THE OUTLOOK
Doctor Barnes was making ready to depart when Sim Gage came in at the
gate with his load of logs. They exchanged greetings, Sim regarding
his visitor rather closely.
"We've just got back from fishing," said Doctor Barnes.
"Yes, I seen you both, down in the medders."
"We had one grand time, brother. Look here." He opened the lid of his
basket.
"All right," said Sim. "We'll cook 'em for supper. Some folks like
'em. There's need for about everything we can get. I reckon God's
forgot us all right."
"Cheer up!" rejoined his guest. "I was just thinking God was in His
heaven to-day. Well, thank you, old man, for that fishing. That's the
finest grayling water in the whole world. I've lost my bet with you.
May I come up again some time?"
"Yes," said Sim Sage, "sometimes,--when you know I'm around. Come
again," he added, somewhat formally, as they shook hands. "I'll be
around."
He turned toward his house as soon as he saw the car well off in the
lane. He found his wife sitting with her face turned toward the window.
"He's just about going around the corner now," said she, following the
sound of the car. And then, presently, "And how are you, sir? You've
been gone a long while."
Sim had seated himself awkwardly on a chair, his hat on his knee.
"Have a good time down in the medder?" he asked presently. "He told me
you was fishing."
"Oh, yes, and we caught some whoppers too. They'll be good to eat, I'm
sure."
"Yes, I expect you'll like them." He seemed for some reason less than
ordinarily loquacious, and suddenly she felt it.
"Tell me," said she, turning squarely towards him with a summoning of
her own courage. "Why are you away all the time? It's been more than
a week, and I've hardly seen you. You're away all the time. Am I
doing wrong in any way?"
"Why, no."
"I don't mean to cry--it's just because I'm not used to things yet.
It's hard to be blind. But--I meant all I said--then. Don't you
believe me?"
"I know you did," said he, simply. But still the awkward silence, and
still her attempt to set things more at ease.
"Why don't you come over here close to me?" said she, with an attempt
dutiful at least. "How can I tell anything about you? You've never
even touched me yet, nor I you. You've never even--I've never had any
real notion of how you look, what you are like. I never saw your
picture. It was an awful thing of me to do."
"Are you sorry?"
"But any woman wants to see her husband, to know what he is, what he
looks like. I can't tell you how I wonder. And I don't seem to
know--and can't learn. Tell me _about_ yourself, won't you? What sort
of looking man are you? What are you like?"
"I ain't like nothing much," said Sim Gage. "I ain't much for looks.
Of course, I suppose women do kind of want to know what men folks is
like, that way. I hadn't thought of that, me being so busy--and me
being so pleased just to look at you, and not even thinking of your
looking at me." He struggled in saying these words, so brave for Sim
Gage to venture.
"Yes? Can't you go on?"
"I ain't so tall as some, but I'm rather broad out, and right strong at
that. My eyes is sort of dark, like, with long lashes, now, and I got
dark hair, in a way of speaking--and I got good features. I dunno as I
can say much more." Surely he had been guilty of falsehood enough for
one effort. But he did not know he lied, so eager was he to have favor
in her eyes.
"That's fine!" said she. "I knew all along you were a fine-looking
man--the Western type. We women all admire it, don't you know? And
I'd like to see you in the Western dress too. I always liked that.
But, tell me, what can you do? What do you do? Do you read out here
much? Do you have anything in the way of music? I used to play the
piano a little."
Sim moved about awkwardly on his chair. "I ain't got around to getting
another pianny since I moved in here. Maybe we can, some day, after
the hay gets turned. I used to play the fiddle some, but I ain't got
no fiddle now, neither. Some play the fiddle better'n what I do. A
mouth harp's a good thing when you're alone a good deal. Most any one
can play a mouth harp some. Lots of fellers do out here, nights, of
winters."
"Is there anything else you can do?" she asked, bravely, now. The
utter bleak barrenness of the man and his life came home to her,
struggling with her gratitude, her sense of duty.
He thought for a time before he spoke. "Why, yes, several things, and
I'm sorry you can't see them things, too. For instance, I can tie a
strong string around my arm, and bust it, just doubling up my muscle.
I'm right strong."
"That's fine!" said she. "Isn't it odd? What else, then?" She smiled
so bravely that he did not suspect. "Mayn't I feel the muscle on your
arm?"
Hesitatingly, groping, she did put out her hand. By chance, as he
shifted back, afraid of her hand, it touched the coarse fabric of his
shirt sleeve. Had it fallen further she might have felt his arm, bare;
might have discovered the sleeve itself to be ragged and fringed with
long-continued use. But she did not know.
"Oh, you're just in your working clothes, aren't you?" she said. "So
this is the West I used to read about," she said musing. "Everything
Western--even the way you talk. Not like the people back East that I
used to know. Is every one out here like you?"
"No, not exactly, maybe," said he. "Like I said, you'd get tired of
looking at me if that's all there was to do."
She broke out into laughter, wholly hysterical, which he did not in the
least understand. He knew the tragedy of her blindness, but did not
know that he himself was tragic.
"You are odd," said she. "You've made me laugh." She both laughed and
wept.
"You see, it's this way," he went on eagerly. "It's all right in the
summer time, when you can get out of doors, and the weather is
pleasant, like it is now. But in the winter time--_that's_ when it
gets lonesome! The snow'll be eight feet deep all around here. We
have to go on snow shoes all the winter through. Now, if we was shut
in here alone together--or if you was shut in here all by yourself, and
still lonesomer, me being over in the other house mostly--the evenings
would seem awful long. They always used to, to me."
She could not answer at all. A terrible picture was coming before her.
He struggled on.
"If that Annie Squires girl came out here, she'd be a lot of help. But
how can you tell whether she'd stay all winter? That's the trouble
with women folks--you can't tell what they'll do. She wouldn't want to
stay here long unless she was settled down some way, would she? She
ain't married, like you, ma'am. She might get restless, like enough,
wouldn't she?"
"I don't know," said Mary Gage, suddenly turning away. She felt a vast
cloud settling down upon her. Ten days? She had been married ten
days! What would ten years mean?
"I wish I didn't have to think at all," said she, her lips trembling.
"So do I, ma'am," said Sim Gage to his lawful wedded wife with engaging
candor. "I sure do wish that."