She Buildeth Her House

  TENTH CHAPTER

  PAULA SEES SELMA CROSS IN TRAGEDY, AND IN HER OWN APARTMENT NEXT MORNINGIS GIVEN A REALITY TO PLAY

  Selma Cross did not reach New York until the morning of the opening dayat the _Herriot Theatre_. She was very tired from rehearsals and thetry-outs along the string of second cities. There had been a bigdifference of opinion regarding _The Thing_, among what New Yorkers arepleased to call the provincial critics. From the character of the firstnotices, on the contrary, it was apparent that the townsmen were not alittle afraid to trust such a startling play to New York. Mid-forenoonof an early April day, the actress rapped upon Paula's door.

  "I have seen the boards," Paula exclaimed. "'Selma Cross' in letters bigas you are; and yesterday afternoon they were hanging the electric signin front of the _Herriot_. Also I shall be there to-night--since I waswise enough to secure a ticket ten days ago. Isn't it glorious?"

  "Yes, I am quite happy about it," Selma Cross said, stretching out uponthe lounge. "Of course, it's not over until we see the morning papers. Iwas never afraid--even of the vitriol-throwers, before. You see, I haveto think about success for Stephen Cabot, too."

  "Is he well?" Paula asked hastily.

  "Oh yes, though I think sometimes he's a martyr. Oh, I have so much tosay----"

  "You said you would tell me some time how Vhruebert first decided totake you on," Paula urged.

  "Before I got to the gate where the star-stuff passes through?" SelmaCross answered laughingly. "That was four years ago. I had been to himmany times before he let me in. His chair squeaked under him. He lookedat me first as if he were afraid I would spring at him. I told him whatI could do, and he kept repeating that he didn't know it and New Yorkdidn't know it. I said I would show New York, but unfortunately I had toshow him first. He screwed up his face and stared at me, as if I werestartlingly original in my ugliness. I know he could hear my heart beat.

  "'I can't do anything for you, Miss Gross,' he said impatiently, but inspite of himself, he added, 'Come to-morrow.' You see, I had made himthink, and that hurt. He knew something of my work all right, andwondered where he would put a big-mouthed, clear-skinned, yellow-eyedamazon. The next day, he kept me waiting in the reception-room until Icould have screamed at the half-dressed women on the walls.

  "'I don't know exactly why I asked you to come again,' was his greetingwhen the door finally opened to me. 'What was it, once more, that youmean to do?'

  "'I mean to be the foremost tragedienne,' I said.

  "'Sit down. Tragedy doesn't bay.'

  "'I shall make it pay.'

  "'Um-m. How do you know? Some brivate vire of yours?'

  "'I can show you that I shall make it pay.'

  "'My Gott, not here! We will go to the outskirts.'

  "And he meant it, Paula. It was mid-winter. He took me to a littlesummer-theatre up Lenox way. The place had not been open sinceThanksgiving. Vhruebert sat down in the centre of the frosty parquet,shivering in his great coat. You know he's a thin-lipped, smile-lesslittle man, but not such a dead soul as he looks. He leaks outoccasionally through the dollar-varnish. Can you imagine a colderreception? Vhruebert sat there blowing out his breath repeatedly,seemingly absorbed in the effect the steam made in a little bar ofsunlight which slanted across the icy theatre. That was my try-outbefore Vhruebert. I gave him some of Sudermann, Boker, and Ibsen. Heraised his hand finally, and when I halted, he called in a bartenderfrom the establishment adjoining, and commanded me to give somethingfrom Camille and Sapho. I would have murdered him if he had been foolingme after that. The bartender shivered in the cold.

  "'What do you think of that, Mr. Vite-Apron?' Vhruebert inquired atlength. He seemed to be warmer.

  "'Hot stuff,' said the man. 'It makes your coppers sizzle.'

  "The criticism delighted Vhruebert. 'Miss Gross, you make our gopperssizzle,' he exclaimed, and then ordered wine and told me to be at hisstudio to-morrow at eleven. That was the real winning," Selma Crossconcluded. "To-night I put the crown on it."

  Paula invariably felt the fling of emotions when Selma Cross was near.The latter seemed now to have found her perfect dream; certainly therewas fresh coloring and poise in her words and actions. It wasinspiriting for Paula to think of Selma Cross and Stephen Cabot havingbeen accepted by the hard-headed Vhruebert--that such a pair could eathis bread and drink his wine with merry hearts. It was more thaninspiriting for her to think of this vibrant heart covering andmothering the physically unfortunate. Paula asked, as only a womancould, the question uppermost in both minds.

