# Century Magazine/Volume 101/Issue 2/Marie's View of It

Extracted from The Century Magazine, Vol 101, Dec 1920, pp. 210–221. Accompanying illustrations by George Giguère may be omitted.
Marie's View of It
By ELISABETH SANXAY HOLDING
Illustrations by George Giguère
THE sisters were up-stairs in the cool, old-fashioned chamber leisurely making ready for bed. Amelia stood at the bureau, brushing her shining hair by the light of a dim lamp; Marie sat in a low arm-chair, unlacing her boots and talking vehemently.
"I do despise that sort of talk," she cried. "'Melie, if you 're sensible and prudent and cautious, as they want you to be, you 'll simply miss everything. Being sensible means not wanting anything much, and being prudent means not trying to get what you want, and being cautious means not taking what you want even when you can get it. If you like him, 'Melie, and don't mind getting married, go ahead and take him."
"It is n't just what I want at this moment, Marie; it's a question of my whole future life."
"Darn the future!" cried Marie. "I'm not going to waste any of these years—these good years. After I'm thirty, I sha' n't care what happens. I'm going to spend now, and pay for it when I'm old."
It was a plan that did not appeal to the sleek and pretty Amelia, thrifty by nature, liking to savor life slowly, who was not greedy to swallow it whole at one meal, but who wanted rather to store it up on her neat little shelves and to use it, spread thin, through years and years. She was a gourmet, perhaps, but not a glutton, like the lean, fierce Marie. There were times, though, when she envied Marie her feast.
"I'm not in a hurry," she said. "I'm only nineteen; there's lots of time ahead of me. I'm going to give myself the rest of this summer to make up my mind."
"But are n't you afraid he 'll go away or die—or something?" asked Marie. "I should be. If I liked a man, I'd marry him instantly."
"I'm not afraid of his going away," Amelia answered. "Anyway, if he wants to go, let him."
"You 're really not a bit in love with him!" said Marie, reproachfully.
"I could be, if I wanted; but I'm not going to be until I'm sure I want to be."
"Well!" said Marie. "When I fall in love— Gosh!"
She leaned her head back against her clasped hands and stared up at the ceiling. A thin, dark young creature of eighteen, not pretty, but in her awkward immaturity giving promise of something rare to come; a sulky face with childish mouth and puzzled eyes, the face of an inquirer, an adventurer, that mingling of carelessness and earnestness that makes a Drake, a Parsifal, a Columbus.
"I don't believe you ever will fall in love," said Amelia. "You'd expect so much of a man that you could n't help being angry with him all the time."
"Perhaps," said Marie, with a sigh. "It's very likely I 'll never be suited. Or maybe no one will ever like me. I 've never had any beaus, have I, 'Melie?"
"No," Amelia answered, not without a tinge of complacency because of the very many she had had. "Still, you 're young yet; there's no hurry."
Who could convince Marie of that, though—Marie in such a panting hurry to live, to be born!
"Oh, Lord!" she sighed, beginning to braid her heavy, black hair. "No one seems to understand!"
"I try," said Amelia; "but we 're very different, are n't we?"
Neither of them could see, though, how immeasurable the difference even at that instant, at that time in life when they were most alike, still bearing the impress of their identical training.
They had, definitely enough, "chosen" their futures, confident that what they had selected would be delivered. Amelia looked for a few years more of very agreeable maidenhood, and after that the extravagant and indulgent admiration of a husband with a good income. She pictured lovely clothes, a charming home of her own, a sort of perpetual holiday, which she would deserve by being good and pretty. There was already a promising applicant upon whom she was deliberating during this annual summer visit to their great-aunt's farm. She was glad of the opportunity for calm, untroubled meditation. Whereas to Marie the visit was, as usual, a painful infliction.
"I thought I could go on studying here," she told Amelia, "but I can't. It's too quiet, and I have too much time."
"The rest will do you good," Amelia had answered. She was never able to take Marie's studies very seriously, because the object of them changed so frequently and rapidly. Marie's ambition was simply to be illustrious. She was a student in a woman's college, a headstrong, ridiculous student who pounced greedily on half a dozen unrelated courses, who wanted to learn everything in the world and all at once, economics and church history and Romance languages, it did n't matter.
