The Strange Woman

by Ben Ames Williams

  Elder Pittridge hesitated, uncertain what course to pursue, wishing John were here; but he knew what Jenny would wish him to do. ‘He’s not in jail, if that’s what you mean,’ he answered. Then, to gain time to warn Jenny, he said: ‘If you’ll wait, I’ll send a man to find him.’

  Mr. Sagurs said he would wait, and Elder Pittridge wrote a hurried note:

  Dear Jenny: Mr. Sagurs is at the office, come from Savannah to recover his Atticus. I have told him I am sending a man to find the slave.

  LINC

  He dispatched this message. ‘Your negro has been working as a gardener for Mr. Evered,’ he explained to Mr. Sagurs. ‘He has made no attempt to escape, so we did not lock him up. He should be here within the hour. May I offer you some hospitality in the meantime?’ And he added: ‘We’re proud of our city here. I’d be glad to show you around.’

  The Southerner doubtfully agreed; and they strolled down to the wharves. A hundred and twenty-one million feet of boards would be surveyed in the port that year, the largest figure thus far attained. The river was full of vessels ready to load, rafts of sawed timber coming down-river daily from the mills at Old Town; and Mr. Sagurs listened with real interest to Line’s enthusiastic description of the thriving industry.

  The two men in that hour arrived at an almost friendly footing; but when they came back to Line’s office, a note was waiting. Jenny had written:

  Dear Line—Thank you. Atticus is safe where Mr. Sagurs can never find him.

  JENNY

  Elder Pittridge felt a surprising pleasure in this alliance between himself and Jenny; but he told Mr. Sagurs in regretful tones: ‘I’ve bad news for you, sir. Apparently your man heard of your arrival. He has disappeared.’

  Mr. Sagurs’ chubby countenance burned red. He rose with a rigid dignity. ‘Sir, I offer no comment—though I suppose I am free to make any conjectures that seem justified. Since we can no longer meet on a friendly basis, I shall consult your local authorities—if there is any authority in your lawless town.’

  And without waiting for a reply, he strode away.

  Elder Pittridge wished to go at once to Jenny, but Mr. Sagurs might be keeping a watch upon his movements; so he waited till evening before walking out to the house. She opened at his knock.

  ‘I thought you would come, Line,’ she said. ‘Atticus is safe hidden in the barn mow. They came looking for him today, but I told them he was gone.’

  ‘I wish John were here to handle this,’ he confessed. ‘It can lead to trouble.’

  ‘We can handle it, you and I,’ she said. ‘John is too apt to remember his responsibilities as a citizen, and to forget his duties as a man.’

  He hesitated, said in slow surprise: ‘I’ve never heard you criticize John before.’

  She smiled. ‘Have you not? John is not perfect, Line.’

  He said warningly: ‘Mr. Sagurs seemed a determined man. He’ll not be easily put aside.’

  She smiled. ‘If he can’t find Atticus, what can he do?’

  There was no answer to that, and Line admitted it. He rose to return to town, but she persuaded him to stay awhile. ‘With John away, I’m lonely,’ she confessed. ‘I’m never one to go early to bed, you know; and when he’s not here, evenings are long.’ The night was warm, and they moved out of doors and sat in the chairs on the lawn in quiet talk awhile; and the murmur of her soft voice in the darkness was warm and beautiful. When he said good night at last, she said: ‘Come soon again, Line. I always enjoy seeing you.’ She added: ‘You’re my oldest good friend, you know. I knew you even before I knew John.’

  Elder Pittridge strode back to town in a strange, blind haste, looking back over his shoulder now and then like a man who fears pursuit. He had thought any feeling he might once have had for Jenny was forgotten long ago; but the suggestion of a lack of understanding between her and John woke something new in him. There were turbulences in him which he had long controlled; but now in his middle forties he found himself sometimes reviving hot, youthful memories. The forces in any man which, too long held under bond, rebel at last at long disuse, were stirring in Elder Pittridge now.

  He did not see Jenny again till after John’s return from Augusta when she came to the office to chide John for the indiscretion that had delivered Atticus up to his master. Elder Pittridge heard what passed between them, and while John stood silent in the face of her cold rage, he thought there was in her tones no least hint of love remaining. No woman, he thought, could speak so to her husband unless she hated him through and through.