  "Love me?" Selma whispered. "I don't know, dear. I know we love to betogether. I know that I love him. I know that he would not ask me totake for a husband--a broken vessel----"

  "But you can make him know that--to you--he is not a broken vessel!...Oh, that would mean so little to me!"

  "Yes, but I should have to tell him--of old Villiers--and the other!...Oh, God, he is white fire! He is not the kind who could understandthat!... I thought I could do anything, I said, 'I am case-hardened.Nothing can make me suffer!... I will go my way,--and no man, no power,earthly or occult, can make me alter that way,' but Stephen Cabot hasdone it. I would rather win for him to-night, than be called theforemost living tragedienne.... I think he loves me, but there is theprice I paid--and I didn't need to pay it, for I had already risen outof the depths. That was vanity. I needed no angel. I didn't care until Imet Stephen Cabot!"

  "I think--I think, if I were Stephen Cabot, I could forgive that," Paulasaid slowly. She wondered at herself for these words when she was alone,and the little place of books was no longer energized by the other'spresence.

  Selma started up from the lounge, stretched her great arm half acrossthe room and clutched Paula's hand. There was a soft grateful glow inthe big yellow eyes. "Do you know that means something--from a womanlike you? Always I shall remember that--as a fine thing from my one finewoman. Mostly, they have hated me--what you call--our sisters."

  "You are a different woman--you're all brightened, since you met StephenCabot. I feel this," Paula declared.

  "Even if all smoothed out here, there is still the old covenant inKentucky," Selma said, after a moment, and sprang to her feet, shakingherself full-length.

  "Won't you tell me about that, too?"

  "Yes, but not now. I must go down-town. There is a dress-maker--and _we_breakfast together.... Root for me--for us, to-night--won't you, deargirl?"

  "With all my heart."

  They passed out through the hall together--just as the elevator-mantucked a letter under the door.... Alone, Paula read this Springgreeting from Quentin Charter:

  I look away this morning into the brilliant East. I think of you there--as glory waits. I feel the strength of a giant to battle through dragons of flesh and cataclysms of Nature.... Who knows what conflicts, what conflagrations, rage in the glowing distance--between you and me? Not I, but that I have strength--I do know.... By the golden glory of this wondrous Spring morning which spreads before my eyes a world of work and heroism blessed of the Most High God, I only ask to know that you are there--_that you are there_.... While eternity is yet young, we shall emerge out of time and distance; though it be from a world altered by great cosmic shattering--yet shall we emerge, serene man and woman.

  You are there in the brilliant East. In good time I shall go to you. Meanwhile I have your light and your song. The dull dim brute is gone from me, forever. Even that black prince of the blood, Passion, stands beyond the magnetic circle. With you _there_, I feel a divine right kingship, and all the black princes of the body are afar off, herding with the beasts. I tell you, since I have heard the Skylark sing--there is no death.

  That day became a vivid memory. Charter reached the highest pinnacle ofher mind--a man who could love and who could wait. The message from theWest exalted her. Here, indeed, was one of the New Voices. All throughthe afternoon, out of the hushes of her mind, would rise this paean
fromthe West--sentence after sentence _for her_.... No, not for her alone.She saw him always in the midst of his people, illustrious among hispeople.... She saw him coming to her over mountains--again and again,she caught a glimpse of him, configured among the peaks, and stridingtoward her--yet between them was a valley torn with storm.... It came toher that there must be a prophecy in this message; that he would not besuffered to come to her easily as his letters came. Yet, the strength hehad felt was hers, and those were hours of ecstasy--while the gray ofthe Spring afternoon thickened into dark. Only _The Thing_ could havecalled her out that night; for once, when it was almost time to go, thestorm lifted from the valley between them. She saw his path to her, justfor an instant, and she longed to see it again....

  Paula entered the theatre a moment before the curtain rose, but in theremaining seconds of light, discovered in the fourth aisle far to theright--"the finest, lowest head" and the long white face of StephenCabot. If a man's face may be called beautiful, his was--firm, delicate,poetic,--brilliant eyes, livid pallor. And the hand in which the thincheek rested, while large and chalky-white, was slender as a girl's....In the middle of the first act, a tall, elderly man shuffled down theaisle and sank into the chair in front of Paula, where he sprawled,preparing to be bored. This was Felix Larch, one of the best known ofthe metropolitan critics, notorious as a play-killer.