They were the motherless daughters of a business man who reverenced woman, and never presumed to interfere with the two angels quartered under his roof. He provided them with what he believed to be their due, money to spend, clothes to wear, whatever education they wished, a home, and an unfaltering interest in their affairs, and otherwise let them alone. And they did very well under this system.
"Ready?" asked Amelia. "Shall I turn out the lamp?"
In a minute the room was dark. A cool breeze from the meadows fluttered the window curtains; little insects made their cheerful music in the summer night; the leaves of the old horse-chestnut rustled—all dear and familiar sounds, and sweet fragrances of climbing honeysuckle and exquisite night blooms. The sisters lay side by side, both wide-eyed and meditative.
"What's that?" asked Marie, suddenly.
"Nothing. A motor-car somewhere."
"But it's coming here, Amelia."
They listened intently. The purring of a motor grew louder, wheels spun over the gravel, a blinding light flashed by their window, and in a minute the door-bell rang through the quiet old house.
"Who on earth!" cried Amelia, sitting up. "So late, and coming in a motor!"
Marie was already at the window.
"It's the station taxi," she announced. "I'm going down to see who it is."
"Not that way, Marie!"
Marie was struggling impatiently into her dressing-gown.
"Bother! The sleeves are inside out! There!"
Her bare feet padded across the room to the hall.
"I 'll go, Auntie," she called to the old lady standing in her doorway.
"But don't catch cold, precious. Marie child, come back and put on your slippers!"
She was down-stairs already though, and running along the hall. There was a bolt to draw back, a chain to unfasten, and a key to turn; then she flung the door open boldly and looked out at the belated visitor. He took off his hat and smiled apologetically.
In romantic luminosity the moonlight revealed him a prince from the Arabian Nights, as dark and slim as herself, but far more beautiful; melancholy, lofty, victim of some outrageous fate.
"I know it's late," he said; "I'm sorry—but it's a matter of life and death. Would you be good enough to ask Miss Ellis if she will see Stanley for five minutes?"
"I will," cried Marie, and ran up-stairs again eagerly.
"Auntie, it's a man named Stanley. He has to see you for five minutes about something important."
The old lady shivered a little.
"My dear," she answered, "put on your slippers and go down and tell the young man that I positively cannot see him."
"But, Auntie, he says it's a matter of life and death!"
"I cannot see him, my dear. And I do not care to explain," the old lady replied with great dignity. "Please to tell him it is of no use coming to me again."
Marie was incredulous.
Illustration: "'Amelia has an errand,' she said, with an inexorable glance at her sister. 'We can stroll up the road a bit, and meet her later at the cross-roads'"
"How can you—" she began, but the old lady raised her hand.
"Hush, my dear! You know nothing about it. I cannot see him."
Marie went down-stairs again, indignant and amazed.
"I'm awfully sorry," she said, "but Miss Ellis—can't see you."
The young man stood in silence, looking at her with clear and fathomless black eyes. The station taxi had gone, was humming down a distant road; he was quite alone in the night, surrounded by the wide fields, the woods, the vast and melancholy summer night.
"Thank you," he said at last, and was turning away when Marie touched his arm.
"Look here," she said bluntly, "what is the matter? If you 'll tell me, perhaps I can do something."
He shook his head.
"Thank you," he said again in that gentle and immeasurably moving voice; "I don't think you could."
"Tell me, anyway!" she commanded.
"I came to borrow money," he said with utter simplicity. "My wife is ill, seriously ill. The doctor has ordered her to go out West at once. I have n't the money for such a trip, and I must get it somewhere. So, as Miss Ellis was once very kind to me, I tried here."
"Wait just a little longer!" cried Marie. "I want to tell auntie that—about your wife. I don't think she understood. Is it urgent? Ought she to go at once?"
"Every day counts," he answered.
She rushed up-stairs again, to argue passionately with the old lady.
"It's his wife!" she cried. "She's dying. Something must be done at once!"
She put all her ardent heart into her plea, so that tears sprang to the old lady's eyes; but they were tears not for him, but for Marie and her youth and her fervor. For was she not bringing to that withered and mild old spirit the breath of old days, of bewitching moonlight, of sublime and touching faith, of the mad generosity of youth?
"Nothing can be done, my dear child," she said. "You must n't think me heartless, but, you see, I know Stanley and you don't. Trust in me, my dear."
"What have you got against him?" demanded Marie, fiercely.
