“Perhaps he wanted to get away from us,” she answered. “Jim, you were the only boy he was ever friendly with. Do you remember that? He always liked you so much.”
“Oh, I’ll go out to see him!” I exclaimed with increasing impatience. I went home, feeling that somehow I had done some great wrong, and that Livy and I were very far apart.
But I did not go out to see him. Two months went by, three months, four. Before I knew it my mother was becoming excited about Christmas, and the first snow was falling. I was very busy. My father did not go out on country calls now, and I made them myself. We had a telephone, and a few of the farmers did, also. It seemed to me that sickness was more rife in the country since the telephone had come in. I made several midnight calls to deliver babies and prescribe for charley horse and lumbago and broken legs. The work was arduous, but I enjoyed it. One day I went down the Cartersville road to some distant farmhouse, and to the right, toward the hills, I saw Dan’s house. It was a cold November day and the trees were stripped, but near the house was a line of pines, blackly green against the clear and colorless sky. I could see a low smudge of smoke over the house, and a dog barked distantly at me. The house was long and rambling, but looked well kept, freshly painted white with green shutters. It looked lonely and secret to me. I reined in my horse, and considered. I could drive in for a minute. But some reluctance held me back. I hated to renew an old friendship, for unexplained reasons. Some other day, I thought; I was tired, and I disliked questions back and forth. I was not up to it. Nevertheless, when I arrived home, I was full of depression and uneasiness.
Two days after Christmas a blizzard set in, accompanied by a howling wind and bitter cold. It was almost impossible to see three feet ahead, and the snow was piling up in great ridges like the sands of a desert. My father and I sat and read and smoked before a mighty parlor fire, my mother knitting close by. It was very snug and secure here, and I prayed that there would be no calls tonight. I was just beginning to doze beautifully, listening to the snapping of the logs and the rustle of my father’s paper and the clicking of my mother’s needle, when there came a sharp knock at our door. Father dropped his paper, lifted a quizzical eyebrow at me. We waited until we heard the girl answer the door. There came quick steps in the hall, and Sarah Faire, her bonnet and coat white with snow, burst into the warmness of our room. Mother rose with an exclamation, the knitting tumbling from her black bombazine lap, and my father dropped his papers and stared.
“Whatever!” cried my mother, going forward and attempting to remove Sarah’s coat. “On such a night, Sarah! Are you sick? Is dear Bee sick?”
“No,” said Sarah. I had seen her only once since I had returned, and I noticed that the gray had thickened in her hair, which had become duller. She was thinner than before, and there were lines in her gentle face. “I won’t take off my coat.” The color whipped in her cheeks by the wind and the snow faded, and I saw that she was ghastly pale. “No one’s sick.”
Then suddenly she began to cry, weakly, wailingly, and wrung her hands together. She put her hands over her face, and her body almost doubled over, like one in great pain. My father took her arm, while my mother stood by, bewildered and nonplussed.
“Sarah,” said my father commandingly. “What is it? Here, sit down. No, never mind worrying about the chair, if you’re too stubborn to take off your coat.” His sharp words had an effect on her; she allowed my mother to remove her coat. She had apparently come out without gloves, and her hands were swollen and red with cold.
Mother called for something hot for her to drink, and the hired girl, who had been staring in the doorway, scuttled toward the kitchen. Sarah sat down in the red plush chair before the fire, allowed my mother to rub her numb hands. She did not cry aloud now, but tears flowed down her face. I knew that such tears meant either terrible physical or mental pain, and I, always the alert young physician, came forward. But I waited until she drank a cup of hot milk. She drank mechanically, as though her thoughts were concerned with something at a distance, tragic and desperate. My mother was questioning her gently, at which she shook her head slightly as if disturbed by sounds that withdrew her from her contemplation. Then her fixed eye moved a little and fell on me. Instantly a feverish animation brightened her pinched features.
“Jim!” she cried. “You’ve got to do something! He’ll listen to you. You always had some influence on him. He won’t listen to me, I know, in spite of everything. But, you can do something. Jim!” She caught my hand; her eyes, bloodshot and agonized, glared at me. “You’ll talk to him, Jim?”