  The first-night crowd can be counted on. It meant nothing to Vhruebertthat the house was packed. The venture was his up to the rise of thecurtain. Paula was absorbed by the first two acts of the play, but didnot feel herself fit to judge. She was too intensely interested in thecareer of Selma Cross; in the face of Stephen Cabot; in the attitudes ofFelix Larch, who occasionally forgot to pose. It was all very big andintimate, but the bigger drama, up to the final curtain, was the battlefor success against the blase aspirations of the audience and theultra-critical enemy personified in the man before her.

  The small and excellent company was balanced to a crumb. Adequaterehearsals had finished the work. Then the lines were rich, forceful andflowing--strange with a poetic quality that "got across the footlights."Paula noted these exterior matters with relief. Unquestionably theaudience forgot itself throughout the second act. Paula realized, withdistaste, that her own critical sense was bristling for trouble. She hadhoped to be as receptive to emotional enjoyment as she imagined theaverage play-goer to be. Though she failed signally in this, hersensibilities were in no way outraged, nor even irritated. On thecontrary, she began to rise to the valor of the work and itsperformance. The acting of Selma Cross, though supreme in repression,was haunting, unforgettable. Felix Larch had twice disturbed her bytaking his seat in the midst of the first and second acts. She had heardthat he rarely sat out a whole performance, and took it therefore as agood omen when he returned, in quite a gentlemanly fashion, as the finalcurtain rose.

  By some new mastery of style, Selma Cross had managed, almostthroughout, to keep her profile to the audience. The last act was halfgone, moreover, before the people realized that there were qualities inher voice, other than richness and flexibility. She had held them thusfar with the theme, charging the massed consciousness of her audiencewith subtle passions. Now came the rising moments. Full into the lightshe turned her face.... She was quite alone with her tragedy. A gestureof the great bare arm, as the stage darkened, and she turned loose uponthe men and women a perfect havoc of emptiness--in the shadows of whichwas manifesting a huge unfinished human. She made the people see how amighty passion, suddenly bereft of its object, turns to devour the brainthat held it. They saw the great, gray face of _The Thing_ slowly rubbedout--saw the mind behind it, soften and run away into chaos. There was awhisper, horrible with exhaustion--a breast beaten in the gloom.

  Felix Larch swore softly.... _The Thing_ was laughing as the curtaincrawled down over her--an easy, wind-blown, chattering laugh....

  The critic grasped the low shoulders of a bald, thin-lippedacquaintance, exclaiming:

  "Where did you get that diadem, Lucky One?"

  Paula heard a hoarse voice, but the words of the reply were lost.

  "Come over across the street for a minute. I want a stimulant and a talkwith you," Felix Larch added, wriggling into his overcoat.

  There was a low, husky laugh, and then plainly these words: "She makesyour goppers sizzle--eh?... Wait until I tell her she has won and I'llgo with you," added the queer little man, whom Paula knew now to beVhruebert....

  The latter passed along the emptied aisle toward Stephen Cabot, who hadnot left his seat. Paula noted with a start that the playwright's headhad dropped forward in a queer way. Vhruebert glanced at him, andgrasped his shoulder. The old manager then cleared his throat--a soundwhich apparently had meaning for the nearest usher, who hurried forwardto be dispatched for a doctor. It was very cleverly and quietly done....Stephen Cabot, who could see more deeply than others into the art of thewoman and the power of his own lines, and possibly deeper into the bigresult of this fine union of play and player--had fainted at theclimacteric moment.... A physician now breasted his way through thecrowd at the doors, and _The Thing_ suddenly appeared in the nearest boxand darted forward like a rush of wind. She gathered the insensible onein her arms and repeated his name low and swiftly.

  "Yes," he murmured, opening his eyes at last.

  They seemed alone.... Presently Stephen Cabot laughingly protested thathe was quite well, and disappeared behind the scenes, assisted by thelong, bare arm that had so recently hurled havoc over the throng. Paulawaited for a few moments at the door until she was assured.

