POLLY.
I thought when I was out in the street I would go and see Mother Hayne.
I would like to know how this matter of the house seemed to a woman who
had been a wife many years. Yet her husband had not taken pains to make
any special provision for her. Why should a wife then provide for her
husband? I felt ill and perplexed.
Her face was radiant. She clasped me in her arms and kissed me again
and again.
"Do people ever go crazy with joy?" she cried, and there was the
wonderful sound in her voice that comes from a full heart, satisfied to
the utmost. "I've read this letter over and over again. Norman is coming
home!"
Was he going to bring a wife? I wondered in a dull manner, but I uttered
no word.
"You must read it. I can't begin to tell you. Norman has won his good
fortune, for I know he has been the best of sons to that poor old man.
And now he comes back to us. Read! read!"
She thrust the letter into my hand and sat down, wiping the tears
from her face with her apron, smiling through them, her face fairly
transfigured and looking almost like a girl. I stared at her, the
transformation was so wonderful.
"Read! read!" she cried impatiently.
In the previous letter he had written to his mother he had spoken of a
rather severe illness that had attacked Mr. Le Moyne. It had not made
any special impression on me. But here in the very beginning—and they
had gone to one of the pretty coast watering places where, though he
was quite feeble, he seemed to recuperate. No one had felt especially
alarmed when he had a slight recurrence, and for a few days he had
seemed not to lose ground. Then there had occurred a sudden collapse of
all the vital energies and in twenty-four hours he had passed away. But
he had kept some sight to the last. It had been a horror to him lest he
might have to be led about, and he had prayed to go before that time.
And though Norman would miss one who had been the kindest of friends,
indeed a father to him, he had lived out the allotted span, and had his
wish granted.
Part of the letter had been written while they were making arrangements
to go to Paris. His family slept in Père la Chaise, and he would be laid
beside them. There was much in the tender regard and sorrow that brought
tears to my own eyes.
Arrived at Paris he had found a great deal to do. Mr. Le Moyne's papers
were in the safe of a notary. All the arrangements had been made to
a letter. He had left quite a large fortune. There were some distant
relatives remembered, he had been generous to the oculist who had
prolonged his failing sight, to his numerous friends, doubly generous to
him, Norman, and the residue had gone to charity. As soon as he could
get through with his part of the business he should fly home at once,
though the probabilities were that he would have to go back again. But
he was dying for a sight of the dear ones, especially his mother in her
sorrow.
It was indeed a heart-appealing letter. We both cried over it, yet
it gave us a great sense of joy. I forgot my own troubles entirely,
and though she was fain to keep me I hurried off home. They were just
sitting down to dinner.
"Oh, Dan," I cried, "your mother has heard such news. Mr. Le Moyne is
dead and Norman is coming home. He has been left quite a fortune. She
wants you to come down and read the letter."
"Hello! That _is_ news. And a fortune! The Haynes are looking up. Well,
I suppose Norman is so Frenchified and full of airs that he will give
Chicago the go-by. No word of his marrying? Mother doesn't seem to
accumulate daughters-in-law very fast."
Father was interested as well. When Dan rose to go he said pleasantly,
with what sounded like desire in his voice—
"Ruth, don't you want to go out for a drive this afternoon? There's such
a fine breeze and the sun isn't over hot."
Was there really a smile on his face? My heart leaped up in gladness
and I answered joyfully.
Father and I talked quite a while afterward. He was glad to see Dan so
cordial. I could not tell him what I had heard. And yet might it not
have been mere gossip?
He had made several ill-natured flings about the house, but no real
complaint again. I do not suppose he knew about the will. I was glad
and thankful to have him pleasant, and to ask me to go out with him.
And yet as I sat there waiting, so as not to detain him, my heart went
down again and I questioned his motive, feeling that it was terrible
for a wife to do that. How had I lost faith? How had I come to have this
mysterious outlook so dark and full of fear?