“Talk to whom?” I asked soothingly. “Sure, I’ll talk to anyone, Mrs. Faire. If you’ll just tell me what it is all about.”
She continued to glare at me; she became silent. Her bloodless lips moved without a sound. My mother and father exchanged bewildered looks. Then it were as though the poor woman collapsed internally, for she shrank in her chair and began to rock violently, moaning under her breath.
“You’ve got to talk to him, Jim,” she repeated after a few moments. “You’ve got to tell him he can’t marry Bee. It can’t happen; anything so cruel can’t happen.” Her voice rose on a great cry.
“Who wants to marry Bee?” exclaimed my mother and father together. But I said nothing. I felt sick, for I knew. “I’m sure,” said my mother when Sarah did not reply, “that Mr. Pringle is a very nice young man, and though I know you hate the thought of losing dear little Bee, you must resign yourself to it. After all, she can’t be an old maid, she being so pretty and sweet. I know your heart is breaking at the thought of separation from her, but things will be all right. You must just resign yourself to it, Sarah, dear. Well,” she added, straightening up and smiling at us brightly. “This is very good news. Bee deserves such a nice young man. I’m sure we are very happy to hear it.” She smiled at Sarah indulgently, and my father laughed.
But Sarah was not looking at them; she was staring at me desperately, with wild eyes. She knew I knew. I cleared my throat awkwardly.
“Wait a minute, Mother. Maybe it’s not Mr. Pringle that Bee’s going to marry.”
My parents turned to me, surprised.
“Maybe,” I added dully, “it’s Dan Hendricks.”
“Dan Hendricks!” cried my mother, while my father gaped. “Sarah! It’s not Dan Hendricks? Dan Hendricks!”
Sarah nodded. Her face had become dull and lifeless.
“Of all the damned impudence!” shouted my father. “Why, damn his hide—”
“James,” said my mother, but mechanically. She laid her hand on Sarah’s shoulder. “Why, you poor thing! No wonder you feel so badly. No wonder! I can’t believe it; Bee, of all people. And I always thought she had such good sense, always so proper, always knowing what was just right. Bee!” My mother looked wounded and aghast, as at a personal injury.
But Sarah continued to stare at me. Only she and I knew what was in her mind. Dan could not, must not, marry Bee Faire. Sarah had begun to wring her hands, slowly, soundlessly, and the sight was infinitely pathetic.
My father stamped up and down the room, fuming, his hands thrust deeply in his pockets, his watch chain glittering on his protruding belly. He glowered, pulled at his short beard, bit his lip. He turned on Sarah explosively.
“Why, damn it, it’s an insult to the whole community, for him to look at Bee. But I don’t altogether blame Bee, Sarah.” He shook his head at her menacingly. “You’ve got yourself to blame, too. Always having him hanging around, since he was a kid, always doing things for him, and standing up for him, throwing him into association with that poor, misguided girl. You’ve got yourself to blame. I always said to Matilda here, that you would suffer for it someday.” He looked at my mother for corroboration, and she nodded, her lips tight. “Well, now you’re suffering. But we are your friends and want to help you. Have you talked to Bee?”
Sarah nodded. “I’ve talked to her,” she said in a monotonous voice, as though she were speaking in a dream. “It didn’
t do any good. She laughed at me.”
“Girls,” sighed my mother. “You knew nothing about it before she told you, Sarah?”
Sarah began to cry again, with little tight sobs, as though she dared not become agitated because of the great agony in her heart.
“No! I would never have let him come again if I had known. Bee never liked him. She used to pick on him, and jeer at him, though he never retaliated. I—I almost died when she told me. I begged her on my knees—”
“But a nice, sweet girl like Bee couldn’t really care for a man like that,” said my mother incredulously, rubbing her palms together distractedly. “Whatever possessed her!”
