Ethan Frome, Summer, Bunner Sisters

by Edith Wharton

  Ally’s dragging pace had not carried her far from the Frys’ gate when she was stopped by old Mrs Sollas, who was a great talker, and spoke very slowly because she had never been able to get used to her new teeth from Hepburn. Still, even this respite would not last long; in another ten minutes Ally would be at the door, and Charity would hear her greeting Verena in the kitchen, and then calling up from the foot of the stairs.

  Suddenly it became clear that flight, and instant flight, was the only thing conceivable. The longing to escape, to get away from familiar faces, from places where she was known, had always been strong in her in moments of distress. She had a childish belief in the miraculous power of strange scenes and new faces to transform her life and wipe out bitter memories. But such impulses were mere fleeting whims compared to the cold resolve which now possessed her. She felt she could not remain an hour longer under the roof of the man who had publicly dishonoured her, and face to face with the people who would presently be gloating over all the details of her humiliation.

  Her passing pity for Mr Royall had been swallowed up in loathing: everything in her recoiled from the disgraceful spectacle of the drunken old man apostrophizing her in the presence of a band of loafers and street-walkers. Suddenly, vividly, she relived again the horrible moment when he had tried to force himself into her room, and what she had before supposed to be a mad aberration now appeared to her as a vulgar incident in a debauched and degraded life.

  While these thoughts were hurrying through her she had dragged out her old canvas school-bag, and was thrusting into it a few articles of clothing and the little packet of letters she had received from Harney. From under her pincushion she took the library key, and laid it in full view; then she felt at the back of a drawer for the blue brooch that Harney had given her. She would not have dared to wear it openly at North Dormer, but now she fastened it on her bosom as if it were a talisman to protect her in her flight. These preparations had taken but a few minutes, and when they were finished Ally Hawes was still at the Frys’ corner talking to old Mrs Sollas.…

  * * *

  She had said to herself, as she always said in moments of revolt: ‘I’ll go to the Mountain – I’ll go back to my own folks.’ She had never really meant it before; but now, as she considered her case, no other course seemed open. She had never learned any trade that would have given her independence in a strange place, and she knew no one in the big towns of the valley, where she might have hoped to find employment. Miss Hatchard was still away; but even had she been at North Dormer she was the last person to whom Charity would have turned, since one of the motives urging her to flight was the wish not to see Lucius Harney. Travelling back from Nettleton, in the crowded brightly-lit train, all exchange of confidence between them had been impossible; but during their drive from Hepburn to Creston River she had gathered from Harney’s snatches of consolatory talk – again hampered by the freckled boy’s presence – that he intended to see her the next day. At the moment she had found a vague comfort in the assurance; but in the desolate lucidity of the hours that followed she had come to see the impossibility of meeting him again. Her dream of comradeship was over; and the scene on the wharf – vile and disgraceful as it had been – had after all shed the light of truth on her minute of madness. It was as if her guardian’s words had stripped her bare in the face of the grinning crowd and proclaimed to the world the secret admonitions of her conscience.

  She did not think these things out clearly; she simply followed the blind propulsion of her wretchedness. She did not want, ever again, to see anyone she had known; above all, she did not want to see Harney.…

  She climbed the hill-path behind the house and struck through the woods by a short-cut leading to the Creston road. A lead-coloured sky hung heavily over the fields, and in the forest the motionless air was stifling; but she pushed on, impatient to reach the road which was the shortest way to the Mountain.

  To do so, she had to follow the Creston road for a mile or two, and go within half a mile of the village; and she walked quickly, fearing to meet Harney. But there was no sign of him, and she had almost reached the branch road when she saw the flanks of a large white tent projecting through the trees by the roadside. She supposed that it sheltered a travelling circus which had come there for the Fourth; but as she drew nearer she saw, over the folded-back flap, a large sign bearing the inscription, ‘Gospel Tent’. The interior seemed to be empty; but a young man in a black alpaca coat, his lank hair parted over a round white face, stepped from under the flap and advanced toward her with a smile.