  Driving home through the Park, she felt that she could not endureanother emotion. For a long time she tossed restlessly in bed, too tiredto sleep. A reacting depression had fallen upon her worn nerves. Shecould not forget the big structure of the day's joy, but substance haddropped from it.... The cold air sweeping through her sleeping-roomseemed to come from desolate mountains. Lost entirely was her gladnessof victory in the Selma Cross achievement. She called herself spiteful,ungrateful, and quite miserably at last sank into sleep....

  She was conscious at length of the gray of morning, a stifling pressurein her lungs, and the effort to rouse herself. She felt the cold uponher face; yet the air seemed devitalized by some exhausting voltage, shehad known before. There was a horrid jangle in her brain, as of twogreat forces battling to complete the circuit there. A face imploringfrom a garret-window, a youth in a lion's skin, a rock in the desert anda rock in the Park, the dim hotel parlor and the figure of yesterdayamong the mountain-peaks--so the images rushed past--until the torturedface of Bellingham (burning eyes in the midst of ghastly pallor), caughtand held her mind still. From a room small as her own, and gray like herown with morning, he called to her: "Come to me.... Come to me, PaulaLinster.... I have lived for you--oh, come to me!"

  She sprang out of bed, and knelt. How long it was before she freedherself, Paula never knew. Indeed, she was not conscious of beingactually awake, until she felt the bitter cold and hurried into theheated room beyond. She was physically wretched, but no longerobsessed.... She would not believe now that the beyond-devil had calledagain. It was all a dream, she told herself again and again--this rushof images and the summons from the enemy. Yesterday, she had been toohappy; human bodies cannot endure so long such refining fire; to-day wasthe reaction and to-morrow her old strength and poise would come again.Quite bravely, she assured herself that she was glad to pay the pricefor the hours of yesterday. She called for the full series of morningpapers, resolving to occupy her mind with the critical notices of thenew play.

  These were quite remarkable in the unanimity of their praise. TheCross-Cabot combination had won, indeed, but Paula could extract nobuoyancy from the fact, nor did black coffee dispel the vaguepremonitive shadows which thickened in the background of her mind. Therapping of Selma Cross upon her door was hours earlier than ever before.She, too, had called for the morning papers. A first night is neverfinished until these are out. Paula did not feel equal to expressing
allthat the play had meant to her. It was with decided disinclination thatshe admitted her neighbor.

  Selma Cross had not bathed, nor dressed her hair. She darted innoiselessly in furry slippers--a yellow silk robe over her night-dress.Very silken and sensuous, the huge, laughing creature appeared as shesank upon the lounge and shaded her yellow eyes from the light. Soperfect was her health, and so fresh her happiness, that an hour or twoof sleep had not left her eyes heavy nor her skin pallid. There was anodor of sweet clover about her silks that Paula never sensed afterwardwithout becoming violently ill. She knew she was wrong--that every faultwas hers--but she could not bear the way her neighbor cuddled thismorning in the fur of the couch-covering. Selma had brought in everymorning newspaper issued and a thick bundle of telegrams besides. Paulatold her, literally forcing the sentences, how splendidly the play andher own work had appealed to her. This task, which would have been apure delight at another time, was adequately accomplished only aftermuch effort now. It appeared that the actress scarcely heard what shewas saying. The room was brightening and there was a grateful piping ofsteam in the heaters of the apartment.

  "So glad you liked it, dear," Selma said briefly. "And isn't it greatthe way the papers treated it? Not one of them panned the play nor mywork.... I say, it's queer when a thing you've dreamed of for yearscomes true at last--it's different from the way you've seen it come toothers. I mean there's something unique and a fullness you neverimagined. Oh, I don't know nor care what I'm drowning to say.... Pleasedo look over these telegrams--_from everybody_! There's over a hundred!I had to come in here. I'd have roused you out of bed--if you hadn'tbeen up. The telephone will be seething a little later--and I wantedthis talk with you."

  Big theatrical names were attached to the yellow messages. It is acustom for stages-folk to speed a new star through the first performancewith a line of courage--wired. You are supposed to count your realfriends in those who remember the formality. It is not well to be a daylate....

  "And did you notice how Felix Larch uncoiled?"

  Paula looked up from the telegrams to explain how this critic had beenthe object of her contemplation the night before.

  "He hasn't turned loose in that sort of praise this season," Selma Crossadded. "His notice alone, dear, is enough to keep us running at the_Herriot_ until June--and we'll open there again in the fall, pastdoubt."

