The Forerunner Part 34

"Don't fret the child, Father," said Mrs. Henderson softly. "She's feeling bad enough."

"Sh'd think she would," replied her husband. "Moreover--to my mind--she ought to."

He got out the small damp local paper and his pipe, and composed himself in obvious patience: yet somehow this patience seemed to fill the kitchen, and to act like a ball and chain to Diantha's feet.

She got supper ready, at last, making griddle-cakes instead of biscuit, and no comment was made of the change: but the tension in the atmosphere was sharply felt by the two women; and possibly by the tall old man, who ate less than usual, and said absolutely nothing.

"I'm going over to see Edwards about that new incubator," he said when the meal was over, and departed; and Mrs. Bell, after trying in vain to do her mending, wiped her clouded gla.s.ses and went to bed.

Diantha made all neat and tidy; washed her own wet eyes again, and went out under the moon. In that broad tender mellow light she drew a deep breath and stretched her strong young arms toward the sky in dumb appeal.

"I knew it would be hard," she murmured to herself, "That is I knew the facts--but I didn't know the feeling!"

She stood at the gate between the cypresses, sat waiting under the acacia boughs, walked restlessly up and down the path outside, the dry pepper berries crush softly under foot; bracing herself for one more struggle--and the hardest of all.

"He will understand!" he told herself, over and over, but at the bottom of her heart she knew he wouldn't.

He came at last; a slower, wearier step than usual; came and took both her hands in his and stood holding them, looking at her questioningly.

Then he held her face between his palms and made her look at him. Her eyes were brave and steady, but the mouth trembled in spite of her.

He stilled it with a kiss, and drew her to a seat on the bench beside him. "My poor Little Girl! You haven't had a chance yet to really tell me about this thing, and I want you to right now. Then I'm going to kill about forty people in this town! _Somebody_ has been mighty foolish."

She squeezed his hand, but found it very difficult to speak. His love, his sympathy, his tenderness, were so delicious after this day's trials--and before those further ones she could so well antic.i.p.ate. She didn't wish to cry any more, that would by no means strengthen her position, and she found she couldn't seem to speak without crying.

"One would think to hear the good people of this town that you were about to leave home and mother for--well, for a trip to the moon!" he added. "There isn't any agreement as to what you're going to do, but they're unanimous as to its being entirely wrong. Now suppose you tell me about it."

"I will," said Diantha. "I began to the other night, you know, you first of course--it was too bad! your having to go off at that exact moment. Then I had to tell mother--because--well you'll see presently.

Now dear--just let me say it _all_--before you--do anything."

"Say away, my darling. I trust you perfectly."

She flashed a grateful look at him. "It is this way, my dear. I have two, three, yes four, things to consider:--My own personal problem--my family's--yours--and a social one."

"My family's?" he asked, with a faint shade of offence in his tone.

"No no dear--your own," she explained.

"Better cut mine out, Little Girl," he said. "I'll consider that myself."

"Well--I won't talk about it if you don't want me to. There are the other three."

"I won't question your second, nor your imposing third, but isn't the first one--your own personal problem--a good deal answered?" he suggested, holding her close for a moment.

"Don't!" she said. "I can't talk straight when you put it that way."

She rose hurriedly and took a step or two up and down. "I don't suppose--in spite of your loving me, that I can make you see it as I do.

But I'll be just as clear as I can. There are some years before us before we can be together. In that time I intend to go away and undertake a business I am interested in. My purpose is to--develop the work, to earn money, to help my family, and to--well, not to hinder you."

"I don't understand, I confess," he said. "Don't you propose to tell me what this 'work' is?"

"Yes--I will--certainly. But not yet dear! Let me try to show you how I feel about it."

"Wait," said he. "One thing I want to be sure of. Are you doing this with any quixotic notion of helping me--in _my_ business? Helping me to take care of my family? Helping me to--" he stood up now, looking very tall and rather forbidding, "No, I won't say that to you."

