It was half-past nine when Wilmer left Allston alone in front of the
open fire and went upstairs. And though it was after midnight before
she fell asleep, she had not then heard his footsteps along the hall.
She had listened, too, rather closely. The man had been in her thoughts
every minute since she bade him good-night and retreated to her room.
Her abrupt and somewhat inhospitable departure was a retreat--nothing
less. She had been neither weary, sleepy, nor bored. In fact, she
had retired at a moment when she had felt herself more than usually
alert and alive both mentally and physically--more alive than she
felt it either discreet or safe to be. When a carefully nurtured and
intelligent young woman finds herself prompted to such intimate acts
of tenderness as smoothing back the hair from the forehead of a man
she has lately chided for being too boldly impulsive, it would seem
to be high time for her to remove herself out of danger even though
that involves a humiliating confession. It was no argument either that
because his hair was light and all awry, it appeared like the hair
of a boy; or that because his face was troubled, her tenderness was
justified on purely humanitarian grounds. Besides, she had considered
nothing of the sort. She had wished to do it because some newly roused
instinct craved satisfaction in just that way.
There was no use in lying. That was both cowardly and useless. If there
were mortal sin here this was no way of ridding one’s self of it. One
should probe for causes. That is what the intellect is for. The ability
to do this or not is what distinguishes between the intelligent and the
unintelligent.
Well, then, the reason she had wished to smooth back the hair from
Allston’s forehead was because--she had wished to do it. He was worried
and she held herself partly responsible. She could not help this. She
had tried to be honest both with him and herself--to speak the truth
as she saw it. But having done this she was sorry because it had not
helped to dissipate his perplexity. It had only more deeply involved
them both. Words had been unavailing. It was then that this strangely
primitive impulse had asserted itself. Her warm hand urged her to
express what her tongue could not.
She had conquered the temptation. That is a woman’s lot; to conquer and
conquer and conquer. Given emotions more acute than those of men, she
is asked to control them more completely. If she does not, she is never
forgiven. She has betrayed her trust.
She had conquered the physical impulse, but that was all. Alone here
in her room she knew that. The old tenderness returned--the tenderness
that sought expression in action. And after all perhaps it was not so
strange. Men have always sought and women always given this tangible
proof of their feelings. Down through the years a woman has spoken her
heart through the touch of her hand and lips. Speech has been left for
men.
In her room with the dark all around her, Wilmer allowed herself to
relax somewhat. But vigilance is the eternal price of liberty in more
senses than one. The moment she permitted her thoughts to wander where
they would, they went where she would not. Only once before had she
felt herself the victim of this unseen power, and the man who was
responsible now lay dead at Château-Thierry.
She had been younger then. Over twenty, every year counts double in a
woman’s life until she reaches full maturity. Her youth had been an
excuse where now it no longer was. And yet she doubted if at twenty she
would have had to fight so hard for control. Her emotions were feebler
then.
To add to her confusion she was not at all sure what it was she was
trying to repulse. There is so much vagueness in a young woman’s
life; so much hinted at, but never made clear; so much guessed, but
not known. It is probably true that they are more of a mystery to
themselves than to the young men who look upon them with such awe. It
was certainly true of Wilmer in spite of all her reading.
No two authorities seemed to her able to agree on this thing called
love; whether it was something to welcome or something to be guarded
against. Before Allston came along she had been inclining to the
latter view, for it appeared to lead more often to unhappiness than to
happiness. Most tragedies were born of love; the great tragedies as
well as the sordid little ones. In most cases woman was the victim, and
when not, most certainly deserved to be. The good women suffered to
themselves; the bad women caused others to suffer.
If this were true, then love was something to be fought off like an
evil spirit. But the trouble was that instead of gaining strength
as she struggled, as in other contests of her life, she felt her
resistance to be constantly weakening. The more she argued, the feebler
became her arguments; the more bitterly she condemned herself, the more
ardently she desired. Hour by hour her intellect had been giving way to
her emotions. She was becoming, looking at it in one way, less and less
intelligent in her attitude to this burning problem.