  Paula felt wicked in that she must enthuse artificially. She forcedherself to remember that ordinarily she could have sprung with a merryheart into the very centre of the other's happiness.

  "Listen, love," Selma resumed, ecstactically hugging her pillow, "I wantto tell you things. I wanted to yesterday, but I had to hurry off.You've got so much, that you must have the rest. Besides, it's in mymind this morning, because it was the beginning of last night----"

  "Yes, tell me," Paula said faintly, bringing her a cup of coffee.

  "I was first smitten with the passion to act--a gawky girl of ten at achild's party," Selma began. "I was speaking a piece when the impulsecame to turn loose. It may have been because I was so homely andstraight-haired, or it may have been that I did the verses sodifferently from the ordinary routine of speaking pieces--anyway, a boyin the room laughed. Another boy immediately bored in upon the scoffer,downed his enemy and was endeavoring hopefully to kill him with barehands, when I interfered. My champion and I walked home together andleft a wailing and disordered company. That's the first brush.

  "My home was Danube, Kentucky. They had a dramatic society there. Eightyears after the child's party, this dramatic society gave _A Tribute toArt_. Where the piece came from is forgotten. How it got its name neverwas known outside of the sorry brain that thrust it, deformed butpalpitating, upon the world. Mrs. Fiske couldn't have made other than astick of the heroine. The hero was larger timber, though too dead forvine leaves. But, I think I told you about the Big Sister--put there inblindness or by budding genius. There were possibilities in thatcharacter. Danube didn't know it, or it wouldn't have fallen to me.Indeed, I remember toward the end of the piece--a real moment of windygloom and falling leaves, a black-windowed farmhouse on the left, therest a desolate horizon--in such a moment the Big Sister plucks out herheart to show its running death.

  "I had persisted in dramatic work, in and out of season, during thoseeight years, but it really was because the Big Sister didn't need to bebeautiful that I got the part. I wove the lines tighter and sharpenedthe thing in rehearsals, until the rest of the cast became afraid, notthat I would outshine them, but that I might disgrace the society on thenight o' nights. You see, I was only just tolerated. Poor father, hewasn't accounted much in Danube, and there was a raft of us. Poor, dearman!

  "Danube wasn't big enough to attract real shows, so the visiting dramagave expression to limited trains, trap-doors, blank cartridges andfalling cliffs"--Selma Cross chuckled expansively at the memory--"and Iplunged my fellow-townsmen into waters deeper and stormier than_Nobody's Claim_ or _Shadows of a Great City_. Wasn't it monstrous?"

  Paula inclined her head, but was not given time to answer.

  "A spring night in Kentucky--hot, damp, starlit--shall I ever forgetthat terrible night of _A Tribute to Art_? All Danube somebodies wereout to see the younger generation perpetuate the lofty culture of theplace. Grandmothers were there, who played _East Lynne_ on the samestage--before the raids of Wolfert and Morgan; and daddies who sat likedeans, eyes dim, but artistic, you know--watched the young idea progressupon familiar paths.... The heroine did the best she could. I was acamel beside her--strode about her raging and caressing. You see how Icould have spoiled _The Thing_ last night--if I had let the passionflood through me like a torrent through a broken dam? That's what I didin Danube--and some full-throated baying as well. Oh, it is horrible toremember.

  "The town felt itself brutalized, and justly. I had left a rampant thingupon every brain, and very naturally the impulse followed to squelch theperpetrator for all time. I don't blame Danube now. I had been bad; mylack of self-repression, scandalous. The part, as I had evolved it, wasout of all proportion to the piece, to Danube, to amateur theatricals. Idon't know if I struck a false note, but certainly I piled on thefeeling.

  "Can you imagine, Paula, that it was an instant of singular glory tome--that climax?... Poor Danube couldn't see that I was combustiblefuel, freshly lit; that I was bound to burn with a steady flame when thepockets of gas were exploded.... My dazed people did not leave the hallat once. It was as if they had taken strong medicine and wanted to studythe effect upon each other. I came out from behind at last, up theaisle, sensing disorder where I had expected praise, and was joined bymy old champion, Calhoun Knox, who had whipped the scoffer at thechild's party. He pressed my hand. We had always been friends. Passingaround the edge of the crowd, I heard this sentence:

  "'Some one--the police, if necessary--must prevent Selma Cross frommaking another such shocking display of herself!'