  ‘Sister, your Saviour knows everything. Won’t you come in and lay your guilt before Him?’ he asked insinuatingly, putting his hand on her arm.

  Charity started back and flushed. For a moment she thought the evangelist must have heard a report of the scene at Nettleton; then she saw the absurdity of the supposition.

  ‘I on’y wish’t I had any to lay!’ she retorted, with one of her fierce flashes of self-derision; and the young man murmured, aghast: ‘Oh, Sister, don’t speak blasphemy.…’

  But she had jerked her arm out of his hold, and was running up the branch road, trembling with the fear of meeting a familiar face. Presently she was out of sight of the village, and climbing into the heart of the forest. She could not hope to do the fifteen miles to the Mountain that afternoon; but she knew of a place half-way to Hamblin where she could sleep, and where no one would think of looking for her. It was a little deserted house on a slope in one of the lonely rifts of the hills. She had seen it once, years before, when she had gone on a nutting expedition to the grove of walnuts below it. The party had taken refuge in the house from a sudden mountain storm, and she remembered that Ben Sollas, who liked frightening girls, had told them that it was said to be haunted.

  She was growing faint and tired, for she had eaten nothing since morning, and was not used to walking so far. Her head felt light and she sat down for a moment by the roadside. As she sat there she heard the click of a bicycle-bell, and started up to plunge back into the forest; but before she could move the bicycle had swept around the curve of the road, and Harney, jumping off, was approaching her with outstretched arms.

  ‘Charity! What on earth are you doing here?’

  She stared as if he were a vision, so startled by the unexpectedness of his being there that no words came to her.

  ‘Where were you going? Had you forgotten that I was coming?’ he continued, trying to draw her to him; but she shrank from his embrace.

  ‘I was going away – I don’t want to see you – I want you should leave me alone,’ she broke out wildly.

  He looked at her and his face grew grave, as though the shadow of a premonition brushed it.

  ‘Going away – from me, Charity?’

  ‘From everybody. I want you should leave me.’

  He stood glancing doubtfully up and down the lonely forest road that stretched away into sun-flecked distances.

  ‘Where were you going?’

  ‘Home.’

  ‘Home – this way?’

  She threw her head back defiantly. ‘To my home – up yonder: to the Mountain.’

  As she spoke she became aware of a change in his face. He was no longer listening to her, he was only looking at her, with the passionate absorbed expression she had seen in his eyes after they had kissed on the stand at Nettleton. He was the new Harney again, the Harney abruptly revealed in that embrace, who seemed so penetrated with the joy of her presence that he was utterly careless of what she was thinking or feeling.

  He caught her hands with a laugh. ‘How do you suppose I found you?’ he said gaily. He drew out the little packet of his letters and flourished them before her bewildered eyes.

  ‘You dropped them, you imprudent young person – dropped them in the middle of the road, not far from here; and the young man who is running the Gospel tent picked them up just as I was riding by.’ He drew back, holding her at arm’s length, and scrutinizing her troubled face with th
e minute searching gaze of his short-sighted eyes.

  ‘Did you really think you could run away from me? You see you weren’t meant to,’ he said; and before she could answer he had kissed her again, not vehemently, but tenderly, almost fraternally, as if he had guessed her confused pain, and wanted her to know he understood it. He wound his fingers through hers.

  ‘Come – let’s walk a little. I want to talk to you. There’s so much to say.’

  He spoke with a boy’s gaiety, carelessly and confidently, as if nothing had happened that could shame or embarrass them; and for a moment, in the sudden relief of her release from lonely pain, she felt herself yielding to his mood. But he had turned, and was drawing her back along the road by which she had come. She stiffened herself and stopped short.

  ‘I won’t go back,’ she said.

  They looked at each other a moment in silence; then he answered gently: ‘Very well: let’s go the other way, then.’