And yet if her slow retreat did not bring her back into safer
territory, it left her on more familiar ground. Forced to her base,
she found that base to be her heart. And her heart was more peculiarly
herself than her mind.
There are, in every woman, two women; the one coolly, calmly,
deliberately, intelligently formed, and within her another, often
enough imprisoned for life, the creation of God. Shyly the latter
sits in silence peeping as she finds her opportunity through the
eyes--safe hidden in the eyes--or makes her presence felt through
a touch of the hand or, in full power, through the lips. And this
woman grows and grows if given half a chance. If not she sickens and
dies--pathetically, tragically. And what is left after that may be
admirable, but does not win admiration.
It was face to face with this other self that Wilmer now found
herself--an elfish, wholly irresponsible self, although governed by
something bigger even than thought. And when the word love reached this
other, it was as though she sprang into radiantly full being. Flushed
and palpitating, eyes brimming with daring and eagerness, she asserted
herself. She was Youth with all the hardy qualities of youth; she was
Life with all the adventurous enthusiasm of life; she was Womanhood
with all the steady courage of womanhood. She asked no questions, but
she whispered secrets.
She whispered secrets to Wilmer lying there in the dark--big
secrets, holy secrets, quickening secrets. She spoke of love quite
fearlessly--at times almost fiercely. With eyes that were like the
blazing sun, with nostrils that quivered, with a mouth opened for frank
laughter, she challenged the world to deny her.
And Wilmer, her pretty white arm thrown over her forehead, stared and
marveled until finally her eyes grew heavy and she slipped away into a
dream world.
She awoke at dawn. She started to her elbow to listen once again for
the footsteps of Allston. The house was silent--the utter silence of
early morning. She realized then that she must have slept and that he
had passed her door during that interval. She fell back to her pillow,
but her eyes remained wide open. She had a feeling that something had
happened in the last few hours--something big. It is so one awakes
after joyous news, unable for a second to recall it. The emotion
remains, but unrelated. Then suddenly she remembered, and her face
became as radiant as the face of that other woman. She _was_ that other
woman--that heart woman. In her dreams, love had taken possession.
She sprang from bed, and crossing to the open window looked out at
the dawn. The quickening sky greeted her like a sister. The east was
still a silver gray, but it looked so fresh and clean and cool that
impulsively she threw out her arms towards it. So she did towards all
the trees and grasses, though they were still half hidden in the dark.
There were shadows there, too, but they were friendly shadows. She did
not fear them in the least. They called to her to come out under the
sky and be refreshed like them.
She felt cramped here in her room. She wished to be part of the dawn.
And so dressing quickly she stole downstairs to the sitting-room. The
fire was out, but the chair in which Allston had sat was still in its
place before the cold hearth. Her hand fell upon it caressingly. It
had become individualized to her. There were other chairs in the room
of similar design, but these were merely so many indifferent pieces of
wicker furniture. This was his chair. This would always be his chair.
She moved across the room to find a wrap, and when opposite the door
leading into the kitchen was stopped by a draft as from an open window.
That was unusual because her father was rather finicky about having
the house tight-locked at night, and Roxie knew this. For a moment she
hesitated. It was not yet full day, but she could see well enough to
distinguish objects within. Perhaps Roxie was up. She often rose early.
Wilmer ventured to the threshold and called the girl’s name. She
received no response, but she saw then it was not a window but the
outside door that was open. It affected her as something dramatic.
Nothing can be more significant than a door open when it should be
closed or closed when it should be open. It involves a human element
that may mean much.
On the whole, Wilmer was now sorry she had come down here. She was no
more than ordinarily timid, but there is something unnatural about a
house before it has awakened. The silence, for one thing, is intensive.
One feels like an intruder, and like an intruder is never sure of what
one may stumble upon. The night things do not vanish except before
direct rays of either sun or lamp.
Finally, with considerable effort, she crossed the kitchen and
hurriedly closed the door--with an odd feeling, before it latched, that
something from without might resist her efforts. She was left a little
out of breath. Which was absurd, of course. She realized this as soon
as she had turned the lock.
