Ellen's first impulse, when she really began to love Robert Lloyd,
was not yielding, but flight; her first sensation, not happiness,
but shame. When he left her that night she realized, to her
unspeakable dismay and anger, that he had not left her, that he
would never in her whole life, or at least it seemed so, leave her
again. Everywhere she looked she saw his face projected by her
memory before her with all the reality of life. His face came
between her and her mother's and father's, it came between her and
her thoughts of other faces. When she was alone in her chamber,
there was the face. She blew out the lamp in a panic of resentment
and undressed in the dark, but that made no difference. When she lay
in bed, although she closed her eyes resolutely, she could still see
it.
"I won't have it; I won't have it," she said, quite aloud in her
shame and rebellion. "I won't have it. What does this mean?"
In spite of herself the sound of his voice was in her ears, and she
resented that; she fought against the feeling of utter rapture which
came stealing over her because of it. She felt as if she wanted to
spring out of bed and run, run far away into the freedom of the
night, if only by so doing she could outspeed herself. Ellen began
to realize the tyranny of her own nature, and her whole soul arose
in revolt.
But the girl could no more escape than a nymph of old the pursuit of
the god, and there was no friendly deity to transform her into a
flower to elude him. When she slept at last she was overtaken in the
innocent passion of dreams, and when she awoke it was, to her angry
sensitiveness, not alone.
When she went down-stairs all her rosy radiance of the night before
was eclipsed. She looked pale and nervous. She recoiled whenever her
mother began to speak. It seemed to her that if she said anything,
and especially anything congratulatory about Robert Lloyd, she would
fly at her like a wild thing. Fanny kept looking at her with loving
facetiousness, and Ellen winced indescribably; still, she did not
say anything until after breakfast, when Andrew had gone to work.
Andrew was unusually sober and preoccupied that morning. When he
went out he passed close to Ellen, as she sat at the table, and
tilted up her face and kissed her. "Father's blessin'," he
whispered, hoarsely, in her ear. Ellen nestled against him. This
natural affection, before which she need not fly nor be ashamed,
which she had always known, seemed to come before her like a shield
against all untried passion. She felt sheltered and comforted. But
Andrew passed Eva Tenny coming to the house on his way out of the
yard, and when she entered Fanny began at once:
"Who do you s'pose came home with Ellen last night?" said she. She
looked at Eva, then at Ellen, with a glance which seemed to uncover
a raw surface of delicacy. Ellen flushed angrily.
"Mother, I do wish--" she began; but Fanny cut her short.
"She's pretendin' she don't like it," she said, almost hilariously,
her face glowing with triumph, "but she does. You ought to have seen
her when she came in last night."
"I guess I know who it was," said Eva, but she echoed her sister's
manner half-heartedly. She was looking very badly that morning, her
face was stained, and her eye hard with a look as if tears had
frozen in them. She had come in a soiled waist, too, without any
collar.
"For Heaven's sake, Eva Tenny, what ails you?" Fanny cried.
Eva flung herself for answer on the floor, and fairly writhed. Words
were not enough expression for her violent temperament. She had to
resort to physical manifestations or lose her reason. As she
writhed, she groaned as one might do who was dying in extremity of
pain.
Ellen, when she heard her aunt's groans, stopped, and stood in the
entry viewing it all. She thought at first that her aunt was ill,
and was just about to call out to know if she should go for the
doctor, all her grievances being forgotten in this evidently worse
stress, when her mother fairly screamed again, stooping over her
sister, and trying to raise her.
"Eva Tenny, you tell me this minute what the matter is."
Then Eva raised herself on one elbow, and disclosed a face distorted
with wrath and woe, like a mask of tragedy.
"He's gone! he's gone!" she shrieked out, in an awful, shrill voice,
which was like the note of an angry bird. "He's gone!"
"For God's sake, not--Jim?"
"Yes, he's gone! he's gone! Oh, my God! my God! he's gone!"
