Soldier's Pay

  He paused mountainous and shapeless in his casual black, yearning upon the other. Mr. Saunders rose from his chair and the rector took his arm, lest he escape.

  “Yes, that is best. We will see her together and talk it over thoroughly before we make a definite decision. Yes, yes,” the rector repeated, flogging his own failing conviction, spurring it. “This afternoon, then?”

  “This afternoon,” Mr. Saunders agreed.

  “Yes, that is our proper course. I’m sure she does not understand. You don’t think she fully understands?” (This was Donald, my son. He is dead.)

  “Yes, yes,” Mr. Saunders agreed in his turn.

  Jones found his pipe at last and nursing his bruised hand he filled and lit it.

  V

  She had just met Mrs. Worthington in a store and they had discussed putting up plums. Then Mrs. Worthington, saying good-bye, waddled away slowly to her car. The negro driver helped her in with sufficient detachment and shut the door.

  I’m spryer than her, thought Mrs. Burney exultantly, watching the other’s gouty painful movement. Spite of she’s rich and got a car, she added, feeling better through malice, suppressing her own bone-aches, walking spryer than the rich one. Spite of she’s got money. And here approaching was that strange woman staying at Parson Mahon’s, the one that come here with him and that other man, getting herself talked about, and right. The one everybody expected to many him and that he had throwed down for that boy-chasing Saunders girl.

  “Well,” she remarked with comfortable curiosity, peering t up into the white calm face of the tall dark woman in her dark dress with its immaculate cuffs and collar. “I hear you are going to have a marriage up at your house. That’s so nice for Donald. He’s quite sweet on her, ain’t he?”

  “Yes. They were engaged for a long time, you know.”

  “Yes, they was. But folks never thought she’d wait for him, let alone take him sick and scratched up like he is. She’s had lots of chances, since.”

  “Folks think lots of things that aren’t true,” Mrs. Powers reminded her. Mrs. Burney was intent on her own words.

  “Yes, she’s had lots of chances. But then Donald has too, ain’t he?” she asked cunningly.

  “I don’t know. You see, I haven’t known him very long.”

  “Oh, you ain’t? Folks all thought you and him was old friends, like.”

  Mrs. Powers looked down at her neat cramped figure in its air-proof black without replying.

  Mrs. Burney sighed. “Well, marriage is nice. My boy never married. Like’s not he would by now: girls was all crazy about him, only he went to war so young.” Her peering, salacious curiosity suddenly left her. “You heard about my boy?” she asked with yearning.

  “Yes, they told me, Dr. Mahon did. He was a good soldier, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes. And them folks got him killed with just a lot of men around: nobody to do nothing for him. Seems like they might of took him into a house where womenfolks could have eased him. Them others come back spry and bragging much as you please. Trust them officers and things not to get hurt!” Her washed blue eyes brooded across the quiet square. After a time she said: “You never lost no one you loved in the war, did you?”

  “No,” Mrs. Powers answered, gently.

  “I never thought so,” the other stated fretfully. “You don’t look like it, so tall and pretty. But then, most didn’t. He was so young,” she explained, “so brave. . . . “She fumbled with her umbrella. Then she said briskly:

  “Mahon’s boy come back, anyway. That’s something. Specially as he’s taking a bride.” She became curious again, obscene: “He’s all right, ain’t he?”

  “All right?”

  “I mean for marriage. He ain’t—it’s just—I mean a man ain’t no right to palm himself off on a woman if he ain’t——”

  “Good morning,” said Mrs. Powers curtly, leaving her cramped and neat in her meticulous air-proof black, holding her cotton umbrella like a flag, stubborn, refusing to surrender.

  VI

  “You fool, you idiot, marrying a blind man, a man with nothing, practically dead.”

  “He is not! He is not!”

  “What do you call him then? Aunt Callie Nelson was here the other day saying that the white folks had killed him.”

  “You know nigger talk doesn’t mean anything. They probably wouldn’t let her worry him, so she says he——”

  “Nonsense. Aunt Callie has raised more children than I can count. If she says he is sick, he is sick.”