  She remained motionless, gazing silently at the ground, and he went on: ‘Isn’t there a house up here somewhere – a little abandoned house – you meant to show me some day?’ Still she made no answer, and he continued, in the same tone of tender reassurance: ‘Let us go there now and sit down and talk quietly.’ He took one of the hands that hung by her side and pressed his lips to the palm. ‘Do you suppose I’m going to let you send me away? Do you suppose I don’t understand?’

  The little old house – its wooden walls sun-bleached to a ghostly grey – stood in an orchard above the road. The garden palings had fallen, but the broken gate dangled between its posts, and the path to the house was marked by rosebushes run wild and hanging their small pale blossoms above the crowding grasses. Slender pilasters and an intricate fanlight framed the opening where the door had hung; and the door itself lay rotting in the grass, with an old apple-tree fallen across it.

  Inside, also, wind and weather had blanched everything to the same wan silvery tint: the house was as dry and pure as the interior of a long-empty shell. But it must have been exceptionally well built, for the little rooms had kept something of their human aspect: the wooden mantels with their neat classic ornaments were in place, and the corners of one ceiling retained a light film of plaster tracery.

  Harney had found an old bench at the back door and dragged it into the house. Charity sat on it, leaning her head against the wall in a state of drowsy lassitude. He had guessed that she was hungry and thirsty, and had brought her some tablets of chocolate from his bicycle-bag, and filled his drinking-cup from a spring in the orchard; and now he sat at her feet, smoking a cigarette, and looking up at her without speaking. Outside, the afternoon shadows were lengthening across the grass, and through the empty window-frame that faced her she saw the Mountain thrusting its dark mass against a sultry sunset. It was time to go.

  She stood up, and he sprang to his feet also, and passed his arm through hers with an air of authority. ‘Now, Charity, you’re coming back with me.’

  She looked at him and shook her head. ‘I ain’t ever going back. You don’t know.’

  ‘What don’t I know?’ She was silent, and he continued: ‘What happened on the wharf was horrible – it’s natural you should feel as you do. But it doesn’t make any real difference: you can’t be hurt by such things. You must try to forget. And you must try to understand that men … men sometimes …’

  ‘I know about men. That’s why.’

  He coloured a little at the retort, as though it had touched him in a way she did not suspect.

  ‘Well, then … you must know one has to make allowances.… He’d been drinking.…’

  ‘I know all that, too. I’ve seen him so before. But he wouldn’t have dared speak to me that way if he hadn’t …’

  ‘Hadn’t what? What do you mean?’

  ‘Hadn’t wanted me to be like those other girls.…’ She lowered her voice and looked away from him. ‘So’s ’t he wouldn’t have to go out.…

  Harney stared at her. For a moment he did not seem to seize her meaning; then his face grew dark. ‘The damned hound! The villainous low hound!’ His wrath blazed up, crimsoning him to the temples. ‘I never dreamed – good God, it’s too vile,’ he broke off, as if his thoughts recoiled from the discovery.

  ‘I won’t never go back there,’ she repeated doggedly.

  ‘No—’ he assented.

  There was a long interval of silence, during which she imagined that he was searching her face for more light on what she had revealed to him; and a flush of shame swept over her.

  ‘I know the way you must feel about me,’ she broke out, ‘… telling you such things.…’

  But once more, as she spoke, she became aware that he was no longer listening. He came close and caught her to him as if he were snatching her from some imminent peril: his impetuous eyes were in hers, and she could feel the hard beat of his heart as he held her against it.

  ‘Kiss me again – like last night,’ he said, pushing her hair back as if to draw her whole face up into his kiss.

  XII

  One afternoon toward the end of August a group of girls sat in a room at Miss Hatchard’s in a gay confusion of flags, turkey-red, blue and white paper muslin, harvest sheaves and illuminated scrolls.