I had been thinking in a sick misery for the past few minutes. I had been suffering remorse and shame that I had avoided Dan so long. I was appalled at my smugness; it fell from me now like a smothering coat, leaving me free again. What a prig and a fool I had been! Blind, stupid, chained. No wonder Livy had looked at me so strangely lately, as at a stranger wearing the disguise of a friend. My mind had become blanketed in thick, soft garment of narrowness and convention. I had surrendered without an effort, left the windy places where a man could be free, and had come into this hot and overcrowded room of the accepted. But, it was not too late, I thought, with a fearful feeling that it was indeed too late. I would see Dan; I would persuade him from this colossal folly and calamity. That was what Sarah wanted. I put my hand on her shoulder.
“I’ll talk to Dan,” I said gently. “We’ve always been friends. I think he’ll listen to me.”
I was surprised at the harsh bitterness that stood suddenly in her eyes as she looked up at me. Her mouth curled with denunciation.
“Friends! And you haven’t been near him since you came back, Jim.”
“That’s so,” said my father with satisfaction. “Jim’s finally got sense. Now, Sarah, I’ll take you home in the sleigh. It’s a bad night, and we’ll see what can be done to save poor Bee from herself. I suppose she was sorry for the scoundrel.”
“Girls,” sighed my mother again. “Always trying to save reprobates.”
When my father had taken poor Sarah away, I walked up and down the room restlessly, consumed with remorse and fear and shame, while my mother sighed and exclaimed, and chattered endlessly. Something can be done, I insisted to myself. Something must be done. I remembered all the repugnance I had felt for Bee, her secret smile, her cruel tongue, her malice-lighted eyes. No, she must not marry Dan. He did not deserve this. I recalled all the things he had done, and knew he had been right. He had remained free, had been born free and lived free. He had not become entangled by life; now, he was threatened by this entanglement.
Oh! I thought. If one could just murder her quietly! She’s always trying to marry someone! I suppose it’s because of Dan’s money.
But I did not know for a long time the real reason for her marrying Dan Hendricks. I hardly believed it when I knew. It was too appalling, too subtle, too beyond all our little experience.
Chapter Twelve
The next morning the blizzard had subsided. The world was all glittering white waves and deep blue shadows under a sun like a blazing crystal. Sleighbells rang through the shining air, and every tree was heavy with white snow. A clear and peaceful morning, somehow festive and exciting. But burningly cold.
I wrapped myself in the bear rug when I had seated myself in the cutter. My mother had heated hot bricks for my feet, for the drive was long, and I had two calls to make in the vicinity of Dan’s farm. I drove away, the breath stinging my nostrils, the harness glittering on the black horse’s fat body. My bells jingled gaily; holly wreaths hung in every window in front of stiff lace curtains, and children played with bright red sleds in the snow. Against the lighted and colorless sky, plumes of gray smoke rose from snug chimneys, and when I passed a group of pines a shower of snow fell on me. In spite of premonitions, I felt cheerful and confident.
I came to the end of the street and saw a slim figure in black coat furred with a strip of black fur, bowed over a round little muff. I reined in and called, “Livy!”
She came towards me, smiling with difficulty. Despite the stinging air, her face was without color, and her eyes looked tired. She told me she was calling on Mrs. Hughes, who was sick.
“Get in,” I said. “I’ll take you there,”
She climbed in, and I tucked the robe about her. She was shivering visibly. Livy, shivering, Livy who had always been so joyous and vigorous! I looked at her sharply, and did not like her color. I spoke of it with concern, but she shrugged with a manner that showed annoyance. We drove in silence for a while. I wanted to tell her that I was going to Dan, but wondered how to begin the whole difficult story. Unconsciously, she helped me by asking where I was going, and I told her that I had some calls near Dan’s farm. She sighed quickly.
“And, of course, you won’t go to see him, Jim.”
“Yes,” I said quietly, “I will.” I could feel her surprised eyes on me, but I applied the whip to the horse without looking at her. “You see, Livy, Dan’s going to be married. To Bee Faire.”
She gave a sharp cry, and I turned to her. She was trembling so I could feel it through our clothing, and her face had become ghastly.
“No! Jim, it isn’t true! Tell me it isn’t true. I don’t believe it.” She began to whimper, catching her under lip with her teeth to stop its shaking.
“It’s true,” I said gravely. She put her small gloved hand to her face and felt it all over with it as though it had gone numb. “Sarah told us last night. She wanted me to stop it; she asked me to see Dan. That’s why I’m going out there.”