  “I don’t care. I am going to marry him.”

  Mrs. Saunders sighed creakingly. Cecily stood before her, flushed and obstinate. “Listen, honey. If you marry him you are throwing yourself away, all your chances, all your youth and prettiness, all the men that like you: men who are good matches.”

  “I don’t care,” she repeated, stubbornly.

  “Think. There are so many you can have for the taking, so much you can have: a big wedding in Atlanta with all your triends for bridesmaids, clothes, a wedding trip. . . . And then to throw yourself away. After your father and I have done so much for you.”

  “I don’t care. I am going to marry him.”

  “But, why? Do you love him?”

  “Yes, yes!”

  “That scar, too?”

  Cecily’s face blanched as she stared at her mother. Her eyes became dark and she raised her hand delicately. Mrs. Saunders took her hand and she drew her resisting onto her lap. Cecily protested tautly but her mother held her, drawing her head down to her shoulder, smoothing her hair. “I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t mean to say that. But tell me what it is.”

  Her mother would not fight fair. She knew this with anger, but the older woman’s tactics scattered her defences of anger: she knew she was about to cry. Then it would be all up. Let me go,” she said, struggling, hating her mother’s unfairness.

  “Hush, hush. There now, lie here and tell me what it is. You must have some reason.”

  She ceased to struggle and she became completely lax. “I haven’t. I just want to marry him. Let me go. Please, mamma.”

  “Cecily, did your father put this idea in your head?”

  She shook her head and her mother turned her face up. “Look at me.” They stared at each other and Mrs. Saunders repeated: “Tell me what your reason is.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You mean you won’t?”

  “I can’t tell you.” She slipped suddenly from her mother’s lap but Mrs. Saunders held her kneeling against her knee.

  “I won’t,” she cried, struggling. The other held her tightly. “You are hurting me!”

  “Tell me.”

  Cecily wrenched herself free and stood. “I can’t tell you. I have just got to marry him.”

  “Got to marry him? What do you mean?” She stared at her daughter, gradually remembering old rumours about Mahon, gossip she had forgot. “Got to marry him? Do you mean that you—that a daughter of mine—with a blind man, a man who has nothing, a pauper——?”

  Cecily stared at her mother and her face flamed. “You think—you said that to—Oh, you’re not my mother: you are somebody else.” Suddenly she cried like a child, wide-mouthed, not even hiding her face. She whirled running. “Don’t ever speak to me again,” she gasped and fled wailing up the stairs. And a door slammed.

  Mrs. Saunders sat thinking, tapping her teeth monotonously with a fingernail. After a while she rose, and going to the telephone, she called her husband downtown.

  VII

  VOICES

  The Town:

  I wonder what that woman that came home with him thinks about it, now he’s taken another one. If I were that Saunders girl I wouldn’t take a man that brought another woman right up to my door, you might say. And that new one, what’It she do now? Go
away and get another man, I guess. Hope she’ll learn enough to get a well one this time. . . . Funny goings-on in that house. And a preacher of the gospel, too. Even if he is Episcopal. If he wasn’t such a nice man. . . .

  George Farr:

  It isn’t true, Cecily, darling, sweetheart. You can’t, you can’t. After your body prone and narrow as a pool dividing. . . .

  The Town:

  I hear that boy of Mahon’s, that hurt fellow, and that girl of Saunders’s, are going to get married. My wife said they never would, but I said all the time . . .

  Mrs. Burney:

  Men don’t know. They should of looked out for him better. Saying he never wanted for nothing. . . .

  George Farr:

  Cecily, Cecily. . . . Is this death?

  The Town:

  There’s that soldier that come with Mahon. I guess that woman will take him now. But maybe she don’t have to. He might have been saving time himself.

  Well, wouldn’t you, if you was him?

  Sergeant Madden:

  Powers. Powers. . . . A man’s face spitted like a moth on a lance of flame. Powers. . . . Rotten luck for her.

  Mrs. Burney:

  Dewey, my boy. . . .