He was bright and smiling when he came. It was a perfect summer
afternoon and the air was fragrant with the growing crops, beautiful and
peaceful too. A golden light hovered over all, making subtle waves in
the air, and then followed the rose-colored suggestion of coming sunset,
as if to herald the brighter glow. Dan had been very pleasant, jolly,
finding so many amusing incidents. To me there was a sort of sweetening
of perceptions, a sense down deep in my consciousness that matters would
go better. What if he had taken Polly out to ride one night, what if he
had called there occasionally? I was his wife, and if he had been vexed
about things he _must_ love me, since we were to go on to our life's
end. And no matter how hard it was, I _must_ love him. It seemed as if
I had never known how high and solemn a thing love was until now.
When Dan lifted me out of the buggy he kissed me and said, "Have you
had a nice time, Little Girl?"
"Oh, Dan!" I hugged his arm. There didn't seem any word in my vocabulary
strong enough to express my satisfaction.
I remember he played checkers that night with father, losing the first
game, winning the second, but father captured the rubber.
"I'm getting rusty," he laughed. "I must brush up. Now let us have a
game of cards."
There were several new games. I took a hand with them. When Dan went
out to see if Chita and Duke were all right, father said:
"Dan hasn't been drinking for several days. If he could realize how much
more of a man he is when he lets whiskey pretty well alone, I think he'd
drop it. It was quite like old times to-night, wasn't it, Little Girl?"
My heart was so full that I could only kiss father. Both of them had
called me "Little Girl."
I was so comfortable that I dismissed all thoughts of Polly. Indeed,
Norman's return was the great theme of conversation, and most people
were speculating on how much of a fortune he would have. Mr. Harris
had dropped into quite an old man and his hair was snowy white. He took
great credit to himself for starting Norman on the road, as he phrased
it, and talked over all the early times with father. Oh, how fascinating
they were!
I had given up corresponding with Norman, given up my French also. I had
written several times after my marriage, but I must confess Norman's
letters had lost something of their charm. He used to say, "Do you
remember this or that, the walk we took here, the talk about such a poem
or such a legend?" He had left off all these references.
"Why do you have to write to Norman?" Dan said on one occasion. "Can't
you hear all the news from mother? And I should think the letters must
be mostly repetitions."
"Why, I don't _have_ to," I said laughingly.
Then I began to send messages in his mother's letters. She used to write
them in journal fashion, and it was quite a labor. Once she said, "I do
grudge postage for such clumsy packets, or I should if Norman didn't
send it every now and then, twice more than I can use." It was very
sweet of him.
Every day I thought of his return. He was twenty-nine now. How would he
look? not like Homer—I wanted him to have his own individuality.
We went on very comfortably. Dan looked after business better, though
he made some trips away—two or three days at a time. I said to Sophie,
"I think that about Polly was awful gossip. Dan does stay at home a good
deal."
She shook her head dubiously. "It came very straight to me. But Polly
has been away some latterly. I suppose we will presently see her
blossoming out of widow's weeds, and she'll capture some one with money
again. You mark my words."
There was one point Dan did not try to overcome. He did not, would not,
like young John, who was doing well and a favorite with his employers.
He remarked it.
"Cousin Ruth," he asked, one of the Sundays he was specially invited,
which meant that Dan would not be at home, "why does Mr. Hayne dislike
me so? I don't do anything to him. Is it because your father does a
little in a money way for me? I mean to pay it all back as I get along.
And the house is uncle's, I suppose? I'm not going to ask anything
outright. You've both been so kind, and sometimes I feel as if I rather
sneaked in, don't you know," and there was a perplexed light in his
eyes.
"Nonsense!" I returned decidedly. "He used to be curt to his own brother
Ben at times. Men who have to order others about and swear at cattle
and all that get brusque ways."
"You see _my_ brother didn't like to have me round, why I never could
quite tell, unless he thought mother was taking a double share out of
the farm, and I worked like a trooper out of school hours. I've seen
just the same look in Mr. Hayne's eyes."
"You come for father's sake," I made answer.
Nevertheless, I had some misgivings. I seemed to be leading a double
life. I was smoothing out the thorns and crookedness between father and
Dan, I was having this pleasant young fellow on the sly. Sometimes I
had a strong mind to ask father to change the deed of the house and let
Dan have it when I died. But on the other hand, Dan was spending money
freely everywhere. He did bet on games and cards, and on the Indian
races. He gave a supper to the men occasionally. Of course, he always
won on Chita, perhaps on other risks. He was very free handed.