"My dear, I have helped the young man several times before. It is always the same—something urgent. I cannot."
"And just because he's been in trouble before, you want to—to—turn him away like a dog!" cried Marie, with a sort of sob in her voice. She could n't think of telling arguments, because, after all, the chief argument was the young man himself, the chief recommendation his beauty in the moonlight.
She gave her aunt one look of profound resentment and started toward the stairs, but directly the old lady had closed her door, she turned back, and ran into her own room. Amelia was sitting up in bed.
"Oh, do tell me who—" she began, but Marie cut her short.
"Do keep quiet!" she said.
With dignified curiosity Amelia watched her while she lighted the lamp and, opening a battered old writing-desk, began struggling with the twisted lock of a little drawer. It flew open suddenly, and a shower of bills came out. She gathered them up, stuffed them into an envelop, and without a glance at Amelia hastened out of the room again.
"Here," she cried, "please take this! It may help you. It's fifty dollars of my own. Father said I could do as I pleased with it."
The young man pushed her hand back gently.
"No!" he said earnestly, "I could n't."
"Oh, don't be silly!" she cried, frowning. "Think of your wife, and not of your own pride."
He said "Oh!" in an odd voice, and turned away his head.
"Take it quick, please! I can't stay here, you know. Please! It's really my own. I don't need it at all. And I'd like so awfully to be a little bit useful to some one."
"No," he said in great distress; "I can't! Never mind, please; it really does n't matter."
"Your wife's health does n't matter!"
"I mean—I don't want—"
She thrust the envelop into his hand, and he kept it and her hand with it.
"What am I to say," he cried, "and how am I ever to thank you?"
"Don't bother. I'd better hurry up-stairs again, or auntie 'll wonder what I'm doing."
But her hand still lay in his, and their eyes met in a long look, both so dark, so young, so ardent. She was aware of a new power and beauty in herself; she knew how she looked, her thin body as straight as a rod in the scant folds of her dressing-gown, that thick braid over her shoulder, her bare feet, the moonlight ennobling her, as it did him, softening her vivid face, her brilliant glance. They stood there, both lost, both enchanted and made helpless by that radiance, by the sweet breath from the fields, by the clasp of their warm hands.
"I must go," she murmured.
He bent and humbly kissed her fingers.
"Good-night," he said.
But it was quite fifteen minutes more before she went up-stairs, and all that time Amelia, leaning out of the window, heard their low voices. Marie entered the bedroom as rapt and aloof as a sleep-walker.
"A man to see auntie," she explained to Amelia. "I 'll tell you all about him in the morning."
Their aunt, too, had something to tell. She took it for granted that Marie had talked to her sister and that both were indignant, and she began, not without hesitation, as they sat at breakfast the next morning.
"I don't want you to think me heartless or unkind, children," she began, while she poured their coffee and carefully put in the cream and sugar they liked, "and yet I can't explain without saying more against the young man than I care to say, because he has many good points. I was at one time, very much attached to him. But you know, my dear girls, that there are people in this world—it is often kinder to oblige them to help themselves."
She stopped for a minute. It was contrary to her code to speak ill of any one,—she thought it ill bred and un-Christian,—but it was contrary to her common sense to allow the young man to become or to remain at all a hero or a martyr in Marie's eyes; she knew that to be dangerous and stupid.
"Stanley came here," she went on, "two or three years ago at harvest-time. He wanted work, so I took him on to help in the fields. He did n't do well at it, but I saw at once that he was unsuited—most unsuited for any such work. I had a talk with him, and he told me a great deal about himself. He said he was a poet, and that he went tramping about from place to place, all over the world, doing any work he could find. I took a deep interest in the young man. I should never have—have refused any reasonable request of his if he had not proved—untrustworthy on more than one occasion. I am very sorry to say it, very. He was not—quite—frank. And he is undoubtedly a very careless and extravagant young man. He has appealed to me several times, but he has never—reimbursed me, as he promised."
She found it difficult to speak harshly of her old favorite despite a little quite justifiable resentment; but she was rather dismayed to see on the faces of both her nieces the most eager curiosity. They passed over his moral shortcomings as negligible; they wanted to know his age, his family, all sorts of personal details. She could not tell them, because she did not know. His talk had been almost invariably about his poems and what the good old lady called his "feelings." At least she knew how he regarded the universe.