  Sergeant Madden:

  No, ma’am. He was all right. We did all we could. . . .

  Cecily Saunders:

  Yes, yes, Donald. I will, I will! I will get used to your poor face, Donald! George, my dear love, take me away, George!

  Sergeant Madden:

  Yes, yes, he was all right. . . . A man on a fire-step; screaming with fear.

  George Farr:

  Cecily, how could you? How could you?

  The Town:

  That girl . . . time she was took in hand by somebody. Running around town nearly nekkid. Good thing he’s blind, ain’t it?

  Guess she hopes he’ll stay blind, too. . . .

  Margaret Powers:

  No, no, good-bye, dear dead Dick, ugly dead Dick. . . .

  Joe Gilligan:

  He is dying, he gets the woman he doesn’t want even, while I am not dying. . . . Margaret, what shall I do? What can I say?

  Emmy:

  Come here, Emmy? Ah, come to me, Donald. But he is dead.

  Cecily Saunders:

  George, my lover, my poor dear. . . . What have we done?

  Mrs. Burney:

  Dewey, Dewey, so brave, so young. . . .

  (This was Donald, my son. He is dead.)

  VIII

  Mrs. Powers mounted the stairs under Mrs. Saunders’s curious eyes. The older woman had been cold, almost rude, but Mrs. Powers had won her point, and choosing Cecily’s door from her mother’s directions she knocked.

  After a while she knocked again and called: “Miss Saunders.”

  Silence was again a hushed tense interval, then Cecily’s muffled voice came through the door:

  “Go away.”

  “Please,” she insisted. “I want to see you a moment.”

  “No, no. Go away.”

  “But I must see you.” There was no reply and she added; “I have just talked to your mother, and to Dr. Mahon. Let me come in, won’t you?”

  She heard movement, a bed, then another interval. Fool, taking time to powder her face. But you would, too, she told herself. The door opened under her hand.

  Powder only made the traces of tears more visible and Cecily turned her back as Mrs. Powers entered the room. She could see the indentation of a body on the bed, and a crumpled pillow. Mrs. Powers, not being offered a chair, sat on the foot of the bed, and Cecily, across the room, leaning in a window and staring out, said ungraciously: “What do you want?”

  How like her this room is! thought the caller, observing pale maple and a triple mirrored dressing table bearing a collection of fragile crystal, and delicate clothing carelessly about on chairs, on the floor. On a chest of drawers was a small camera picture, framed.

  “May I look?” she asked, knowing instinctively who it was. Cecily, stubbornly presenting her back in a thin, formless garment through which light from the window passed revealing her narrow torso, made no reply. Mrs. Powers approached and saw Donald Mahon bareheaded in a shabby unbuttoned tunic standing before a corrugated iron wall, carrying a small resigned dog casually by the scruff of the neck, like a handbag.

  “That’s so typical of him, isn’t it?” she commented. Cecily said rudely:

  “What do you want with me?”

  “That’s exactly what your mother asked me, you know. She seemed to think I was interfering also.”

  “Well, aren’t you? Nobody asked you to come here.” Cecily turned, leaning her hip against the window ledge.

  “I don’t think it’s interference when its warranted though. Do you?”

  “Warranted? Who asked you to interfere? Did Donald do it, or are you trying to scare me off? You needn’t tell me Donald asked you to get him out of it: it will be a lie.”

  “But I’m not: I don’t intend to. I’m trying to help you both.”

  “Oh, you are against me. Everybody’s against me, except Donald. And you keep him shut up like a—prisoner.” She turned quickly and leaned her head against the window.

  Mrs Powers sat quietly examining her, her frail revealed body under the silly garment she wore—a webby cloying thing worse than nothing and a fit complement to the single belaced garment it revealed above the long hushed gleams of her stockings. . . . If Cellini had been a hermit-priest he might have imagined her, Mrs. Powers thought, wishing mildly she could see the other naked. At last she rose from the bed and crossed to the window. Cecily kept her head stubbornly averted, and expecting tears, she touched the girl’s shoulder. “Cecily,” she said, quietly.

