Ruth Holland stood at the window looking out at Colorado in January. The
wide valley was buried under snow. It was late afternoon and the sun was
passing behind the western mountains. From the window where she stood
she could not see the western mountains, but the sunset colors had been
thrown over to the eastern range, some fifty miles away. When she first
came there, five years before, it had seemed strange to find the east
lighted at sunset, more luminous than the west. The eastern range was a
mighty one. Now there was snow down to its feet and there was no warmth
in the colors that lighted it. They only seemed to reveal that the
mountains were frozen. It would not have seemed possible for red--those
mountains had been named Sangre de Cristo because they went red at
sunset--to be so dazzling cold. The lighted snow brought out the contour
of the mountains. They were wonderfully beautiful so, but the woman
looking out at them was not thinking of them as beautiful. She was
thinking of them as monuments of coldness. To her it was as if they had
locked that valley in to merciless cold.
But it was not the sunset colors that really marked coming night for
her. All through that winter something else had marked night, something
she tried to keep from looking out at, but which she was not able to
hold away from. She was looking at it now, looking off into the
adjoining field where the sheep were huddling for the night.
They had begun their huddling some time before. With the first dimming
of the light, the first wave of new cold that meant coming night, a few
of them would get together; others would gather around them, then more
and more. Now there was the struggle not to be left on the outside. The
outer ones were pushing toward the center; they knew by other nights
that this night would be frigid, that they could only keep alive by that
warmth they could get from one another. Yet there were always some that
must make that outer rim of the big circle, must be left there to the
unbroken cold. She watched them; it had become a terrible thing for her
to see, but she could not keep from looking. Many of those unprotected
sheep had died that bitter winter; others would die before spring came.
It was a cruel country, a country of cold.
That was their flock of sheep. They had been driven there the summer
before from the lambing grounds in the mountains. The day they got there
the lambs were exhausted from the long journey. One of them had dropped
before the house and died right there beside the field it had come the
long way to gain. Her efforts to revive it were useless; the little
thing was worn out. They were all of them close to worn out. And now
they had the winter to fight; night after night she watched them
huddling there, the big pitiful mass of them out in the bitter cold. It
was the way of the country to leave them so; the only way, the sheep men
said, that sheep could be made to pay. They estimated that the loss by
freezing was small compared with what would be the cost of shelter for
droves that ran into thousands, into tens of thousands.
Ruth would wake at night and think of them huddled out there, would lie
thinking of them as she drew the covers around herself, think of them
when the wind drove against the house, and often, as tonight, when it
was every instant growing colder, she wondered if what was before them
filled them with terror. Sometimes she could not keep away and went
nearer and looked at them; they were unbearably pitiful to her, their
necks wrapped around each other's necks, trying to get from one another
the only warmth there was for them, so helpless, so patient, they,
play-loving creatures, gentle things, bearing these lives that men might
finally use them for clothing and for food. There were times when the
pathos of them was a thing she could not bear. They seemed to represent
the whole cruelty of life, made real to her the terrible suffering of
the world that winter of the war.
She watched the sheep until the quick dusk had fallen, and then stood
thinking of them huddled over there in the frigid darkness. When she
found that her face was wet and realized that she had sobbed aloud she
turned from the window to the stove, drew a chair up close to it and put
her feet on the fender. It was so bitterly cold that the room was warm
only near the stove; over there by the window she had grown chilled. And
as the heat enveloped her ankles she thought of the legs of those poor
frightened things that had been the last comers and not able to get to
the inside of the circle--that living outer rim which was left all
exposed to the frigid January night in that high mountain valley. She
could feel the cold cutting against their legs, could see their
trembling and their vain, frantic efforts to get within the solidly
packed mass. She was crying, and she said to herself, her fingers
clenched down into her palm, "_Stop that! Stop that!_" She did not know
what might not happen to her if she were unable to stop such thinking as
that.
To try and force herself away from it she got up and lighted a lamp. She
looked about on her desk for a magazine she had put there. She would
make herself read something while waiting for Stuart. He had had to
drive into town. He would be almost frozen when he got back from that
two-mile drive. She paused in her search for the magazine and went into
the kitchen to make sure that the fire there was going well. Then she
put some potatoes in to bake; baked potatoes were hot things--they would
be good after that drive. The heat from the oven poured out to her, and
it swept her again to the thought of the living huddled mass out there
in the frigid darkness. The wind beat against the house; it was beating
against them. She bit her lip hard and again she said to
herself--"_No!_"
She made some other preparations for supper. She had those things to do
herself now. The Chinaman Ted had brought home with him in the fall had
left in December. He had appeared before her ready for leaving and had
calmly said, "Cold here, missis. And too all alone. Me go where more
others are." She had said nothing at all in reply to him, in protest,
too held by what he had said--"Cold here, and too all alone!" She had
stood at the window and watched him going up the road toward town, going
where "more others" were.
