night, Doctor?"
"I can as well as any other way," the doctor said, glad to hear voices
again.
"Will you ask Hansen to come over in the morning, then?" Hugh asked.
Both Doctor Morgan and John Hunter looked over at Hugh sharply, wondering
what he could want of Luther, but the sick man closed his eyes as a way of
ending the argument. Doctor Morgan dropped his finger on the patient's
wrist again and looked at John warningly:
"I think I'll be going. You stay with Noland, Hunter. I want a word with
Mrs. Hunter before I go. I'll stop at Hansen's, Noland."
Doctor Morgan took Elizabeth out and questioned her closely about the diet
and other important matters, but was able to elicit nothing new.
"I've been encouraged of late," the old doctor said, shaking his head,
"but here he is as bad as ever--that is, as discouraged and restless. Have
you been reading to him lately? What's on his nerves, anyhow?"
When the doctor could get no additional information regarding Hugh's
condition from Elizabeth, he gave it up and turned his attention to the
girl herself.
"I told him you were as fine as a dollar, but I'm not sure about you. I'm
going to bring you a tonic to-morrow. I'll be out in the morning, early,
and I'll try and see him to-morrow night late. I don't like the way he
looked to-night. Say, you don't know what he wants of Hansen do you?"
"No. He asked me to go over yesterday afternoon after him, but Luther
wasn't there and hasn't come in since. It's a busy time and he probably
thought very little of it. Hugh often sends for him. Do you think he's
worse, Doctor?" she asked anxiously.
"No, not specially," the old doctor answered gruffly, as he turned toward
Luther Hansen's house. He was a bit annoyed because he thought Hugh showed
too little backbone, as he termed it.
John Hunter sat long beside the invalid, cut to the quick by the languid
air and shrunken frame. He wanted to talk about the note now that it was
not a secret, but Hugh lay absolutely silent and did not open his eyes
until the lamp was brought in. At that he shifted uneasily and asked that
it be kept in the other room till needed at medicine time. John finally
gave it up and went softly out, convinced that Hugh wanted rest and quiet.
John was broken in many ways by the continued illness for which he felt
himself responsible, and had particularly wanted a chance to talk
to-night.
When all had gone to bed but Elizabeth, Hugh called her to him.
Elizabeth answered the call, but stood at a distance from the bed. It had
come. Hugh had always known it would, but now that it was here it was hard
to face.
"You mean it, I know you do, Elizabeth," he said. "I want you to do it,
but--O God! how hard it's going to be!"
He held out his empty arms to her for a last embrace.
Elizabeth shook her head.
"Now's the time to begin, Hugh. 'Too,' Jack says. That tells the whole
story. I shall pollute his life also. I shall stand, not for what I think
I am, but for what I am, in that child's sight. I reasoned it out when you
were so ill, and I thought this was justifiable, and oh, Hugh! I've
dragged myself down in my own sight and I've dragged you down with me. It
isn't enough for me to seem to be right, I've got to _be_ right," she said
in a low tone, and with added shame because she had to keep her voice from
John's ears--John who slept upstairs and trusted them.
"It would be easier for you, Elizabeth, if I were not here," Hugh Noland
said sadly. "You could kill it out alone."
"But I am not alone. You are here, and have got to help me. Tell me that
you will--at any cost," she leaned forward, and in her eagerness raised
her voice till he pointed upward warningly.
When she had given his medicine without a touch of tenderness, he said to
her:
"You have bid my soul forth. I will give you that help, at any cost."
He made the last sentence stand out, but in her earnestness she did not
notice it or think of it again till it was significant. She went back to
her bed on the sitting-room couch and to the broken rest allowed to those
who watch with the sick.