Amelia certainly expected a long and explicit account from Marie of her conversation with this interesting young man the night before, but she was disappointed. Marie was gruff and taciturn, avoided Amelia as much as possible, and very reluctantly gave the barest outline of the amazing interview. At last, pursued by questions, she offered to weed the flower garden, and from the window Amelia caught tantalizing glimpses of her, working doggedly, in an old straw garden hat and a faded cotton frock, keeping, as Amelia put it, her secret locked in her breast.
She came in at noon, hot and tired and unsmiling. Amelia was dusting their crowded bureau-top when she entered; and flung herself down on the window-seat.
"Look here, 'Melie," she said, with a frown, "I 've got to meet him this afternoon at the station, and I don't know how to arrange it."
"What is there to arrange? We 'll just go out for a walk and not say where we 're going."
Marie was rather annoyed at having the path of her intrigue made so smooth; she agreed, however, and said no more. They dressed with great care, Amelia in white, Marie in a plain brown linen that showed every angularity of her lank young form. They disputed over the parasol; Marie objected to it as too "dressed up," and a bore to carry, and, as usual, won her point.
Another dispute arose directly they closed the garden gate behind them.
"This is what you must do, Amelia," said Marie. "You can come with me to the station and see him, and then you must say you have an errand, and start slowly home, and I 'll catch up with you."
Amelia objected very strongly.
"I don't see why you should have him alone," she protested. "He's a married man, you know."
"Can't you see that he 'll want to talk to me privately? He must n't know that you know anything about the money. Do have a little tact, Amelia!"
Again Amelia yielded.
He was waiting on the platform of the little station, and when he saw them, he came forward, his head bared, his soft, melancholy eyes fixed upon Marie, only Marie, with no interest at all in Amelia's prettiness.
Even in the glaring sunshine and the dust his rare charm remained. In a dark suit that fitted closely to his slender body, with a low collar and a soft bow tie, he looked every inch a poet and a hero. And his gentle voice, his innocent and mild manner, his courtesy, profoundly affected Amelia. She lingered, walked with them along the road, engrossed in observing them until Marie removed her.
"Amelia has an errand," she said, with an inexorable glance at her sister. "We can stroll up the road a bit, and meet her later at the cross-roads."
Illustration: "'And after I 've gone,' he went on, 'you 'll come here and never think of me'"
Poor Amelia, unable to devise any sort of errand, sat patiently on a grassy bank by the cross-roads for a long, long time. The sun had begun to sink when Marie came running along the road. She was in a very good humor and inclined to be confidential, which was rare, and to be encouraged.
"I'm sorry I kept you waiting so long, old 'Melie," she said, "but we were having such a nice talk!"
"Let's hear about it."
"Oh, he began about hating to take the money and all that, and I told him not to be silly. And then—oh, we told each other about our lives—just the interesting parts, you know. He's been everywhere; it's wonderful to hear him. O 'Melie, just the sort of life I'd like! He fought in the Boer War, he's been in revolutions in South America, he's hunted tigers in India. One day he 'll have plenty of money, and the next day not a penny. No one to think of but himself; not a tie on earth—"
"But, Marie, his wife!"
Marie stopped short, and looked at her sister.
"Do you know, 'Melie, we both forgot all about her! Never mentioned her!"
"He should n't," Amelia answered sagely. "It was horrid. But, still, he's probably awfully unhappy with her. Poets make such awful mistakes about marrying."
Amelia, while a model of propriety, had an incurable softness for handsome young men. So much so that, after decent protest, she consented to go with Marie again the next day to say good-by to Stanley. This time she provided herself with a book, and sat comfortably under a tree while her sister and the poet wandered off into the woods.
She held out a friendly hand to him when they returned.
"Good-by," she said. "Good luck!"
He took her hand, but said nothing, and looked into her face with his soft, black eyes.
"I want," he said at last—"I really must see your sister once more before I go!
He looked so miserable that Amelia found no courage to rebuke him, and the next day, against her scruples, she went once more to the meeting-place. She had talked it all over with Marie.
"This really must be the last time," she had said; "otherwise I 'll have to tell auntie. It really is n't right, and you know it. A married man! And where's his wife all this time? Do you mean to say that he never talks about her?"
"No, he does n't, and I'm not going to bring up the subject. It would look as if I were trying to remind him of the money. I suppose she's gone out West."