All at once the little Amabel appeared, slipping past Ellen
silently. She stood watching her mother. She was vibrating from head
to foot as if strung on wires. She was not crying, but she kept
catching her breath audibly; her little hands were twitching in the
folds of her frock; she winked rapidly, her lids obscuring and
revealing her eyes until they seemed a series of blue sparks. She
was no paler than usual--that was scarcely possible--but her skin
looked transparent, pulses were evident all over her face and her
little neck.
"You don't mean he's gone with--?" gasped Fanny.
Suddenly Eva raised herself with a convulsive jerk from the floor to
her feet. She stood quite still. "Yes, he has gone," she said, and
all the passion was gone from her voice, which was much more
terrible in its calm.
"You don't mean with--?"
"Yes; he has gone with Aggie." Eva spoke in a voice like a
deaf-mute's, quite free from inflections. There was something
dreadful about her rigid attitude. Little Amabel looked at her
mother's eyes, then cowered down and began to cry aloud. Ellen came
in and took her in her arms, whispering to her to soothe her. She
tried to coax her away, but the child resisted violently, though she
was usually so docile with Ellen.
Eva did not seem to notice Amabel's crying. She stood in that
horrible inflexibility, with eyes like black stones fixed on
something unseeable.
Fanny clutched her violently by the arm and shook her.
"Eva Tenny," said she, "you behave yourself. What if he has run
away? You ain't the first woman whose husband has run away. I'd have
more pride. I wouldn't please him nor her enough. If he's as bad as
that, you're better off rid of him."
Eva turned on her sister, and her calm broke up like ice under her
fire of passion.
"Don't you say one word against him, not one word!" she shrieked,
throwing off Fanny's hand. "I won't hear one word against my
husband."
Then little Amabel joined in. "Don't you say one word against my
papa!" she cried, in her shrill, childish treble. Then she sobbed
convulsively, and pushed Ellen away. "Go away!" she said, viciously,
to her. She was half mad with terror and bewilderment.
"Don't you say one word against Jim," said Eva again. "If ever I
hear anybody say one word against him I'll--"
"You don't mean you're goin' to stan' up for him, Eva Tenny?"
"As long as I draw the breath of life, and after, if I know
anything," declared Eva. Then she straightened herself to her full
height, threw back her shoulders, and burst into a furious
denunciation like some prophetess of wrath. The veins on her
forehead grew turgid, her lips seemed to swell, her hair seemed to
move as she talked. The others shrank back and looked at her; even
little Amabel hushed her sobs and stared, fascinated. "Curses on the
grinding tyranny that's brought it all about, and not on the poor,
weak man that fell under it!" she cried. "Jim ain't to blame. He's
had bigger burdens put on his shoulders than the Lord gave him
strength to bear. He had to drop 'em. Jim has tried faithful ever
since we were married. He worked hard, and it wa'n't never his fault
that he lost his place, but he kept losin' it. They kept shuttin'
down, or dischargin' him for no reason at all, without a minute's
warnin'. An' it wa'n't because he drank. Jim never drank when he had
a job. He was just taken up and put down by them over him as if he
was a piece on a checker-board. He lost his good opinion of himself
when he saw others didn't set any more by him than to shove him off
or on the board as it suited their play. He began to think maybe he
wa'n't a man, and then he began to act as if he wasn't a man. And he
was ashamed of his life because he couldn't support me and Amabel,
ashamed of his life because he had to live on my little earnin's. He
was ashamed to look me in the face, and ashamed to look his own
child in the face. It was only night before last he was talkin' to
me, and I didn't know what he meant then, but I know now. I thought
then he meant something else, but now I know what he meant. He sat a
long time leanin' his head on his hands, whilst I was sewin' on
wrappers, after Amabel had gone to bed, and finally he looks up and
says, 'Eva, you was right and I was wrong.'
"'What do you mean, Jim?' says I.
"'I mean you was right when you thought we'd better not get married,
and I was wrong,' says he; and he spoke terrible bitter and sad. I
never heard him speak like it. He sounded like another man. I jest
flung down my sewin' and went over to him, and leaned his poor head
against my shoulder. 'Jim,' says I, 'I 'ain't never regretted it.'
