There seemed no way to avoid accepting the invitation, and she went into
the cottage for a light shawl. Then they locked up their little house
and started away. Tilly held his arm. She tried to fancy that they were
taking one of the unforgettable strolls along the mountain roads at
Cranston which had led to their union, but the illusion refused to abide
with her, for at Cranston he had been care-free, full of hope and joy,
and now his every word seemed to exude from a heart surcharged with
pain. How she loved him, now that she better understood the Sinister
fate that was scourging him so relentlessly!
Ahead of them they saw a tent. It was lighted. "That is not the one,"
John explained. "That is a tabernacle revival meeting. Sam goes every
night. He doesn't believe in it any more than I do, down inside of
himself, I mean; but he goes and tries to get the boys to go. That would
suit your father. That preacher throws off his coat and dares the
barkeepers to meet him in a fist-to-fist, knock-down, drag-out match on
his platform. We must go, too. How about to-morrow night?"
"But--but you don't believe in such meetings," Tilly answered.
"It doesn't make any odds what I believe," John returned, in a
thoughtful tone. "You got a lot, one way or another, out of your meeting
and Sunday-school up at home, and--and this is a dull town. It is full
of sets and a lot of silly pride, drawing the line at this and that.
Take my trade, for instance. Do you know a brick mason is sort o' looked
down on by the fool gangs that go in for style and show? Up your way
everything is more on a level. One man is as good as another. That is
one thing I like about religion. In the backwoods, at least, it does
away with a lot of stuck-up ideas. You mustn't think I want you to quit
going to church. No, I want you to go. I can't take part, but you can go
on the same as you used to."
They were now in front of the tent's opening. And as Tilly was peering
in at the brilliantly lighted platform on which sat some singers behind
an organ, and a young, square-jawed, long-haired minister in a
frock-coat, John thought she might be interested in the service.
"Maybe you'd rather go in to-night," he advanced. "It is with you to
decide. Is it preaching or show?"
"But you don't like preaching," she said.
"I don't count in this shuffle," he jested. "They are both shows to me.
The only difference is that the burnt-cork and dancing people admit they
want your money, and these people lie about it."
Tilly frowned. "You get worse and worse," she said. "Let's go to the
show. It will be good for you after working so hard to-day."
"Well, we'll come here to-morrow night," he said. "We've got to have
some amusements. You are by yourself too much. I've been thinking a lot
about the way you are fixed down here in this measly, hypocritical town.
You see, up there where you were raised you know every man, woman, and
child, but here you are a stranger. I mean-- I mean--" He was beyond his
depth and realized it, quite to his chagrin. Tilly came to his rescue.
"Never mind about me," she broke in, quickly and with tact, as she drew
him on in the direction of the lights and music farther up the street.
"I am thoroughly happy here. I don't want anything but you and our
little home. I love you more and more. Some day you will know why, but I
do. I'm going to make you happy, John, happier than you've ever been."
He sighed, and it was as if he were conscious that the sigh which had
surged up within him, in a way, was a denial of the hope her words
extended.
He paid their fare at the opening in the tent and went in and sat on one
of the crude, unbacked benches. The place was filling fast. Laughing
parties of young men and young ladies entered. John told Tilly who some
of them were. The "chipper, fluffy-headed blonde" was a banker's
daughter, with the son of the president of the largest iron-works in
Ridgeville. Another girl was the only child of a rich money-lender and
the young dude with her was an ex-Governor's son, a silly fool that
everybody said would have been in jail long ago for some of his scrapes
but for his father's influence. John didn't really know who all of them
were, though they lived in the town. They had grown up so fast and he
had been so busy that he hadn't kept track of them. He did know,
however, that they all belonged to a select dancing-club up the street,
and they would go there after the show, no doubt. They felt that they
were better than the working-class, and John said he despised them for
it. Their people belonged to the leading churches and that accounted for
their lack of sympathy for the poor.
There were some improvised boxes or tiers of seats inclosed in scarlet
ribbons on the right, which were marked, "Reserved Seats, 25 cents
extra." The young society people had not taken them, for some reason or
other, but, on the contrary, had found places in the body of the little
amphitheater where they sat merrily eating roasted peanuts which were
bought from a loud-shouting vender with a basket on his arm.
It was all new to the young country wife, and she would have enjoyed it
but for the grim tragedy unfolding in her experience. The music stopped,
and the curtains were drawn. Two amusing Irishmen held the stage for
fifteen minutes in a heated colloquy interspersed with songs and "horse
play." Then when they had withdrawn, and Tilly and John were looking
over the audience, a man and a woman entered, came down the wide
saw-dust aisle, and turned into the reserved section. The man was very
fat, short, and flashily dressed; the woman was also showily attired,
powdered, painted, penciled, and perfumed.
"Oh, my! Old Liz is on a splurge to-night, ain't she?" a man behind John
and Tilly said, with a giggle. "Who's the fellow with her?"
"'Sh!" his companion hissed, warningly, and from the corner of her eye
Tilly saw him pointing at John. She looked at her husband and saw a
wincing look of chagrin settling on his face. He had given but a single
glance at the new-comers and now gazed fixedly at the crude
drop-curtain. Tilly saw his neck and the side of his face growing red.
Could it be her mother-in-law? she asked. Undoubtedly, and her escort
was "Roly-poly," for Dora's description had fitted him perfectly.