"Your fifty dollars would n't take her far," said Amelia.
"I don't know and I don't care. I only know I'm awfully sorry for him. He's lonely and wretched. No one takes any interest in his work except me. I love to hear him read his poems aloud."
"So should I."
"Well, you can't. He's too shy."
Amelia had had a certain experience with affairs of the heart, enough, anyway, to warn and alarm her. She argued and reasoned all the way home, because she saw very clearly that this thing was not at an end.
"If you won't promise not to see him again, I 'll tell auntie," she said sternly.
Marie looked at her with scorn.
"Tell her," she said, "and see what happens."
After that poor Amelia dared not say a word. She knew her sister to be capable of anything and everything. She tried pleading, weeping, exhorting.
"I'm going to meet him again to-morrow," said Marie. "Tell auntie if you like. It won't stop me."
"This once more, then," Amelia agreed, drying her eyes. "O Marie, you 're such a terribly difficult girl!"
Pride forbade Amelia to countenance this meeting; she started out with her sister, but as soon as they were out of sight of the house, she stopped.
"Go on alone," she said; "I don't want to see that man again."
Triumphant and radiant, Marie hastened along the road; her sister watched her with forlorn tears in her eyes. Marie running toward her destiny!
Her poet was waiting for her, standing, somber and patient, under a tree. But no sooner did he see her face than his somberness left him. She was so lovely, so flushed, sparkling, irresistible! Their hands met in a fervent clasp, and a long one.
"I'm going to show you a new place to-day," she told him—"a place 'Melie and I discovered years ago."
She went on before him, along a little path that led down hill through a glade of silver birches. Ferns lined the way, and fragile little flowers; it was a sweet solitude, dim, cool, and fragrant. At last Marie stopped. They had come to a steep decline, where the path ended in a great boulder.
"The rest is a scramble," she said, "but it's worth it. Look! Is n't it lovely?"
He climbed on to the boulder beside her, and with her looked down upon a little pool, like a steel mirror, darkly clear, image of austere tranquillity, a place of unaccountable fascination.
"I wish you'd never been here before," said Stanley; "I wish no one had ever seen this place before to-day." He had jumped down, and stood below her, at the foot of the boulder. "And after I 've gone," he went on, "you 'll come here and never think of me."
She did n't answer, but looked down at him» her eyes soft and luminous. Passion kindled in his. She gave a little sob, stretched out her arms, and slipped down into his embrace. They clung to each other with throbbing hearts.
"Darling Marie!" he whispered, "I love you so!"
"And I love you," she answered. Her arms tightened about his neck, and she buried her head in his coat, sobbing.
"Don't cry, my love!" he entreated. "Look up, won't you, my sweetheart? Don't cry; there's nothing to make you sad, surely."
"I'm not sad," she answered, but the tears would not stop, though she smiled at him. "It's only—I can't explain."
He kissed her again, straining her against him, looking down at her dark and ardent face. He was waiting no doubt for ardent words; but, drying her eyes, she spoke in a voice suddenly become matter-of-fact.
"It won't do to have my eyes red. 'Melie would be sure to notice. There 'll be an awful row, anyway. She's going to tell auntie about my meeting you."
"But, Marie, does that mean we can't meet again?"
Oh, no. They can't stop me. It only means—oh, an awful lot of unpleasantness, rows, you know, and crying. I do hate that sort of thing so."
"But you'd come just the same?" he asked. "You'd defy them—just for me?"
Something in his tone grated on Marie.
"Not 'defy,' exactly," she said, with a quick frown, "and it is n't especially for you. It's simply that I won't be interfered with—ever."
He looked at her with a more respectful admiration. Here was a girl able to hold her own with the most exacting, the most spoiled poet that ever lived.
"Marie," he said seriously, "I don't want you to endure any sort of unpleasantness on my account. I'm not worth a minute's discomfort to you. I have n't any claim, any merit, except that I love you so, my dear sweetheart."
She melted at once, and smiled at him. But he remained grave.
"I love you so much that I—don't think I can go on this way. Why should we, anyway, Marie? If we love each other—only, are you quite sure, absolutely sure, Marie, that you do love me?"
Her eyes met his, candidly and nobly.
"No," she said, "not absolutely sure. But sure enough to—to risk everything for it."
"But I don't understand, my darling girl—"
Her dusky cheeks turned slowly scarlet, but she would not lower her eyes.