And God knows I spoke the truth, and I speak the truth when I say it
now. I 'ain't never regretted it, and I don't regret it now." Eva
said the last with a look as if she were hurling defiance, then she
went on in the same high, monotonous key above the ordinary key of
life. "When I says that, he jest gives a great sigh and sort of
pushes me away and gets up. 'Well, I have,' says he; 'I have, and
sometimes I think the best thing I can do is to take myself out of
the way, instead of sittin' here day after day and seein' you
wearin' your fingers to the bone to support me, and seein' my child,
an' bein' ashamed to look her in the face. Sometimes I think you an'
Amabel would be a damned sight better off without me than with me,
and I'm done for anyway, and it don't make much difference what I do
next.'
"'Jim Tenny, you jest quit talkin' in such a way as this,' says I,
for I thought he meant to make away with himself, but that wa'n't
what he meant. Aggie Bemis had been windin' her net round him, and
he wa'n't nothin' but a man, and all discouraged, and he gave in.
Any man would in his place. He ain't to blame. It's the tyrants
that's over us all that's to blame." Eva's voice shrilled higher.
"Curse them!" she shrieked. "Curse them all!--every rich man in this
gold-ridden country!"
"Eva Tenny, you're beside yourself," said Fanny, who was herself
white to her lips, yet she viewed her sister indignantly, as one
violent nature will view another when it is overborne and carried
away by a kindred passion.
"Wonder if you'd be real calm in my place?" said Eva; and as she
spoke the dreadful impassibility of desperation returned upon her.
It was as if she suffered some chemical change before their eyes.
She became silent and seemed as if she would never speak again.
"You hadn't ought to talk so," said Fanny, weakly, she was so
terrified. "You ought to think of poor little Amabel," she added.
With that, Eva's dreadful, expressionless eyes turned towards
Amabel, and she held out her hand to her, but the child fairly
screamed with terror and clung to Ellen. "Oh, Aunt Eva, don't look
at her so, you frighten her," Ellen said, trembling, and leaning her
cheek against Amabel's little, cold, pale one. "Don't cry, darling,"
she whispered. "It is just because poor mother feels so badly."
"I am afraid of my mamma, and I want papa!" screamed Amabel,
quivering, and stiffening her slender back.
Eva continued to keep her eyes fixed upon her, and to hold out that
commanding hand.
Fanny went close to her, seized her by both shoulders, and shook her
violently. "Eva Tenny, you behave yourself!" said she. "There ain't
no need of your acting this way if your man has run away with
another woman, and as for that child goin' with you, she sha'n't go
one step with any woman that looks and acts as you do. Actin' this
way over a good-for-nothin' fellow like Jim Tenny!"
Again that scourge of the spirit aroused Eva to her normal state.
She became a living, breathing, wrathful, loving woman once more.
"Don't you dare say a word against Jim!" she cried out; "not one
word, Fanny Brewster; I won't hear it. Don't you dare say a word!"
"Don't you say a word against my papa!" shrilled Amabel. Then she
left Ellen and ran to her mother, and clung to her. And Eva caught
her up, and hugged the little, fragile thing against her breast, and
pounced upon her with kisses, with a fury as of rage instead of
love.
"She always looked like Jim," she sobbed out; "she always did. Aggie
Bemis shall never get her. I've got her in spite of all the awful
wrong of life; it's the good that had to come out of it whether or
no, and God couldn't help Himself. I've got this much. She always
looked like Jim."
Eva set Amabel down and began leading her out of the room.
"You ain't goin'?" said Fanny, who had herself begun to weep. "Eva,
you ain't goin'? Oh, you poor girl!"
"Don't!--you said that like Jim," Eva cried, with a great groan of
pain.
"Eva, you ain't goin'? Wait a little while, and let me do somethin'
for you."
"You can't do anything. Come, Amabel."
Eva and Amabel went away, the child rolling eyes of terror and
interrogation at them, Eva impervious to all her sister's pleading.
When Andrew heard what had happened, and Fanny repeated what Eva had
said, his blame for Jim Tenny was unqualified. "I've had a hard time
enough, knocked about from pillar to post, and I know what she means
when she talks about a checker-board. God knows I feel myself
sometimes as if I wasn't anything but a checker-piece instead of a
man," he said, "but it's all nonsense blamin' the shoe-manufacturers
for his runnin' away with that woman. A man has got to use what
little freedom he's got right. It ain't any excuse for Jim
Tenny that he's been out of work and got discouraged. He's a
good-for-nothing cur, an' I'd like to tell him so."