  North Dormer was preparing for its Old Home Week. That form of sentimental decentralization was still in its early stages, and, precedents being few, and the desire to set an example contagious, the matter had become a subject of prolonged and passionate discussion under Miss Hatchard’s roof. The incentive to the celebration had come rather from those who had left North Dormer than from those who had been obliged to stay there, and there was some difficulty in rousing the village to the proper state of enthusiasm. But Miss Hatchard’s pale prim drawing-room was the centre of constant comings and goings from Hepburn, Nettleton, Springfield and even more distant cities; and whenever a visitor arrived he was led across the hall, and treated to a glimpse of the group of girls deep in their pretty preparations.

  ‘All the old names … all the old names.…’ Miss Hatchard would be heard, tapping across the hall on her crutches. ‘Targatt … Sollas … Fry: this is Miss Orma Fry sewing the stars on the drapery for the organ-loft. Don’t move, girls … and this is Miss Ally Hawes, our cleverest needle-woman … and Miss Charity Royall making our garlands of evergreen.… I like the idea of its all being home-made, don’t you? We haven’t had to call in any foreign talent: my young cousin Lucius Harney, the architect – you know he’s up here preparing a book on Colonial houses – he’s taken the whole thing in hand so cleverly; but you must come and see his sketch for the stage we’re going to put up in the Town Hall.’

  One of the first results of the Old Home Week agitation had, in fact, been the reappearance of Lucius Harney in the village street. He had been vaguely spoken of as being not far off, but for some weeks past no one had seen him at North Dormer, and there was a recent report of his having left Creston River, where he was said to have been staying, and gone away from the neighbourhood for good. Soon after Miss Hatchard’s return, however, he came back to his old quarters in her house, and began to take a leading part in the planning of the festivities. He threw himself into the idea with extraordinary good-humour, and was so prodigal of sketches, and so inexhaustible in devices, that he gave an immediate impetus to the rather languid movement, and infected the whole village with his enthusiasm.

  ‘Lucius has such a feeling for the past that he has roused us all to a sense of our privileges,’ Miss Hatchard would say, lingering on the last word, which was a favourite one. And before leading her visitor back to the drawing-room she would repeat, for the hundredth time, that she supposed he thought it very bold of little North Dormer to start up and have a Home Week of its own, when so many bigger places hadn’t thought of it yet; but that, after all, Associations counted more than the size of the population, didn’t they? And of course North Dormer was so full of Associations … historic, literary (here a filial sigh for Honorius) and ecclesiastical … he
knew about the old pewter communion service imported from England in 1769, she supposed? And it was so important, in a wealthy materialistic age, to set the example of reverting to the old ideals, the family and the homestead, and so on. This peroration usually carried her half-way back across the hall, leaving the girls to return to their interrupted activities.

  The day on which Charity Royall was weaving hemlock garlands for the procession was the last before the celebration. When Miss Hatchard called upon the North Dormer maidenhood to collaborate in the festal preparations Charity had at first held aloof, but it had been made clear to her that her non-appearance might excite conjecture, and, reluctantly, she had joined the other workers. The girls, at first shy and embarrassed, and puzzled as to the exact nature of the projected commemoration, had soon become interested in the amusing details of their task, and excited by the notice they received. They would not for the world have missed their afternoons at Miss Hatchard’s, and, while they cut out and sewed and draped and pasted, their tongues kept up such an accompaniment to the sewing-machine that Charity’s silence sheltered itself unperceived under their chatter.

  In spirit she was still almost unconscious of the pleasant stir about her. Since her return to the red house, on the evening of the day when Harney had overtaken her on her way to the Mountain, she had lived at North Dormer as if she were suspended in the void. She had come back there because Harney, after appearing to agree to the impossibility of her doing so, had ended by persuading her that any other course would be madness. She had nothing further to fear from Mr Royall. Of this she had declared herself sure, though she had failed to add, in his exoneration, that he had twice offered to make her his wife. Her hatred of him made it impossible, at the moment, for her to say anything that might partly excuse him in Harney’s eyes.