"I mean," she said, "that you 're right about not going on this way. I think—it ought to be—either not meeting at all, or—or—going away together. No! Please don't kiss me! Don't touch me at all! It disturbs me. I want to make up my mind."
"Whether you love me?"
"No; I know that. Whether I 'll go with you or not. I thought I made up my mind last night that it would have to be settled one way or the other. But I have n't been able yet—"
"But if you know that you love me, sweetheart, is n't that enough?"
"No," she replied sternly, "it's not. No, Stanley, I want—just another day. I 'll meet you here on Sunday, and I 'll tell you then. I 'll know."
"Marie," he said, "I'd like to go on my knees to you. You 're the finest, bravest—"
She cut him short with a vigorous, boyish sort of hand-clasp.
"Good-by," she cried. "See you on Sunday. Don't come with me; I'd rather go back alone." She scrambled up the hillside, as awkward and swift as a young colt.
She was surprised and disappointed with herself because she slept that night quite as usual. She had intended to stay awake and think. But she waked up very early in the morning with a weary and confused mind, as if she had been thinking all night long in her sleep. Amelia lay tranquilly beside her, rosy and innocent. It was impossible that, in similar circumstances, Amelia would hesitate for an instant, would even contemplate the course which she contemplated.
With a leaden heart she watched the awful majesty of the dawn. It was the sort of sky one sees in old paintings. She had a confused, childish idea that those lofty, crimson-tinged clouds and the brilliant, spear-like shafts of light from the sun were a particularly fitting background to the sudden appearance of an offended Jehovah. She had never before felt so wicked or seen so clearly the depth of the abyss before her. The problem presented itself to her in stark simplicity; she saw it like some antique tragedy, a deadly struggle between love and virtue. She never attempted to justify the former; she unhesitatingly called the thing a sin. The question was, whether to sin or not, whether she should give up everything for love. She was not much of a reader. Modern fiction was unknown to her; in all the old-fashioned novels she had read the heroines who made this sacrifice accepted shame and misery as a necessary consequence, acknowledged themselves sinners.
Then there were those women whose very names enthralled her—dark Francesca in hell, Héloise, Nicolette, Guinevere. She meditated on queens flinging away their majesty, proud women gladly humbled. She envisaged herself giving up her college course, her inheritance from her aunt, and Amelia's companionship, her equivalents. As much as any of these illustrious women, she would be giving up everything, beggaring herself for love, losing her soul.
And while she tried to deliberate this tremendous question, there was life going on as usual. She got up at the usual time, dull and wretched; there was no opportunity to adjust herself, not a quiet moment alone; she must dress and go down-stairs. When she did n't eat, there were kindly questions and insistence; when she became rebellious and sullen, her aunt and her sister were ingenuously conciliating. They tried to relieve her, suggested a tonic, followed her about, urging her to rest. She felt like a person who had a secret knowledge that the end of the world was near and who looked on at the activities of mankind with irritable despair.
The long day wore itself away, and Sunday came. They all went to church as usual in the morning, Marie driving the old surrey, Amelia and the old lady on the back seat. She sat through the service like a statue, heard the solemn commandment read, repeated it herself, clearly and firmly—God Himself telling her she should not run off with a married man.
She drove them home, but did not get out of the carriage herself.
"My head aches," she said. "If you don't mind. Auntie, I 'll stay out in the air."
"Don't be gone too long, pet," the old lady answered, "and keep Billy out of the sun as much as you can."
So she left them at the front door and drove off down the road, sitting up stiff and straight in her Sunday dress of white linen. The old horse trotted along, the carriage bumped and rattled. They watched her out of sight, and then went into the dim, cool house.
Dinner was ready at two o'clock, but Marie had not come home. They waited half an hour, an hour. The old lady grew very anxious, although on Amelia's account she tried to hide it.
"Eat a little dinner, my dear child," she said, "and then afterward perhaps you'd better walk over to Clifford's and borrow their horse and buggy. Don't worry, my dear; you know how often she is late."
Illustration: "'Well, I 've come back,' said Marie, putting down her dusty bag. 'He was n't married, after all"
Amelia had her hat on, ready to start off on the long walk to Clifford's farm, when the carriage flashed by the window in the direction of the barn, and a few minutes later Marie walked into the dining-room.