Father had so few wants, and no extravagances. Surely he had the right
to spend a little on his own kin.
Oh, how I did want a friend in these days. I wished at times that I was
a Catholic and could go to confession. Père Saint Palais was so lovely,
and his voice had that beguiling winsomeness that I longed to have it
comfort me, set me straight. For I was beginning to feel there was a
great hard wall between Dan and me. I tried my best to love him. Oh,
what was love!
Yet, some of the wives I knew had fallen into a settled routine, I was
going to say indifference. They kept their houses well, looked after
their babies. Their husbands went out in the evenings to smoke or talk
politics, trade, crops, and they ran into a neighbor's to gossip. Why
could not these things satisfy me? There were sudden impulses that led
me to kiss Dan, to almost beg that he would love me as he had in those
first few years, when I did not really want it. Perhaps I had tired out
his love. Mother was sure married people "settled."
I knew father was watching me very closely. I tried to hide my thoughts
with a girlish gayety. It occurred to me more than once that I might
have to choose between Dan and father, and in my secret heart I knew I
should go with father.
Polly was beginning to crawl out of her seclusion a little. I met her
one day at the bookstore where I was buying some articles for father.
I could not understand why she should color up so. She really did look
enchanting with the bit of lisse roll to her widow's cap inside the
bonnet, often called Marie Stuart. She had a "book muslin" collar worked
with black and little turn-over cuffs of the same material. Her white
skin and her wavy hair, her full red lips with their tempting curves
almost fascinated me. Did Dan ever kiss her? I wondered. Could she take
a man "straight to the devil?" I shuddered.
"You don't look well," she began in her mellifluous tones. "You are
thin and pale. Do you know I used to think you were quite a pretty
little girl, but I suppose we all do go off some," laughing. "I tell
mother I never want to be a horrid-looking old woman like granny. Wasn't
she frightful? So I hope I'll die somewhere along middle life, when I
can make a decent-looking corpse. And Norman's coming home! Don't you
suppose if Norman had stayed here you would have married him instead of
Dan?"
"I think Dan made me marry him," I gasped, as if the words were wrested
from me.
"He's awfully imperious, isn't he? I suppose you give in to his whims,
but the way to keep your charm over such a man is to deny him, to
dispute with him—up-and-down quarrels, and the making up is delicious!
Marriage is queer, isn't it, and the wrong people do get together! Is
the old couplet true—
"'There's a house 'tother side of the way,
And there they make Lucifer matches?'"
Another customer entered, and Polly turned to her. My parcel came. I
paid for it and went out.
If Norman had not gone away would I have married him?
I did not know anything about marriage in that innocent childhood.
Norman staying right along, and we growing nearer each other, reading
the same books, enjoying thrilling or tender verses, walks and talks,
and then—I knew there would not have been any repulsion, that I should
have been glad, glad with supreme joy, just as Sophie had been.
I laid the package down on the table. Father was in his office, but I
could not go in. I went up to our room, took off my bonnet and glanced
around. Dan had been in and changed his clothes. Trousers thrown over a
chair, collar and stock on the bureau, shoes and a soiled handkerchief
on the floor. Dan had gone off somewhere. The most curious repulsion
came over me. I could not touch one article to put them away. Oh, if I
could run away somewhere—but there was father. Keeping together "as long
as ye both do live."
"Ruth!" called father.
It might have been minutes or hours, it seemed an endless while to me.
"Did you get the paper? Come down. I want to make out some bills. Dan's
gone to Batavia for two days, left his good-by. Why, Ruth, you look like
a ghost, what is the matter?"
"Do I?" I tried to laugh, but my mouth was stiff, and I felt numb all
over. "I don't think it anything. I may have walked too fast. The sun
is hot."
He put me in the big rocking chair. I picked up a fan. I was cold
enough, Heaven knew, but I wanted to make some movement.
"Ruth, I think you are not well. You grow thinner all the time, and
you have no flesh to lose. We must have the doctor. Child, I have been
comforting myself that matters were better with you——"
His kindly eyes were full of solicitude.
