The trouble in Thor

by Armstrong Charlotte

  Arthur said, "Well, you do now." He turned the piece of rock in his hand and tapped on the pipe four times. Pause. Four times.

  "Oh, give over," said Elisha, "What matter?"

  A long silent time went by.

  Wesley said, "He knew a lot of saints, didn't he though?" (All four of them were Protestant so he went on.) "Pack of saints I never heard of. Why do they have so many saints?"

  "They was," said Charley feebly.

  "Go on," Elisha scoffed.

  "How do you know they wasn't?"

  "What is a saint?" Wesley wondered.

  "Go-between," said Elisha. "Between them and the Lord God. So is the Pope a go-between."

  " 'E was a fine man," said Charley Beard, ". . . and four kids."

  They brooded.

  "Hey . . ." The syllable quavered, for Wesley had noticed something missing. "Cole! Cole!"

  "rm here," said Arthur's querulous whine, "don't worry. Thinking."

  The sense of whirhng disintegration subsided.

  "Speak up now and again," growled Elisha. "Mind."

  "Listen, I'm thinking they ought to be told."

  "Well, tell 'em. Tell 'em."

  "Might make 'em get a move on," said Charley with sudden peevishness. "But I shrived 'im."

  Arthur began to bang four taps at a time on the pipe.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  At eleven o'clock Friday morning Libby Duncane was roaming distractedly around her house when she felt a sudden ripple in her body, a new and different thing.

  She stood still until it was gone. Then she called, "Celestina!"

  The girl came out of the kitchen dragging her feet. Her hair was untidy. The young flesh of her face bore swollen marks. Her eyes were dull and uninterested. She had a weary air as if to say. What now?

  "I think . . ." said Libby breathlessly. "I don't know. I feel . . . Will you try to call the doctor?"

  The girl looked perfectly stupid and began to mumble.

  "What?" Libby was impatient.

  "Don't know the number."

  "You can find it can't you?" Libby was sharp.

  Something hostile glittered in the eyes. In the circumstances, Libby thought that pace was either stupidity or insolence, and she was infuriated.

  "Oh, never mind. You are so slow." She got to the phone herself quite nimbly, asked for the doctor's number, turned, and lashed out. "Don't you understand?"

  Celestina lowered her head.

  "Oh, you're just no . , ." Her mistress turned to the phone. "Dr. Hodge, please."

  But in a moment, she turned away biting her thumb.

  Dr. Hodge was out. Just out. And his wife too. The hired girl who answered the phone did not seem to know where they were. All she could say was that when he got in touch she would have him call Mrs. Duncane, This she said placidly three times.

  But when? thought Libby frantically. And what am I supposed to do?

  "The doctor is out," she said^ aloud, wanly.

  Celestina said nothing.

  "This backwoods!" cried Elizabeth Meadows Duncane. She hunted for that nurse's telephone number. It was written down somewhere. "Do you know where Mr. Duncane put that piece of yellow paper?"

  Celestina didn't answer.

  "Celestina!"

  Celestina didn't know which one she meant.

  "Never mind."

  It was there neatly in a cubbyhole of Henry's desk and Libby found it. In all her rushing about she'd had no time to listen for that strange sensation in her body.

  Just as she reached someone, at last, at the nurse's number, it came again.

  "Oh, this is Mrs. Duncane. I'm calling Miss Cidney. Can she come sooner? I think I need her . . ."

  "Oh, Mrs. Duncane, oh dear!" The nurse's relative, or whoever spoke, was so sorry, but with a patient in her care she did not think the nurse could oblige. "And it's not likely, Mrs. Duncane, really, and of course, even so, you will be hours yet. As long as the doctor is coming . . . He can suggest something."

  The voice was superior and indulgent and Libby hated it.

  She hung up. But what am I going to do? she cried to herself.

  She rang Henry's call on the mine phone.

  Bush answered.

  "Not here. Ma'am. He's been gone all morning. I can try to find him."

  "Please—"

  "What shall I—"

  "Just tell him . . ." Libby gulped, slowed her galloping impulse to scream for help. ". . . to come home," she finished primly.

  "Well I certainly will, Mrs. Duncane," said Bush's wondering voice. "He's probably underground, but if it is very important . . ."

  Libby said tartly, "It's somewhat important," and hung up.

  She held her hands to her cheeks, rocking. It hadn't come again. Maybe . . . She took some deep breaths before she called the Gilchrists' number.

  "Yes?"

  "Marianne? This is Elizabeth Duncane. Are you terribly busy?" This time she would be cool, she would be a lady.

  "I am, rather, dear," said Mrs. Gilchrist. The voice was whispery with respect for the disaster. "You must have heard what's happened at the mine?"

  "Yes, I know—"

  "Alex is home now. So exhausted," breathed the voice. "Poor man. The strain has just been—"

  "I hoped—"

  "He feels it so dreadfully. Takes it right out of him. And of course with Mr. Erickson away—"

  "I called the doctor," Libby broke in desperately, "but he isn't there."