"I went to meet Stanley," she said bruskly. "I'm going away with him to-night. There's no use talking to me. Amelia, you'd better tell auntie what you know." And without another word she went up-stairs.
When they followed, she was moving about the room, packing her things in an old valise. She was as indifferent to them as if the room were empty. She would not even answer when they spoke. The old lady talked to her gently, with a gallant effort to hide her frantic alarm. She urged religion, affection, worldly policy, the love of the dead mother, every argument she knew; entreated her to wait even for one day, and at last, all her patient love and wisdom ignored, sat and watched in silence. Amelia lay face downward on the bed, sobbing hysterically: "O Marie! you can't you can't!"
Marie went on, folding ribbons, opening and closing drawers, walking back and forth from closet to valise. Then putting on her hat and coat, she picked up the bag and went out, pushing aside her sister, silently removing the trembling old hands that tried to detain her.
She hurried along the road with eager feet that stumbled a little in the thick dust, her heart pounding, her breath fluttering in a tumult of excitement. She reached the cross-roads and turned off into the little woodland path, and, panting, leaned against a tree. The last rays of the sun were lying bright on the ferns and mosses and slim, white trunks of the birches; the sky above was pale and fair, and a little evening breeze came running through the leaves with a long whisper. The birds were chirping drowsily all about her: a low, reedy whistle sounded overhead, there was a plaintive cry from a cat-bird, and far off a distant trill, very sweet and clear.
She loitered now, for she was in advance of the appointed time; she was tired, too, and beginning to grow hungry. The bag was heavy. She left it behind a tree, to be picked up on the way back, and went on more comfortably down the steep hill to the lake.
She was startled at the change the dusk had made. What she saw now was a black and sinister pool, shut in by trees, edged by rank grasses, teeming with stealthy life. There were strange sounds, splashes, gurgles, lapping; night-birds began to call; the sunny peace of the afternoons had fled, and it was suddenly night. She sat down on a stone at some distance from the water to wait.
One star came out; she could see it, solemnly bright, through the branches. The breeze blew cooler, rustled in the leaves with a louder, longer sigh. She had a terrible, bitter feeling of loneliness; she felt cut off forever from her old friendly world, felt truly a sinner and an outcast.
Far off she heard Stanley whistle, and presently he came hurrying down the path.
"Dear sweetheart," he cried, "were you frightened here all alone? I tried—"
"No," she answered, squirming out of his embrace, "but I'm hungry. Do come on, Stanley! We 'll miss that train."
She could n't see his face, but his voice was profoundly disappointed.
"Marie, I did n't think you'd—I thought you'd be glad to see me!"
"I am," she cried remorsefully, for the curious pity she had always felt for him seized her now. She gave him a hasty kiss and patted his hair. "You poor old darling!" she said.
That encouraged him; he put his arm about her and held her closely.
"There's really no hurry," he said. "Let's sit down here, sweetheart; it's quiet and cool, and we can talk over our plans."
She agreed reluctantly.
"All right; but I'm tired to death of this place. I waited so long, you know."
"I only want to please you, darling. We 'll go anywhere, do anything you like. If you'd rather—"
"I don't care, Stanley," she cried, "only—I suppose I'm irritable. It's been such a strain making up my mind!"
"Don't I know, dear girl? Do you think I don't realize all you 're giving up? I only wish I were the greatest poet who ever lived, to put my heart into words. I'm so sorry, my Marie, that it must be this way, all alone, no kindly wishes, no wedding—"
"Oh, how can you!" she cried, jumping up—"how can you be so stupid as to speak of that!"
"But, dearest girl, I did n't know you cared so much for that sort of thing—ceremonies and so forth. Really, I did n't."
"You—you talk about 'realizing,'" she went on, with a sob, "but you don't. You—you don't seem to know that it's a—a tragedy!"
"A tragedy!" he repeated, "My dearest girl! A tragedy not to have a wedding! I did n't know. If you feel so strongly, had n't we better wait?"
"Wait for what? I told you I'd made up my mind, and I have."
"Wait until we can have a real wedding, the sort you want."
"What are you talking about, Stanley? How can we have a wedding?"
"If you 've set your dear heart on one, you shall have it. I 'll make the money somehow—"
"What is the matter with you," she cried, "talking about weddings! Do you want to be a bigamist!"
He started violently.
