THE STORM
The blizzard that raged in the Storm Country, the day before Christmas,
was general through the East. Frederick Graves, on his way home for the
Yuletide festivities, had been hampered and delayed by the storm.
Indeed, the Lehigh train almost lost its way among the drifts, and
instead of arriving about supper time, it came limping in late in the
evening. When the much married man stepped off the train at the Ithaca
depot, he moved slowly down the long platform toward the carriage stand.
Waldstricker's coachman met him near the end of the station and relieved
him of his suit case. One glance at the newcomer's emaciated face,
bearing the tell-tale spots of hectic red, told the man why Graves had
been in the mountains.
"Mr. Waldstricker sent me down to meet you, sir," the servant told
Frederick. "Your wife is up to our house and I'm to take you there. It's
a bad night, but I'll get you through all right."
Frederick hesitated a moment before getting into the covered sleigh. He
hadn't calculated to go to Waldstricker's. But the servant's next words
decided him.
"You see, sir, Miss Elsie's lost. She went out this afternoon and hasn't
been seen since; at least, hadn't been found when I left there about
seven o'clock. Mr. Waldstricker's tearing around through the snow like a
wild man and every one at Hayt's is out hunting for her."
Warmly wrapped, Frederick leaned back in the sleigh. While the horses
plodded slowly against the storm up the long hill, he renewed his
meditations and reviewed the course of action he'd determined to follow.
His unsatisfied passion for Tess had grown more insistent during the
months spent alone in the mountains. He'd written her many letters
which had not been answered or returned to him. Indeed, he hadn't heard
of or from her, directly or indirectly, for many weeks. Her failure to
reply to his letters, as well as her hostile attitude, the last time
he'd seen her, he ascribed to Young's influence. That Tessibel had
become actually indifferent to him, he couldn't comprehend at all.
Surely, the love she'd shown him couldn't die! The separation had only
made his passion the greater. It might be that, through his neglect, her
love had grown dormant, but nothing could destroy it. Freed from the
lawyer's control, and in new surroundings, the well remembered sweetness
of their short honeymoon would become a present experience.
He'd been able to secrete, when he'd been in charge of the California
office, considerable sums of money. By careful management, he had
increased his takings to an amount that would be a comfortable fortune
for himself and the squatter girl. There had been no break between him
and Madelene, but he had persuaded himself she would be glad to separate
from him. It was too late to do anything about it tonight, though.
Tomorrow, or the next day, he'd take his dear ones away.
As soon as they were settled in some distant city and were secure from
the elder's wrath, he'd write Madelene. He chuckled grimly to himself at
the thought of their rage when they learned of her anomalous position as
his unmarried wife.
Then, his fancy played about the home he'd have. He pictured Tess moving
through the rooms in the intimacies of domestic life. Almost, so vivid
the picture his passion painted, he held her in his arms. He'd do
wonderful things for the boy. He should have the best education
possible! Lost in his dreams, the time slipped rapidly away, and he
found himself, all at once, in front of his brother-in-law's brilliantly
lighted home.
When he came into the great hall, Madelene hurried out of the library to
meet him. She presented a cool cheek for the customary kiss of greeting
and helped him out of his extra wraps.
"Take off your coat, dear, and come into the library," she urged. "The
man told you about Elsie? But Eb's sure to find her. I'll see about
something to eat while you're getting thawed out."
She bustled off to the kitchen and her husband went into the library and
dropped into a chair before the grate.
When Madelene came back, she stopped by the table impressed, suddenly,
by the pathetic weariness of his appearance. The change in him startled
her and reawakened all the love she'd ever felt for him. In addition,
there was, in her affection for the sick man, an element of maternal
devotion, as though the unsatisfied desires of her empty arms demanded
him. She crossed the room and seated herself on the arm of his chair.
"Fred, dear," she said, "you must have had an awful trip. Now, that I
have you home again, I'm going to look after you, myself."
One after another, she noted the symptoms of decay and dissolution
presented. His clothes no longer fitted but hung, bag-like, upon his
emaciated frame. His shoulders were stooped and his chest sunken. The
high linen collar he'd always been so particular about, no longer set
close to a shapely neck, but sagged away from the taut cords below his
bony jaw and chin. She lifted one of his hands and stared, through the
tears that welled into her eyes, at the claw-like fingers resting in
hers. Her husband's pitiful plight completely softened her heart and
wiped away the memory of her jealousy and dissatisfaction with him. He
needed her, now, and everything that love could do for him, she'd give
him.
Lifting his fingers to her lips, they sat, thus, in silence, before the
log fire until Frederick withdrew his hand and let it fall into his lap.
Madelene shifted her position a little and slipped one arm around his
neck. Although somewhat amazed at the demonstration, Frederick submitted
to the caresses and found in them something of peace.
"I'm awfully sorry, Fred," she whispered, after the lapse of a few
moments. "Let's begin again and do better. I do love you, so. Put your
arms around me and tell me you'll forgive and forget."
Convinced that it was easier to humor his wife's soft mood than to risk
the strain of repulsing her, Frederick slipped his arms around her and
held her close.
"There's nothing to forgive, Madie," he muttered. "I've been awful
selfish and I'm paying the penalty, that's all. You better let me go and
forget me."
Supposing he referred to his approaching death, Madelene cried out
sharply, in protest.
"No, no, Fred, you mustn't say such things. You make me feel like a
murderess."
She wound her arms tightly around him and kissed him stormily.
"I love you and you love me," she continued. "That's all there is to it.
We'll be happy, yet!"
For a few moments, she rested in his embrace, happier than she'd been in
many a long day. Then, she disengaged herself and stood up.
"Come, dear," she smiled, "your supper is ready."
After he was seated at the table, she told him of the quarrel between
her brother and his wife, of the loss of Elsie and the search then going
on.
"Helen's most crazy," she concluded. "She's lying down, now. I gave her
a powder and I think she's sleeping."
Frederick toyed with the food before him. He made occasional
monosyllabic comments that kept the running fire of his wife's chatter
going. Unable to pretend to eat more, he leaned back in his chair.
"I'm not much of an eater," he smiled, "but I've enjoyed your lunch very
much."
The sound of steps on the stairs interrupted him.
"Hark, Fred!" his wife exclaimed. "That's Helen, now."
Together they left the dining room and went to the library, where Mrs.
Waldstricker had preceded them.
Helen's distraught manner prevented anything like a conventional welcome
to her brother-in-law. After Frederick had expressed his sympathy for
her anxiety about Elsie and tried to quiet her fears, Madelene carried
him off to his room. When she had seen to the details for his comfort,
she returned to the library to share Mrs. Waldstricker's vigil.
Frederick found, when he was left alone, that he was in no mood for bed.
He was too tired to sleep, too nervous to be quiet anywhere. It seemed
to him as though there were some unusual quality in the air, some
mysterious whispering to his inner consciousness. He felt vaguely
excited. He tried to read but the words conveyed to him no meaning. To
an extent never before experienced, possibly because he was again in the
Storm Country, he wanted Tess. After a time, he heard the banging of the
front door downstairs and confused cries in the hall, but paid little
attention to them. In the silence that succeeded, the narrow walls of
the bedroom became unbearably close. He'd go downstairs to the library.
It might be he'd be able to rest in a chair before the log fire.