Another act was on the stage. Acrobatic performers in silken tights
began vaulting, climbing, balancing one upon the other. Tilly saw that
John was valiantly pretending to be absorbed in their maneuvers. He was
still flushed, and his eyes all but stood out from their sockets in
their grim fixity. How she pitied him! How she longed to take the strong
red hand which half clutched his knee and assure him that it didn't
matter to her at all.
In the middle of the act something seemed to actually draw her eyes to
his mother's face. Lizzie Trott, with an expression half bewildered,
half abashed, was gazing past her son straight at her. The eyes of the
two met in a steady stare of infinite curiosity. The eyes of the woman
of the world seemed to cling to the eyes of youth and purity. The former
sank first. Lizzie Trott's wavered and fell to the dainty handkerchief
in her lap.
"She is like John about the mouth and eyes," Tilly thought. "Poor woman!
I could love her. For John's sake I could love her. Yes, I could love
her. In spite of what she is, I could love her. Poor woman! Poor woman!
And she is John's mother--actually his mother! She is not wholly bad. I
see that in her face. Something is wrong. She looks tired, sad,
disgusted."
Tilly now saw John with a flurried look in his eyes glance toward the
entrance. She read his thoughts. He was wondering if they might not get
away. He was dreading something, but what she knew not. Perhaps he was
afraid that his mother might at the end of the performance come across
boldly and introduce herself to her daughter-in-law, and perhaps make a
scene as she had done the day before. Again Tilly looked at her
mother-in-law. Their eyes met once more and clung together with almost
mystic comprehension.
"Don't be afraid," Lizzie Trott's whole aspect seemed to say. "We'll go
away. I understand, and I'll not make it hard for you."
And a moment later she was whispering something into the ear of her
companion, and the two rose and went out. John saw their backs as they
left, and Tilly noticed the expression of vast relief in his face.
"Poor woman!" Tilly said to herself. "We could be friends. She is a real
woman, after all. She'd have to be to be John's mother."
An hour later they were leaving the tent. Tilly declined John's
invitation to go to the soda-water and ice-cream parlor across the
street where a gay crowd under revolving fans were taking seats at
numerous small white tables.
"I don't care for anything," she assured him. "Let's walk on. The night
is lovely and it looks like it is close in there."
On his strong arm she hung tenderly as they strolled slowly back to the
cottage. John was changed. A sort of blight seemed to have swept over
him. She understood the cause of it and loved him all the more. That he
would never open his lips on the subject she was sure, but she could
read many of his thoughts which burrowed through some of his roundabout
utterances, as, for instance, what he said as they stood at their little
gate.
"We must have some good long talks about my business," he said. "About
what's far ahead, you know, as well as right now. Sam wants me here. In
fact, he pretends to think he can't do without me to help out in several
big contracts, but between me and you-- I was wondering yesterday what
you'd think if I was to tell you that I'm just fool enough to think that
I could go to some big Western city and light on my feet right at the
start. A fellow that sells cement and lime to us told me not long ago
that I could hit it big out in Seattle. He was looking over some of my
figures that Sam showed him. I was wondering-- You see, I am a little
afraid that you might not like to go away so far from your kin, with a
big hulk of a scamp like me, and--and--" John swung the gate open and
seemed unable further to direct his anxious outpourings.
Tilly understood--too well she understood what he meant, what he
feared--and she made up her mind that a dubious move for her sake only
should not be taken. John had not thought of such a thing before
marriage. Why should it happen now?
"I don't think you really ought to make a change just yet," she said,
firmly. "Mr. Cavanaugh is determined to push you ahead as fast as
possible. He told me so the other day. He said he needed your brain for
expert estimates and calculations, and that there were big things ahead
of you both as a firm."
John was now unlocking the door, and the dark interior of the house
seemed to add more gloom to his troubled bearing. "Oh, Sam's all right,"
he said. "Sam means well and would do right by me, but--but I can't say
exactly that I like this town. There is nothing to it. They tell me that
the West is a different proposition. Folks don't--don't meddle in one
another's business out there. It is more free and easy, not so hidebound
and overrun with hypocrisy. A man is judged by what he is--by the amount
of gray matter he has in his skull, by his character, and not by--not
by--well any little thing that he can't help, you know. I mean, well,
like what you saw there to-night--that gang of stuck-up boys and girls,
living on their family backing. The world's wide, and, God or no God,
there must be better things dealt out than this. I mean than this is to
_some_. I never thought much about it when I first began to think you
might come here with me, but I do now, and there is no use denying it.
Of course, I don't want Sam to know yet. He would do all he could to
help me, but Sam is--is just Sam, as helpless against some difficulties
as I am."
"Don't light the gas yet." Tilly caught his hand entreatingly. A deep
sob of sympathy filled her throat, and she drew him to the little wicker
seat on the porch. "Let's sit awhile here where it is cool. It is warm
in the house."
They sat side beside each other.
"I see. You don't want any Western experiments," he said, plaintively,
his great fingers toying with her hair and now and then touching her
brow. "That is the way of a woman."
"I think," Tilly said, leaning her head against his breast and holding
his hand in hers, "that we ought to let well enough alone." Her thoughts
sank into inexpression and ran on. Should she tell him that she knew
all--knew what he was trying to run from on her account--and assure him
that she wanted to face the whole situation? But how could she tell him,
knowing how sensitive his sudden awakening had made him to the awful
matter? If he had wanted her to know it he would have brought it up
himself. No, that must wait, for to let him know that she knew all would
only add to his pain. He was finding a sort of respite in her supposed
ignorance of the situation; she would let it be so for a while, anyway.