She went back now into their main room; it was both living and dining
room these days, for since the extreme cold had fastened on them they
had abandoned their two little upstairs bedrooms and taken for sleeping
the room which in summer was used as living-room. That could be heated a
little by leaving the door open, and it had seemed out of the question
to go to bed in those upstairs rooms where the cold had been left
untouched. Since they had been doing their own work all extra things had
had to be cut down; an upstairs fire would mean more work, and it seemed
there was already more work than Ruth could get done and have time for
anything else. She was tired all the time these days; she would think
during the day of the good time she was going to have with a book that
evening, and then night would find her so tired she could scarcely keep
awake, and she would huddle there before the fire, dreading the cold of
the night.
Life had reduced itself to necessities; things had to be ruthlessly
rearranged for meeting conditions. She loved her own room to sleep in.
She needed it. But she had given that up because it was too cold,
because she could not do any more work. There was something that made
her cringe in the thought of their sharing a bed, not because of love of
being together, but because of the necessity of fighting the cold. And
it made crowded quarters downstairs. She began "picking up" the room
now. Things were piled up on the sewing machine, on the reading table.
It seemed impossible to keep them put away. She tried hard to keep the
room an attractive place to sit in, but it was in disorder, uninviting,
most of the time. Often, after doing the kitchen work, she would clean
it all up with the idea of making it attractive to sit in, then would be
too utterly tired to enjoy it. She lagged in putting things away now;
she would stand holding them helplessly, not knowing where to put them;
she got sick of it and just threw some of them into a closet, anything
to get them out of sight for the time. She knew that was not the way to
do, that it would make it harder another time. She felt like crying. It
seemed things had got ahead of her, that she was swamped by them, and
somehow she did not have the spirit, or the strength, to get a new
start, make a new plan.
Finally she had the room looking a little less slovenly, not so sordid,
and was about to sit down with her magazine. But the lamp was
flickering, and then she remembered that she had not filled it that day.
She picked the lamp up and slowly, drooping, started for the kitchen.
She gave the can an angry little tilt and the oil overflowed on the
table. She was biting her lips as she went about looking for a cloth to
wipe it up. She heard sleigh bells and knew Stuart was coming. Hastily
she washed the oil from her hands, she always hated herself when her
hands smelled of kerosene, and began getting things ready for supper.
Stuart came hurrying and stamping in after putting the horse away,
quickly banging the door shut and standing there pounding his feet and
rubbing his stiffened hands.
"Fearfully cold?" she inquired, hurriedly getting out the box of codfish
she was going to cream for their supper.
"Cold!" he scoffed, as if in scorn for the inadequacy of the word. After
a minute he came up to the stove. "I was afraid," he said, holding his
right hand in his left, "that it had got these fingers."
He took off his big bear-skin coat. A package he had taken from the
pocket of it he threw over on the kitchen table. "Don't throw the bacon
there, Stuart," hurriedly advised Ruth, busy with the cream sauce she
was making, "I've just spilled oil there."
"Heavens!" he said irritably, shoving the bacon farther back.
His tone made Ruth's hand tremble. "If you think I'm so careless you
might fill the lamps yourself," she said tremulously.
"Who said you were careless?" he muttered. He went in the other room and
after a minute called out, as one trying to be pleasant, "What we going
to have for supper?"
"Creamed codfish," she told him.
"For a little change!" he said, under his breath.
"I don't think that's very kind, Stuart," she called back, quiveringly.
"It's not so simple a matter to have 'changes' here now."
"Oh, I know it," he said, wearily.
She brought the things in and they began the meal in silence. She had
not taken time to lay the table properly. Things were not so placed as
to make them attractive. Stuart tasted a piece of bread and then hastily
put it aside, not concealing a grimace of distaste. "What's the matter?"
Ruth asked sharply.
"I don't seem to care much for bread and oil," he said in a voice it was
plainly an effort to make light.