  The understanding filled him with an exultation which he dared not recognize. He spoke to John after she was gone, empty words of comforting; but his lips were hot and dry.

  2

  ELDER PITTRIDGE thought

  that moment in John’s office must leave between John and Jenny a gulf plain to every eye; but this did not happen. During the days that followed, Atticus seemed to be forgotten, and between John and Jenny and Elder Pittridge and Margaret Saladine the old friendship went on as before. John and Jenny seemed on the surface to be as happy as they had ever been; but in his new awareness of her Elder Pittridge thought that Jenny was more beautiful every day, as now in her full maturity she came to bloom.

  One day in August these four friends took the boys for a picnic at Pushaw Lake. The lake lies about six miles north of Bangor, and during the boom times it had begun to attract pleasure parties as well as fishermen. Now, to cater to such groups, there were two hostelries, the Pushaw House of which Captain Burgess was proprietor, and the Perch House kept by John Hasey. John had promised young Dan to take him fishing there; and the picnic was arranged to carry out that promise. Pat Tierney borrowed for the day a hay cart from the nearest farm and they started soon after breakfast behind plodding farm horses for the easy two-hour journey. John drove, and young Dan sat beside his father and sometimes was permitted to hold the reins. The others made themselves comfortable on the hay in the cart bed. The Elder, watching Jenny, thought there was a shadow in her eyes; but outwardly she was gay enough, happy with the children or talking quietly with Margaret while he kept the youngsters amused.

  The jolting ride was dusty and wearying for all of them; but when it ended, discomforts were forgotten. John drove past the Perch House and down across an open meadow to a knoll above the water. He and Elder Pittridge, with Dan trying to help, unharnessed the horses and led them down to the lakeside to drink and then tethered them in a clump of young oaks where there was no underbrush, so that the breeze would keep away the worst of the flies. Jenny and Meg opened the hamper Mrs. McGaw had packed with good things and spread the feast. Dan in his eagerness to begin fishing could hardly wait to eat; but John told him cheerfully:

  ‘Might as well, son. Fishing’s no good in the middle of the day, anyway.’

  ‘It might be,’ Dan urged.

  ‘Oh, we’ll try it,’ his father chuckled. ‘Don’t worry about that. And we’ll stay till they start to bite, even if we have to wait till dark. But there’s plenty of time. It’s going to be hot out there in the sun. Eat while you can.’

  Dan did his best, and Will, who had been promised that he might go in the boat with them and perhaps hold a line, nevertheless did full justice to Mrs. McGaw’s provisions. When they were finished, John said: ‘Well, Dan, here we go! Line, you want to come along?’

  Elder Pittridge shook his head. I’m no fisherman,’ he said. ‘I’ll stay and mind the youngsters.’

  So John and the two boys departed. He had arranged with Mr. Hasey for the use of a boat, and the others, watching from the shady knoll, presently saw them set out, John rowing, Dan in the stern, Will perched high in the bow. Then young Tommy declared that he wanted to go wading, and Mat loudly announced a like desire. Elder Pittridge rose to take them down to the lake shore; but Meg said:

  ‘No, I’ll go, Line. You stay here.’

  ‘I’ll come help you,’ he urged.

  Jenny said smilingly: ‘Better stay, Line. I see a wicked
gleam in Meg’s eyes. I expect she’ll go wading, herself, unless you tag along so she can’t!’

  ‘Of course I will!’ Meg laughingly agreed. There’s a sandy beach in the next cove, where I’ll be out of your sight.’ She challenged: ‘Don’t you want to come, Jenny? The water will be so cool!’

  ‘I’ll stay and keep Line company,’ Jenny told her, and her eyes met his. So Meg and the two boys went down toward the lake, and Elder Pittridge and Jenny were left together. He stood above her, and though they had often been thus alone before, something he had seen in her eyes a moment ago now made his pulse pound hard. John and the older youngsters were in sight, half a mile along the shore, sitting patiently in the sun with dangling lines; but when Meg and the younger children had disappeared, there was no one near. The horses stamped in the oak clump a little way off. A great pine, many-branched and therefore neglected by the lumbermen who had stripped this locality, shaded them, and its spills lay in a soft mat everywhere, fragrant in the sun. Jenny, in a checked gingham dress that made her seem like a girl, sat with her feet tucked under her wide skirts, resting one hand upon the ground. Her head was bare, her dark hair escaping softly from its coils to shadow her brow. Her eyes were downcast, and she picked up a twig, snapping it between her fingers. Elder Pittridge, standing above her, saw a single white thread in her dark hair, and he felt for her a great tenderness and a wistful sorrow that she must grow older. Because when his eyes rested on her his throat was full, he looked again toward the distant boat.