"It won't do for you to talk to Eva that way," said Fanny. They were
all at the supper-table. Ellen was listening silently.
"She does right to stand up for her husband, I suppose," said
Andrew, "but anybody's got to use a little sense. It don't make it
any better for Jim, tryin' to shove blame off his shoulders that
belongs there. The manufacturers didn't make him run off with
another woman and leave his child. That was a move he made himself."
"But he wouldn't have made that move if the manufacturers hadn't
made theirs," Ellen said, unexpectedly.
"That's so," said Fanny.
Andrew looked uneasily at Ellen, in whose cheeks two red spots were
burning, and whose eyes upon his face seemed narrowed to two points
of brightness. "There's nothing for you to worry about, child," he
said.
All this was before the dressmaker, who listened with no particular
interest. Affairs which did not directly concern her did not awaken
her to much sharpness of regard. She had been forced by
circumstances into a very narrow groove of life, a little foot-path
as it were, fenced in from destruction by three dollars a day. She
could not, view it as keenly as she might, see that Jim Tenny's
elopement had anything whatever to do with her three dollars per
day. She, therefore, ate her supper. At first Andrew had looked
warningly at Fanny when she began to discuss the subject before the
dressmaker, but Fanny had replied, "Oh, land, Andrew, she knows all
about it now. It's all over town."
"Yes, I heard it this morning before I came," said the dressmaker.
"I think a puff on the sleeves of the silk waist will be very
pretty, don't you, Mrs. Brewster?"
Ellen looked at the dressmaker with wonder; it seemed to her that
the woman was going on a little especial side track of her own
outside the interests of her kind. She looked at her pretty new
things and tried them on, and felt guilty that she had them. What
business had she having new clothes and going to Vassar College in
the face of that misery? What was an education? What was anything
compared with the sympathy which love demanded of love in the midst
of sorrow? Should she not turn her back upon any purely personal
advantage as she would upon a moral plague?
When Ellen's father said that to her at the supper-table she looked
at him with unchildlike eyes. "I think it is something for me to
worry about, father," she said. "How can I help worrying if I love
Aunt Eva and Amabel?"
"It's a dreadful thing for Eva," said Fanny. "I don't see what she
is going to do. Andrew, pass the biscuits to Miss Higgins."
"It seems to me that the one that is the farthest behind anything
that happens on this earth is the one to blame," said Ellen,
reverting to her line of argument.
"I don't know but you've got to go back to God, then," said Andrew,
soberly, passing the biscuits. Miss Higgins took one.
"No, you haven't," said Ellen--"you haven't, because men are free.
You've got to stop before you get to God. When a man goes wrong, you
have got to look and see if he is to blame, if he started himself,
or other men have been pushing him into it. It seems to me that
other men have been pushing Uncle Jim into it. I don't think
factory-owners have any right to discharge a man without a good
reason, any more than he has a right to run the shop."
"I don't think so, either," said Fanny. "I think Ellen is right."
"I don't know. It is all a puzzle," said Andrew. "Something's wrong
somewhere. I don't know whether it's because we are pushed or
because we pull. There's no use in your worrying about it, Ellen.
You've got to study your books." Andrew said this with a look of
pride at Ellen and sidelong triumph at the dressmaker to see if she
rightly understood the magnitude of it all, of the whole situation
of making dresses for this wonderful young creature who was going to
Vassar College.
"I don't know but this is more important than books," said Ellen.
"Oh, maybe you'll find out something in your books that will settle
the whole matter," said Andrew. Ellen was not eating much supper,
and that troubled him. Andrew always knew just how much Ellen ate.
"I don't know what Aunt Eva and poor little Amabel will do," said
she. Ellen's lip quivered.
"Pass the cake to Miss Higgins," said Fanny, sharply, to Andrew. She
gave him a significant wink as she did so, not to talk more about
it.