  "It was a woman who spoke, and the man at her side laughed. I had notime nor thought to check Calhoun. He stepped up to the man beside thewoman. 'Laugh like that again,' he said coldly, 'and I'll kill you!'

  "It seemed to me that all Danube turned upon us. My face must have beenmist-gray. I know I felt like falling. The woman's words had knifed me.

  "'_Oh, you cat-minds!_' I flung at them. Calhoun Knox drew me out intothe dark. I don't know how far out on the Lone Ridge Pike we walked,before it occurred to either of us to halt or speak," Selma Cross wenton very slowly. "I think we walked nearly to the Knobs. The night hadcleared. It was wonderfully still out there among the hemp-fields. Iknew how he was pitying me, and told him I must go away.

  "'I can't stand for you to go away, Selma,' Calhoun said. 'I want you tostay and be mine always. We always got along together. You are beautifulenough to me!'

  "I guess it was hard for him to say it," the woman finished with alaugh, "I used to wish he hadn't put in that 'enough.' But thatmoment--it was what I needed. There was always something big and simpleabout Calhoun Knox. My
hand darted to his shoulder and closed there likea mountaineer's, 'You deserve more of a woman than I am, Calhoun,' Isaid impetuously, 'but you can have me when I come to marry--but, God,that's far off. I like you, Calhoun. I'd fight for you to the death--asyou fought for me to-night and long ago. I think I'd hate any woman whogot you--but there's no wife in me to-night. I have failed to winDanube, Kentucky, but I'll win the world. I may be a burnt-out hag then,but I'll come back--when I have won the world--and you can have me andit.... Listen, Calhoun Knox, if ever a man means _husband_ to me--youshall be the man, but to-night,' I ended with a flourish, and turnedback home, 'I'm not a woman--just a devil at war with the world!'"

  "But haven't you heard from him?" Paula asked, after a moment.

  "Yes, he wrote and wrote. Calhoun Knox is the kind of stuff thatremembers. The time came when I didn't have the heart to answer. I wasafraid I'd ask him for money, or ask him to come to help me. Help out ofDanube! I couldn't do that--better old Villiers.... But I mustn't lie toyou. I went through the really hard part alone.... So Calhoun's letterswere not answered, and maybe he has forgotten. Anyway, before Imarry--he shall have his chance. Oh, I'll make it hard for him. Iwouldn't open any letter from Danube now--but he shall have hischance----"

  "What do you mean to do?"

  "Why, we'll finish the season here--and Vhruebert has promised us alittle run in the West during June. We touch Cincinnati. From there I'lltake the Company down to Danube. I've got to win the world and Danube.After the play, I'll walk out on the Lone Ridge pike--among thehemp-fields--with Calhoun Knox----"

  "But he may have married----"

  "God, how I hope so! I shall wish him kingly happiness--and rush back toStephen Cabot."

  Paula could not be stirred by the story this morning. She missed, asnever before, some big reality behind the loves of Selma Cross. Therewas too much of the sense of possession in her story--arm-possession. Soreadily, could she be transformed into the earthy female, fighting toothand claw for her own. Paula could hardly comprehend in her presentdepression, what she had said yesterday about Stephen Cabot's capacityto forgive.... She was glad, when Selma Cross rose, yawned, stretched,and shook herself. The odor of sweet clover was heaviness in theroom.... The long, bare arm darted over the reading-table and pluckedforth the book Paula loved. The volume had not been hidden; there was noreason why she should not have done this, yet the action hurt the otherlike a drenching of icy water upon her naked heart.

  "Ho-ho--Quentin Charter! So _A Damsel Came to Peter_?"

  "I think--I hear your telephone,--Selma!" Paula managed to say, hervoice dry, as if the words were cut from paper.

  "Yes, yes, I must go, but here's another story. A rotten cad--but how hecan write! I don't mean books--but letters!... He's the one I told youabout--the Westerner--while the old man was in the South!"

  The last was called from the hall. The heavy door slammed between them.

  Paula could not stand--could not keep her mouth from dropping open. Hertemples seemed to be cracking apart.... She saw herself inhalf-darkness--like _The Thing_ last night--beating her breast in thegloom. She felt as if she must laugh--in that same wind-blown, chatteringway.