"Would there be anything wrong in my meaning exactly that?" she asked, holding her own head a little higher; "both what you said and what you didn't?"

"It would be absolutely wrong, all of it," he answered. "I cannot believe that the woman I love would--could take such a position."

"Look here, Ross!" said the girl earnestly. "Suppose you knew where there was a gold mine--_knew it_--and by going away for a few years you could get a real fortune--wouldn't you do it?"

"Naturally I should," he agreed.

"Well, suppose it wasn't a gold mine, but a business, a new system like those cigar stores--or--some patent amus.e.m.e.nt specialty--or _anything_--that you knew was better than what you're doing--wouldn't you have a right to try it?"

"Of course I should--but what has that to do with this case?"

"Why it's the same thing! Don't you see? I have plans that will be of real benefit to all of us, something worth while to _do_--and not only for us but for _everybody_--a real piece of progress--and I'm going to leave my people--and even you!--for a little while--to make us all happier later on."

He smiled lovingly at her but shook his head slowly. "You dear, brave, foolish child!" he said. "I don't for one moment doubt your n.o.ble purposes. But you don't get the man's point of view--naturally. What's more you don't seem to get the woman's."

"Can you see no other point of view than those?" she asked.

"There are no others," he answered. "Come! come! my darling, don't add this new difficulty to what we've got to carry! I know you have a hard time of it at home. Some day, please G.o.d, you shall have an easier one!

And I'm having a hard time too--I don't deny it. But you are the greatest joy and comfort I have, dear--you know that. If you go away--it will be harder and slower and longer--that's all. I shall have you to worry about too. Let somebody else do the gold-mine, dear--you stay here and comfort your Mother as long as you can--and me. How can I get along without you?"

He tried to put his arm around her again, but she drew back. "Dear,"

she said. "If I deliberately do what I think is right--against your wishes--what will you do?"

"Do?" The laughed bitterly. "What can I do? I'm tied by the leg here--l can't go after you. I've nothing to pull you out of a sc.r.a.pe with if you get in one. I couldn't do anything but--stand it."

"And if I go ahead, and do what you don't like--and make you--suffer--would you--would you rather be free?" Her voice was very low and shaken, but he heard her well enough.

"Free of you? Free of _you_?" He caught her and held her and kissed her over and over.

"You are mine!" he said. "You have given yourself to me! You cannot leave me. Neither of us is free--ever again." But she struggled away from him.

"Both of us are free--to do what we think right, _always_ Ross! I wouldn't try to stop you if you thought it was your duty to go to the North Pole!" She held him a little way off. "Let me tell you, dear.

Sit down--let me tell you all about it." But he wouldn't sit down.

"I don't think I want to know the details," he said. "It doesn't much matter what you're going to do--if you really go away. I can't stop you--I see that. If you think this thing is your 'duty' you'll do it if it kills us all--and you too! If you have to go--I shall do nothing--can do nothing--but wait till you come back to me! Whatever happens, darling--no matter how you fail--don't ever be afraid to come back to me."

He folded his arms now--did not attempt to hold her--gave her the freedom she asked and promised her the love she had almost feared to lose--and her whole carefully constructed plan seemed like a child's sand castle for a moment; her heroic decision the wildest folly.

He was not even looking at her; she saw his strong, clean-cut profile dark against the moonlit house, a settled patience in its lines. Duty!

Here was duty, surely, with tenderest happiness. She was leaning toward him--her hand was seeking his, when she heard through the fragrant silence a sound from her mother's room--the faint creak of her light rocking chair. She could not sleep--she was sitting up with her trouble, bearing it quietly as she had so many others.

The quiet everyday tragedy of that distasteful life--the slow withering away of youth and hope and ambition into a gray waste of ineffectual submissive labor--not only of her life, but of thousands upon thousands like her--it all rose up like a flood in the girl's hot young heart.