I made a great effort. "If you mean with Dan," I said, "they are. He is
much pleasanter. I think he has gotten over the trouble about the house,
though sometimes I have wondered whether he might not have it when I am
gone."
"No," father replied, almost with set teeth. "You need not go for that.
I'm not sure but it would be better for you to deed it back to me. Still
if things go on, well——"
He hobbled to the closet and brought me some wine. That refreshed
me. Then he opened the package, made out some bills, straightened his
accounts when it was supper-time.
John came over in the evening, and father would keep him all night.
I felt quite as well as usual. When I went upstairs I laid the soiled
things away, hung up his trousers, but his vest fell to the floor, and
his knife and pencil rolled out with a bit of paper. I put the two back,
crumpled up the paper, then bethought myself it might be a memorandum
of something and spread it out, took it over to the candle. It was a
pencil scrawl.
"You will find me at Weesaukie's lodge at twilight." It was not Dan's
writing.
There was no name. He had taken Duke and gone in the buggy. Was he to
have a companion? It turned me sick and cold again. Polly's glittering,
mocking eyes and her insolent tones with their half veiled gayety swept
over me. Was it—would it be Polly? Oh, no, no, Dan could not do such a
thing as that!
For all Polly's brave show of mourning it was whispered that her married
life had not been altogether serene, and that she made little ado about
the loss of her grandeur.
All night something haunted me, a kind of impersonal agency,
treacherous, trying to lure me somewhere in darkness and vagueness,
while I had to make a great effort to hold back. And then I was
wandering over wild, dreary prairie land, at last coming out to a
strange black, silent lake. What splashed into it? The cry woke me, and
my heart beat with a great terror.
"John," I said to the young cousin, "I want you to go down to the
Morrison house this noon and take a note, but do not give it to any one
except Polly. If she isn't home, and she may not be, you say it is all
right, and be sure to bring the note back to me. Don't leave your name
or anything. Come back to-night."
It was a daring thing if Polly was home.
I busied myself about household duties, and in the afternoon a neighbor
came in with her two little ones. What made every one so anxious to know
how much fortune Norman would have? Still I was glad of the break, for
father had gone out to look after the men. The weather was fine and he
was anxious to get in some of the crops. Then he took a rest in his easy
chair.
I walked down the street a short distance. John came hurrying along
whistling, but stopped, thrust his hand in his pocket.
"She wasn't home, Cousin Ruth. The woman wanted the note, but I wouldn't
give it to her. She told me to come on Friday."
"Yes," I returned breathlessly. "Do not mention it to father," and I
took the missive.
Then Polly was away as well!
Dan came home late Friday night, good natured, bustling, and announced
that he must start early the next morning for Galena on some important
business. He hoped I had not missed him much. He was sorry to go away at
this busy season, but he would make it all right with father. Indeed, he
began to think with so much business of his own they would really need
a regular overseer.
"Now if that Gaynor boy was four or five years older, he might come."
I was thunderstruck. "I thought you did not like him," I half faltered.
"I don't, but your father seems to like him."
The tone was rather sarcastic. I made no reply. I was glad he did not
proffer me so much as a kiss. In five minutes he was asleep.
So to Galena he went the next morning after a brief colloquy with father.
"I'd like to know what's got into Dan Hayne," father said, almost
angrily. "I s'pose he's had a streak of luck somewhere, he's gay as a
lark, but he is sober enough, and I'm pretty sure he hasn't been off on
a carouse. I suppose it is all right between you?" studying me sharply.
"It was all pleasant, if that is what you mean."
He nodded, but did not look satisfied.
"I'll have to hunt up Jake Esden—and I suppose he will be too busy
to lend a hand. This kind of weather can't last. If I wasn't such a
battered old hulk!"
I clasped my arms around his neck, but I did not sigh nor sob, though
both rose in my heart. Whatever came it would be we two.
"We'll have a week to ourselves anyhow," he said, in a gratified tone.
A week in which to be glad that the husband of one's life would be away.
What a bitter travesty it was. But this time Polly was home, making
preparations to go to Vincennes for quite a stay.