  They don’t seem to be catching anything,’ he said.

  For a moment she did not speak, and when she did it was with a quiet gravity. ‘Sit down, Line,’ she told him. ‘I must talk to someone—and you’re my closest friend.’

  He obeyed her, trying to find a word to say. ‘What is it, Jenny? I’ve guessed you were—troubled today.’

  She nodded. ‘You always do understand,’ she said gratefully and met his eyes; and her eyes were wide, as though she had unveiled them with that glance, admitting him to read her heart. She told him slowly: ‘John and I have quarrelled.’ And after a moment she repeated: ‘We had a dreadful quarrel.’

  He said in lame jocularity: ‘Don’t married people have lots of quarrels, Jenny?’

  ‘Oh, those, yes,’ she agreed, smiling a little. ‘When they’re both angry, and say things they don’t mean. But this was different, Line. We weren’t angry. If we had been, I would know it didn’t matter. Being angry is just one way of—loving. This was a perfectly calm, reasonable—final quarrel.’

  ‘Final?’ His heart beat in his throat.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Final. Nothing can ever be the same between John and me again.’ And she asked: ‘Do you mind my talking to you? I must talk to someone. I warn you, if you are still my friend, John may accuse you of—hideous things.’ She smiled affectionately: ‘He may even say I am in love with you.’

  ‘I’m your friend and his too,’ Elder Pittridge said quickly. ‘You two—and Meg—are the only real friends I have.’

  ‘I value your friendship,’ she assured him. ‘Always know that, Line. But if you’d rather I didn’t talk to you—Yet I’m so unhappy, I must talk to someone or weep.’

  ‘You know I’d do anything for you—for either of you,’ he added carefully, and he urged: ‘Surely this will pass, Jenny. Aren’t you making too much of it?’

  ‘No, it’s final,’ she insisted. ‘Oh, I don’t mean that we will part—at least not in the world’s eyes—or be divorced. We’ve the children, so for their sakes we must go on. But—John has left my room, Line.’ Her low voice was like a wail. ‘And oh, I’m so wretched and so miserable!’

  He wetted his dry lips, cleared his throat. ‘If you want to talk—I’ll listen. I might even be able to help.’

  She nodded. ‘I do want to talk,’ she said. ‘But promise me you won’t blame John? I couldn’t bear to have this make any difference between you two. You and he have always been such friends.’

  ‘I won’t do anything you don’t want.’

  ‘You’re so fine,’ she told him gratefully. And after a moment she went on: ‘I can see now that this has been coming on for a long time. John and I think differently about so many things. He thought I was wrong about poor Atticus. You remember that. That was just one of many things, but they go back to the first year we were married. As long as we loved each other, they didn’t matter; but since little Mat was born I’ve known that John didn’t love me, and my love for him has slowly died. ‘Phis last quarrel was really the first moment in years when we’ve been honest with each other.’

  He waited and she said: ‘This was about the children, Line. You see, John has always spoiled them. Oh, I know it’s because he’s so proud of them; but he indulges them in every way, and I have to do all the discipline. They can’t be allowed just to run wild. So it is always I who must tell them what to do, and make them do it, and punish them if they don’t. Mustn’t I, Line?’

  He nodded. ‘Of course. But the boys are fine, Jenny.’

  ‘If they are, it’s I who have made them so. John always protested whenever I punished them at all. I’ve had to wait till he was away from home, because if he heard them cry he interfered—and you must see how unfair that was, for him to seem to rescue them from me!’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well,’ she murmured, ‘the last straw came three days ago. I had to punish little Mat.’

  ‘Mat?’ he echoed in astonishment. ‘He’s too young, surely, to do anything wrong!’