Her hand fell from her face, the tips of her gloves wet. She blinked rapidly and looked into the distance. We had reached the Hughes’s house, and I stopped the horse and waited. She seemed to collect herself with an effort and got out of the cutter slowly. Then she looked up at me tragically.
“Jim, don’t let him marry her, will you?”
“I’ll do my best,” I said, a sense of hopelessness coming over me. “Of course, she’s just after his money. I’ll make him see that.”
I waited until she had gone up the snowy walk and stood by the door, hoping that she would turn around and smile at me. But she did not; she walked like an old woman, stooped and uncertain of step. I went on, frowning.
I began to formulate for the hundredth time what I would say to Dan. What could I say? First of all there was the painful business of apology to be gotten over, and I winced at it. Then, after that? What could I say? I remembered his grave kindliness that, however, invited no intimacies. How to begin? On the surface it seemed absurd, a small-town girl marrying a small-town man. What of it? many would say. They would laugh at my fumbling descriptions of Bee and exclaim with ridicule. She was an intelligent and sharp-tongued girl; what of it? She was not soft and gentle, but, what of it? She was competent and would make a good housekeeper. A good housekeeper. I repeated it to myself. But, I thought desperately, there was something beyond that, subtle and evil and treacherous. Nonsense, exclaimed the hypothetical many. I was melodramatic, full of romanticism. I was making a mountain out of a molehill. I could not explain to the many the expression in Bee’s eyes, the aura she had about her of something dangerous and deadly. You are a pack of fools, said the many in my mind.
I was in a bad and nervous state of mind when I reached Dan’s house. There it was, near its dark green pines, shrouded in snow, low and long and rambling, green-shuttered and quiet, its smoke in a hazy column against the sky. There was no sign of life about it, except for the smoke. Suddenly there was a reddish and agitated blur against the uncleared snow, and a big collie dog rushed towards me, barking frantically. I stopped my horse, and the dog leapt about it, then tried to get at me in the cutter. His eyes and teeth were unfriendly. Dogs always liked me, but this dog responded to my overtures with growls. Nevertheless, he allowed me to get out of the cutter when we arrived at the house, and watched me hitch the horse and blanket the animal wit
h only a dull rumbling in his throat. The steps of the porch had been cleared, and I admired the fine oaken door with its fanlight and brightly gleaming copper knocker.
It was a long time until there was a response; in the meantime there was the hissing of the powdered snow as a slight wind lifted it into the cold bright sunlight, and the cawing of crows as their black forms rose against the sky. At length the door opened slowly and an ancient woman with steel-rimmed glasses and a shawl peered out at me.
“I want to see Dan Hendricks,” I said. She continued to peer at me, working her lips, for several moments.
“He ain’t home,” she croaked at last, with an unfriendly stare into my eyes.
I looked down the unbroken expanse of snow that Stretched from the house.
“That’s a lie,” I said loudly. “He’s here. Tell him Jim Marcy wants to see him.”
She muttered something, then slammed the door in my face. Was that final, or had she gone to tell Dan? I beat my numbed heels together while I waited. I had just determined to pound the knocker again, with great force, when the door opened once more. The old woman stood there, and looking more unfriendly than ever, she beckoned me to enter.
I stood in a darkly paneled hall with polished floor. It was cold in there, yet gleamed with cleanliness. I almost slipped on a small carpet in the center of the hall. I followed the old crone to a door, and opened it before she could. I stood on the threshold of a remarkable and beautiful room.
It was very long and narrow, almost like a great corridor. The ceilings and walls were paneled in dark wood, dimly shining. Five windows along the side, low, squat windows with beaded glass, let in the brilliant sunlight like dazzling mirrors. High bookcases, filled with books, covered one wall from end to end. The furniture was heavy mahogany, comfortable and low, cushioned in rich, dark colors. On heavy tables stood half a dozen oil lamps with round, painted shades. At the far end glowed the flickering redness of a great log fire. Before that fire sat Dan Hendricks, reading. He looked up as I appeared, and removed the pipe from his mouth in silence.