Ruth's eyes filled. She picked up the plate of bread and took it to the
kitchen. Stuart rose and went after her. "I'll get some more bread,
Ruth," he said kindly. "Guess you're tired tonight, aren't you?"
She turned away from him and took a drink of water. Then she made a big
effort for control and went to the dining-room. She asked some questions
about town and they talked in a perfunctory way until supper was over.
He had brought papers and a couple of letters from town. Ruth was out in
the kitchen doing the dishes when she heard a queer exclamation from
him. "What is it, Stuart?" it made her ask quickly, going to the
dining-room door with the cup she was wiping.
He gave her a strange look; and then suddenly he laughed. "What _is_
it?" the laugh made her repeat in quick, sharp voice.
"Well, you'll never guess!" he said.
She frowned and stood there waiting.
"Marion's going to get a divorce." He looked at her as if he did not
believe what he said.
Ruth put her hand out to the casement of the door. "She _is_?" she said
dully.
He held up a legal looking paper. "Official notice," he said. Then
suddenly he threw the thing over on the table and with a short hard
laugh pulled his chair around to the fire. Ruth stood a moment looking
at it lying there. Then she turned and went back to the dishes. When she
returned to the living-room the paper still lay there on the table. She
had some darning to do and she got out her things and sat down, chair
turned to one side, not facing the legal looking document.
After a little while Stuart, who had been figuring in a memorandum book,
yawned and said he guessed he'd go to bed. He shook down the fire, then
got up and picked up the paper from the table, folded it and took it
over to the big desk in the corner where his business things were.
"Well, Ruth," he remarked, "this would have meant a good deal to us ten
or twelve years ago, wouldn't it?"
She nodded, her head bent over the sock she was darning.
"Oh, well," he said, after a pause, "maybe it will help some even yet."
She made no answer.
"I suppose Marion wants to get married," he went on meditatively, after
a moment adding bitterly, "Her wanting it is the only thing that would
ever make her do it."
He went down cellar for coal, and after he had filled the stove began
undressing before it. When ready for bed he sat there a little before
the fire, as if taking in all the heat he could for the night. Ruth had
finished her darning and was putting the things away. "Coming to bed?"
he asked of her.
"Not right away," she said, her voice restrained.
"Better not try to sit up late, Ruth," he said kindly. "You need plenty
of sleep. I notice you're often pretty tired at night."
She did not reply, putting things in the machine drawer. Her back was to
him. "Well, Ruth," he said, in a voice genial but slightly ironic, "we
can get married now."
She went on doing things and still did not speak.
"Better late than never," he said pleasantly, yawning.
He stood up, ready for going into the bedroom, but still hating to leave
the fire, standing there with his back to it. "When shall we get
married, Ruth?" he went on, in a slightly amused voice.
"Oh, I don't know, Stuart," she replied shortly from the kitchen.
"Have to plan it out," he said sleepily, yawning once more. Then he
laughed, as if the idea more and more amused him. After that he
murmured, in the voice of one mildly curious about a thing, "I wonder if
Marion _is_ going to get married?"
Ruth wanted to take a bath before she went to bed. Taking a bath was no
easy matter under their circumstances. It was so much work and usually
she was so tired that she would sometimes let it go longer than she
would have supposed she would ever let bathing go. She was determined
not to let it go tonight. She had the water on heating; she went down
for the tub, went upstairs into her frigid room for the fresh things to
put on in the morning. The room was so cold that there was a sort of
horror about it. She went over to the window; the snow made the valley
bright. Dimly she could see a massed thing--the huddled sheep. With a
hard little laugh for the sob that shook her she hurried out of the
room.
She took her bath before the fire in the living-room. Stuart had piled
on one chair the clothes that he had taken off and would put on in the
morning. She placed on another the things for herself. And suddenly she
looked at those two chairs and the thing that she had been trying not to
think about--that now they two could be married--seemed to sear her
whole soul with mockery. She was rubbing some lotion on her red, chapped
hands, hands defaced by work and cold. She had a picture of her hands as
they used to be--back there in those years when to have been free to
marry Stuart would have made life radiant. She sat a long time before
the fire, not wanting to go to bed. She particularly wanted to go to bed
alone that night. There seemed something shameful in that night sharing
a bed as a matter of expediency. Stuart was snoring a little. She sat
there, her face buried in her hands. The wind was beating against the
house. It was beating against the sheep out there, too--it had a clean
sweep against that outer rim of living things. She cried for a little
while; and then, so utterly tired that it did not matter much, she went
in the other room and crept into bed.