  She smiled. ‘I assure you he deserved every stroke I gave him, Line. He deliberately and defiantly disobeyed me—and of course I couldn’t allow that, so I switched him.’ She added rebelliously: ‘I didn’t really hurt him; but while I was doing it, and he was screaming—you know they always make as much noise as they possibly can, pretend I’m just killing them, so I’ll stop the quicker—John came home.

  ‘He was furious, Line.’ He told me I must never do it again.’ Her voice caught. ‘And Line, he threatened me! He said that if I ever whipped one of the boys again, he would whip me.’ She pushed up her sleeve to show the dark bruise Dan’s small hands had left there. ‘See where he gripped my arm,’ she whispered pitifully.

  His fist clenched in a dark rage. That mark on her white flesh, seen thus in the clear light of a fine August afternoon, was somehow shameful and appalling; and he felt a passionate anger toward John who had done this to her.

  She laughed a little, bravely. ‘I was afraid of him, Line,’ she confessed. ‘He’s so big and so strong, he could break my neck between his fingers. I’m not very big, you see. He almost broke my arm, just taking hold of it that way. I was afraid, so I talked as bravely as I could. I told him if he ever struck me I’d kill him, Line.’ She smiled wistfully. ‘That seems funny now, the idea of me being able to hurt anyone as strong as he. But he let go of me.’

  She added ruefully: ‘And then he took his things into the other room, the room next mine. I’ve had to lie about that to Mrs. McGaw and to Ruth. I told them I wasn’t sleeping well, that I was nervous, that John and I would sleep apart awhile. I don’t know whether they believed me or not, but it was the only tiling I could think of to say.’

  He tried to find some anchorage in the storm which shook him. ‘It will come out all right,’ he predicted. ‘Time heals all these things.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she agreed, and smiled, this time almost happily. ‘I know it’s done me good to tell you about it—as though by sharing it with you the burden were lighter. Thank you for letting me do it, Line.’

  He said, as steadily as possible: ‘You know I’ll do anything for you.’ Her eyes met his. ‘I know you will, Line.’

  Then her eyes fell and suddenly her cheeks were scarlet. She whispered: ‘I’ve always known that, even before Isaiah died, it seems to me.

  II

  Elder Pittridge would never forget the hour that followed when they sat together under the pine, talking quietly together, drawing nearer
to each other. It seemed to him that each word they spoke had two meanings; that behind the simplest phrase lay connotations of understanding and sympathy and of affection firmly founded and coming now into a rich warmth and beauty. He had never found in her so much sweetness, such a yielding deference, such dependence upon his strength and wisdom. No sense of danger warned him. Surely no harm could come from this quiet talk between two friends there under the old pine upon the knoll and in the clear light of a fine summer afternoon.

  Yet there were changes in him which he did not suspect before at last Meg and the two small boys came back from their wading. The youngsters promptly wandered off toward the horses, devising some game of their own among the oaks there; and Elder Pittridge rose to go after them, to keep them clear of any harm. As he moved away he heard Meg say in distressed tones:

  ‘Jenny, when I took off little Mat’s shoes and stockings so he could wade, I saw that his legs are all covered with red marks, crisscrossed every way. Whatever are they?’

  ‘I think he must have scratched himself in his sleep,’ Jenny said easily. ‘He’s had a touch of hives. You know how they itch.’

  ‘These didn’t look like scratches,’ Meg protested.

  Elder Pittridge was by that time too far away to hear Jenny’s answer, but for that matter he had hardly heard what Meg said. All his senses were confused. He was like a man blinded by looking too long upon the sun.

  They stayed by Pushaw Lake till dusk, and young Dan caught his fill of fish before John brought the boat back to the landing. There was enough left over of the provisions in Mrs. McGaw’s hamper so that they could eat supper here, and they did so. Jenny, Elder Pittridge thought, was even more quiet than usual, and Meg too; but John seemed perfectly normal, laughing with his sons, speaking easily to Jenny, teasing Meg as he sometimes liked to do. The older man resented John’s composure, finding in it something hard and heartless. Now and then Jenny’s eyes met his in a glance that was a reminder of what had passed between them; and he was proud to think that in her distress she had called him to stand by her side. When he remembered that bruise which John’s hard clasp had left upon her arm, he was shaken with anger which was the more violent because he knew his own physical inability to make that anger effective. He wished to smash John and to beat him—but he knew he could not do this, even if a pretext were afforded.