"My God!" he cried, "I forgot!"
"Forgot your wife!"
"No! no! I—what will you think?—I mean—I forgot I'd said that—about being married. You see, I'm not—"
"Are you divorced, then?" she demanded in a curious tone.
"No, I never was married. I only said it—for your aunt—a—a sort of joke, do you see? Really, I'm terribly ashamed of it, Marie."
"I see," said Marie. "A joke—so that you could borrow more money from her."
"Please don't be too harsh. I know it was—very wrong. But, Marie, I 've always been a careless, irresponsible sort of chap. I did n't see it in its true light. I was so desperately hard up! And, really, dear girl, I did n't know you believed it."
"Why did you think I lent you the money, then? For yourself? For—a joke?"
"Don't, darling! Please don't be so cruel! And please believe Marie, that, no matter what else I 've done, I'd never have been blackguard enough to ask you to run away with me if I had n't been able to marry you. I took it for granted that we were to be married directly we got to the city. I thought the only drawback was my poverty. Please, my dear girl, you know poets are n't to be judged quite as other men."
"Are n't they?" said Marie, grimly. "Come on! We 'll miss our train."
Poor Amelia at home had found it impossible to sleep in the room left desolate by her sister. Forlorn and weeping, she lay beside her aunt, her head resting on the frail old shoulder, her smooth hair brushing the wrinkled cheek.
The shutters were all closed, and a night-light burned in a basin, shedding a feeble glimmer over the great, high-ceilinged room. She stared about her restlessly. Everything was peaceful, orderly, antique: the huge, old bureau; the horsehair sofa; the mantelpiece draped with a fringed, blue-velvet lambrequin; the little bedside table, with its bottle of cough mixture, spoon, glass, and jug of water; the crayon portraits on the walls. To Amelia, used to the breezy darkness of her own room, there was an oppressive, sick-room atmosphere, a stifling sense of being shut off from the great, calm universe. She sat up with a sob.
"I think I 'll go back in my own room. Auntie," she said.
"Shall auntie go with you, pet?"
"No, thank you: I'm afraid I'd keep you awake. I'm so restless!"
They kissed each other tenderly.
"Good night, pet!"
"Good night. Auntie dear!"
The clock struck twelve.
"So late!" said the old lady. "Try to sleep a little, child. You 're worn out."
She answered, "Yes, Auntie," dutifully, and started for her own room, when a sound from below made her stop in terror. Footsteps on the porch! The knob of the front door rattled, the prowling steps moved on to the French windows. Amelia came flying back.
"Auntie, what's that!"
"We '11 soon see. Don't be frightened, dearie," the trembling old lady answered. "Raise the front window, and I 'll call out. But stand well back. He might shoot."
Everything was quiet now. Amelia unbarred the shutters, and with a sudden burst of courage slammed them open.
"Who's there?" she called.
"Marie," answered a matter-of-fact voice. "Come down and let me in."
With a queer little scream, Amelia ran headlong down the stairs to unbolt the door. Marie was standing outside, bag in hand.
"Where's auntie?" she asked.
"In bed, Marie!"
Marie pushed by her sister, and started up the stairs, closely followed by the fluttering, white-gowned Amelia.
The old lady was sitting up in bed in her dim, peaceful room, looking patiently toward the door.
"Well, I 've come back," said Marie, putting down her dusty bag. "He was n't married, after all."
They did n't understand; they looked at her with anxiety.
"It is—all right, then?" Amelia asked timidly. Marie looked at her scornfully.
"I tell you, he was not married. He began to make plans for a wedding. He'd forgotten he'd pretended to have a wife. And at South Point I asked him to get off and send a telegram to you; there was a ten-minute stop there. And I jumped off while he was gone, and left a note for him, pinned on the seat." The matter-of-fact voice suddenly broke, and she began to cry passionately. "I just wrote: 'Keep the money for a wedding present. I despise you. You are a beast.'" She sobbed. "And I walked all the way back from South Point, miles and miles. I never was so tired!"
"Poor lamb! Poor Marie!" murmured the old lady. "Thank God we have you safe at home again! The pain will pass away in time, dear child—"
"Pain!" cried Marie. "There is n't any pain. I don't think I really liked him, anyway. I only wanted to do something—oh, noble and—and sacrificing. But just getting married! What is there in that?"
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1955, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 68 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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