  Cecily’s green eyes were dry, stony, and she moved swiftly i across the room with her delicate narrow stride. She stood holding the door open. Mrs. Powers, at the window, did not accept. Did she ever, ever forget herself? she wondered, observing the studied grace of the girl’s body turned on the laxed ball of a thigh. Cecily met her gaze with one of haughty commanding scorn.

  “Won’t you even leave the room when you are asked?” she said, making her swift, coarse voice sound measured and cold.

  Mrs. Powers thinking O hell, what’s the use? moved so as to lean her thigh against the bed. Cecily, without changing her position, moved the door for emphasis. Standing quietly, watching her studied fragility (her legs are rather sweet, she admitted, but why all this posing for me? I’m not a man) Mrs. Powers ran her palm slowly along the smooth wood of the bed. Suddenly the other slammed the door and returned to the window. Mrs. Powers followed.

  “Cecily, why can’t we talk about it sensibly?” The girl made no reply, ingoring her, crumpling the curtain in her fingers. “Miss Saunders?”

  “Why can’t you let me alone?” Cecily flared suddenly, flaming out at her. “I don’t want to talk to you about it. Why do you come to me?” Her eyes darkened: they were no longer hard. “If you want him, take him, then. You have every chance you could want, keeping him shut up there so that even I can’t see him!”

  “But I don’t want him. I am trying to straighten things out for him. Don’t you know that if I had wanted him I would have married him before I brought him home?”

  “You tried it, and couldn’t. That’s why you didn’t. Oh, don’t say it wasn’t,” she rushed on as the other would have spoken. “I saw it that first day. That you were after him. And if you aren’t, why do you keep on staying here?”

  “You know that’s a lie,” Mrs. Powers replied, calmly.

  “Then what makes you so interested in him, if you aren’t in love with him?”

  (This is hopeless.) She put her hand on the other’s arm. Cecily shrank quickly away and she returned to lean again against the bed. S
he said:

  “Your mother is against this, and Donald’s father expects it. But what chance will you have against your mother?” (Against yourself? )

  “I certainly don’t need any advice from you,” Cecily turned her head, her haughtiness, her anger, were gone and in their place was a thin hopeless despair. Even her voice, her whole attitude, had changed. “Don’t you see how miserable I am?” she said pitifully. “I didn’t mean to be rude to you, but I don’t know what to do, I don’t know. . . . I am in such trouble: something terrible has happened to me. Please!”

  Mrs. Powers, seeing her face, went to her quickly, putting her arm about the girl’s narrow shoulders. Cecily avoided her. “Please, please go.”

  “Tell me what it is.”

  “No, no, I can’t. Please——”

  They paused, listening. Footsteps approaching, stopped beyond the door: a knock, and her father’s voice called her name.

  “Yes?”

  “Dr. Mahon is downstairs. Can you come down?”

  The two women stared at each other.

  “Come,” Mrs. Powers said.

  Cecily’s eyes went dark again and she whispered. “No, no, no!” trembling.

  “Sis,” her father repeated.

  “Say yes,” Mrs. Powers whispered.

  “Yes, daddy. I’m coming.”

  “All right.” The footsteps retreated and Mrs. Powers drew Cecily towards the door. The girl resisted.

  “I can’t go like this,” she said, hysterically.

  “Yes, you can. It’s all right. Come.”

  Mrs. Saunders, sitting militant, formal and erect upon her chair, was saying as they entered:

  “May I ask what this—this woman has to do with it?” Her husband chewed a cigar. Light falling upon the rector’s face held it like a grey bitten mask. Cecily ran to him. “Uncle Joe!” she cried.

  “Cecily!” her mother said, sharply. “What do you mean, coming down like that?”

  The rector rose, huge and black, embracing her. “Uncle Joe!” she repeated, clinging to him.

  “Now Robert,” Mrs. Saunders began. But the rector interrupted her.

  “Cecily,” he said, raising her face. She twisted her chin and hid her face against his coat.