But now the dead stove and the dumb kettle and the silent pots and pans
hanging all around oppressed her. A kitchen is a living thing expressed
in terms of noise and movement. When it is quiet and still, it is out
of character. Moreover, it emphasized the absence of Roxie. She was
always here, or at least some evidence of her.
Wilmer listened for her footsteps overhead. She ought by now to be
dressing. The first feeble chirps of the early birds could be heard
outside and she always rose with them. It was not necessary for her to
get up at this hour, but she always did.
A peculiar sense of loneliness swept over Wilmer. She felt suddenly
conscious of being the only live thing about in the house. She wished
to see Roxie--to hear another human voice. It was this which impelled
her up the stairs to the girl’s door. It was closed and she heard no
movement within. She rapped gently and received no response. Then she
turned the knob and gently pressed the door open. Her eyes sought the
bed. It was empty.
And in the center of the room there stood one shoe and beside it a bit
of paper. She picked up the note and hurrying to the window read it.
Her heart stopped beating for a moment. Roxie had gone. Reading between
the lines as clearly as Allston had done, she knew with whom. But there
were some other things between the lines, clear enough to Allston,
which she did not understand.
Clutching the crumpled bit of paper, Wilmer came back to the
sitting-room. When the note had been written, she had no way of
knowing, but the undisturbed bed indicated that it was the evening
before. Roxie was generally asleep by ten. She had been gone, then,
some seven hours. But why had she left at such an hour if with Bud? She
had heard the girl in the kitchen until after nine, and that was too
late for the completion of even a runaway match. There was an element
of the inexplicable here which urged her to seek Allston at once. And,
besides, she wanted him for herself.
Here was an emergency demanding action, and she turned to this man as
naturally as, a day ago, she would have turned to her father. As soon
as this, he had slipped into place by her side. He was there to help
whenever she needed help. And he was there in a more vital sense than
ever her father had been. If the latter was a wise counselor, he also
stood in need of counsel; if a protector, he also was often in need of
protection. If he was her right hand, she was his left hand.
But Allston stood out full-bodied, by himself. He needed no assistance.
He could relieve her wholly of such a responsibility as this.
And yet, as she made her way up the stairs and down the hallway to his
room, she began to question. To give him this note was to rouse him.
To place this situation before him was to lead him into danger. For
he would follow Roxie. There was no doubt about that. He would follow
until he learned whether the girl had entered upon this mad venture of
her own volition or not. That involved a terrible risk.
Wilmer, a few feet from his door, paused, leaning against the wall for
support. If she waited a few hours, then he might seek help on his
mission. A dozen men from the village would be willing to accompany
him on such an errand. With the house surrounded, Bud would be forced
to explain or to surrender.
But if Roxie were in actual danger, then a few hours might mark the
difference between life and death, between honor and dishonor.
It was a cruel dilemma in which to place a woman in so brief a time
after she had awakened to the full realization of love. It made little
difference that her love had not yet been confessed--even that she
had no assurance that it would be reciprocated. Once she had made the
admission to herself, it existed--even if she lived the rest of her
years with lips tight sealed. To her it was a reality at this moment--a
stupendous reality. She loved as only a woman can love who has fought
against love. It burned within her now like a white-hot flame.
In the end her decision was based, not upon Roxie, but upon herself
and the man she loved. To be true to that love, she must send him;
to be true to that love, he must go. If this new-found passion meant
anything, it meant being true to the highest; it meant willingness to
sacrifice to the highest. If she quailed before such a clean-cut issue
as this, she could never again respect that love; if she saved him at
such a cost, she could never respect that which she had saved.
With head up, if with knees weak, she knocked at his door. And as she
did so it was as though not her hand but her naked heart were beating
against the wooden panels. The ache of it made her tremble. To add to
the agony she was forced to do it again--and yet again. The silence
following hurt, too. It raised new fears. These accumulated so rapidly
that she was soon in a panic. Scarcely conscious of what she was about,
she turned the knob and pushed open his door--standing back as she did
so. Light is indifferent. It cares not what it reveals. It showed now
with grim starkness Allston’s empty, untouched bed.
And a vacant room.