"Try some of that chocolate cake, Miss Higgins."
"Thank you," said Miss Higgins, unexcitedly.
Andrew had his own cause of worry, and finally reverted to it,
eating his food with no more conception of the savor than if it were
in another man's mouth. He was sorry enough for his wife's sister,
and recognized it as an added weight to his own burden, but just at
present all he could think of was the question if Miss Higgins would
ask for her pay again that night. He had not a dollar in his pocket.
He had been dunned that afternoon by the man who had lent the money
to buy Ellen's watch, there were two new dunning letters in his
pocket, and now if that keen little dressmaker, who fairly looked to
him like a venomous insect, as she sat eating rather voraciously of
the chocolate cake, should ask him again for the three dollars due
her that night! He would not have cared so much, if it were not for
the fact that she would ask him before his wife and Ellen, and the
question about the money in the savings-bank, which was a species of
nightmare to him, would be sure to come to the front.
Suddenly it struck Andrew that he might run away, that he might slip
out after supper, and either go into his mother's house or down the
street. He finally decided on the former, since he reasoned, with a
pitiful cunning, that if he went down the street he would have to
take off his slippers and put on his shoes, and that would at once
betray him and lead to the possible arrest of his flight.
So after supper, while Miss Higgins was trying a waist on Ellen, and
Fanny was clearing the table, Andrew, bareheaded and in his
slippers, prepared to carry his plan into execution. He got out
without being seen, and hurried around the rear of the house, out of
view from the sitting-room windows, resolving on the way that in
order to avert the danger of a possible following him to the
sanctuary of his mother's house, he had perhaps better slip down
into the orchard behind it and see if the porter apples were ripe.
But when, stooping as if beneath some invisible shield, and moving
with a low glide of secrecy, he had gained the yard between the two
houses, the yard where the three cherry-trees stood, he heard
Fanny's high, insistent voice calling him, and knew that it was all
over. Fanny had her head thrust out of her bedroom window. "Andrew!
Andrew!" she called.
Andrew stopped. "What is it?" he asked, in a gruff voice. He felt at
that moment savage with her and with fate. He felt like some
badgered animal beneath the claws and teeth of petty enemies which
were yet sufficient to do him to death. He felt that retreat and
defence were alike impossible and inglorious. He was aware of a
monstrous impatience with it all, which was fairly blasphemy. "What
is it?" he said, and Fanny realized that something was wrong.
"Come here, Andrew Brewster," she said, from the bedroom window, and
Andrew pressed close to the window through a growth of sweetbrier
which rasped his hands and sent up a sweet fragrance in his face.
Andrew tore away the clinging vines angrily.
"Well, what is it?" he said again.
"Don't spoil that bush, Ellen sets a lot by it," said Fanny. "What
makes you act so, Andrew Brewster?" Then she lowered her voice.
"She wants to know if she can have her pay to-night," she whispered.
"I 'ain't got a cent," replied Andrew, in a dogged, breathless
voice.
"You 'ain't been to the bank to-day, then?"
"No, I 'ain't."
Fanny still suspected nothing. She was, in fact, angry with the
dressmaker for insisting upon her pay in such a fashion. "I never
heard of such a thing as her wantin' to be paid every night," she
whispered, angrily, "and I'd tell her so, if I wasn't afraid she'd
think we couldn't pay her. I'd never have had her; I'd had Miss
Patch, if I'd know she'd do such a mean thing, but, as it is, I
don't know what to do. I 'ain't got but a dollar and seventy-three
cents by me. You 'ain't got enough to make it up?"
"No, I 'ain't."
"Well, all is, I've got to tell her that it ain't convenient for me
to pay her to-night, and she shall have it all together to-morrow
night, and to-morrow you'll have to go to the bank and take out the
money, Andrew. Don't forget it."
"Well," said Andrew.
Fanny retreated, and he heard her high voice explaining to Miss
Higgins. He tore his way through the clinging sweetbrier bushes and
ran with an unsteady, desperate gait down to the orchard behind his
mother's home, and flung himself at full length in the dewy grass
under the trees with all the abandon, under stress of fate, of a
child.