  "Oh—"

  "I'm alone."

  Mrs. Gilchrist gasped. "But, my dear, surely not yet!"

  "I don't quite know." Libby clung to the wall,

  "But won't the doctor call back?" The voice was sharper.

  "The girl said he would, of course. I don't know how soon."

  "Oh, well," Mrs. Gilchrist hooted. "He'll be in time, my dear. It's rather a long drawn-out procedure. Hoo, hoo!"

  Libby, with her face burning, said quietly, "So I've been told. I was going to ask if you couldn't run down and be with me. But you mustn't leave your husband, of course."

  "I have never seen him so upset," said Marianne. "Really, I don't know . . . Isn't Celestina there?"

  "Yes."

  "Well then you are not alone, after all," the voice smoothed over. "Now you know I would come this minute if I thought . . . But you'll be all right, won't you? A little while . . . ?"

  Libby said sweetly, "Oh of course. It's so nice to talk to you, Marianne, but I'd better not keep you."

  "No, I should really . . . Why don't you call me in a little while? Perhaps after lunch . . . ?"

  But Libby had put the receiver on its hook. Mrs. Gilchrist realized she was talking to nobody.

  "Nerves/' she said. "For heaven's sake! I wonder—"

  "Look," said her husband, "I've got to lie down. Can you stay off that phone? Up all night," he grumbled.

  "I didn't sleep a wink, either," she reminded him. "Really a wreck. I don't see how . . . but I will have to go down there sometime today. After all, I can't turn her down."

  "Just so the house is quiet," he snapped.

  "If I left it off the hook," said his lady thoughtfully, "we could both nap. An hour would be such a God-send."

  Marianne went into her bedroom. "Nothing can happen to the girl in an hour." She began to loosen her stays. She'll be very glad to see me, she thought nodding. I can look rushed—

  Ellen Trestrial turned away from Eedie's telephone, muffling the mouthpiece.

  "Now this is a fix," she said.

  "What is it, Ellen?"

  "Miz Duncane. Mr. Weber told her where I was to. Poor little thing's alone and thinks her time is on her."

  "Ah," said Eedie.

  "I'll stay 'ere, mind," said Mrs. Trestrial in a threatening tone, "if I'm any good to you."

  "Now you're a great good to me, Ellen, but go to 'er, do."

  Mrs. Trestrial's shrewd eyes did not like the look of Eedie's face. It was too pale and too haunted. "Doctor's been cal
led," she growled, "and no real 'arm for her to wait on im.

  Eedie said, "Now you know you're going."

  "If you say so," glowered Mrs. Trestrial and then into the telephone, "Now, 'old your 'orses, child. I'll be there directly."

  Libby leaned on the wall. Her head was roaring with relief. She thought she might faint. But the anger came up and seemed to keep her conscious. Was Elizabeth Meadows to bear her child with no mother, no husband, no doctor, no

  nurse, no friend, nobody except perhaps one old Cornish-woman she barely knew?

  Am I an Indian squaw? she thought. A cow? An animal? Her eye lit on the girl Celestina who stood in the middle of the rug still. No decent servant!

  "You may as well . . ." she began.

  The girl muttered.

  "Are you saying something?"

  "I said the doctor will come before anything happens."

  "You think so?" stormed Libby. "Ever)'body's so sure of it. Well at least Mrs. Trestrial is coming. She's not going to get paid for it either."

  Celestina's eyes glittered.

  Libby controlled herself. "I'm sorry, Celestina. I'm sony. Don't mind it. Surely you can see . . ."

  She stumbled to the divan and sat down.

  "I can see you don't know very much," said Celestina.

  "What?"

  But something had got loose in the girl and would not go back. "You don't know anything," she said.

  "Just a minute, Celestina!"

  "You make me laugh," said Celestina. "You don't know what's going on at all,"

  "What do you . . . ?"

  "You don't even know about your own husband and that Mrs. Cole, Yah. And you don't know they're dying!" Celestina shrieked. "Men dying, right now, and you don't even know it! You're ignorant! You're ignorant!"

  "That will do. Be quiet,"

  "You think it's so much to have a baby. My sister had three already and I was there."

  Libby lost her hold on severity, "Oh, please . . ,"

  "And I was here all the time," yelled Celestina, "but you said you was alone. All right. Pay me, then."

  A frigid, cutting voice said quietly, "Celestina, Get out of this room!"

  The girl wailed, whirled, and fled, banging and wailing, up the backstairs.

  "Did you call me," he asked coolly, "because there was a row you couldn't handle?"

  Her eyes widened. She said quietly, "No, Henry."

  He said quietly, "One of the men is dead. That's where I was, sweating to get a code to them."

  "Code," she said numbly.

  "No good. All they can get now is the question they got when they were fresher." He was hoarse. "Can't get it understood."

  "What understood?"

  "A code ... to tell us which man died."

  She said, "I don't know what you are talking about."

  He said, "No. I know."

  Somebody had come in at the back door. "Hoi . . . Your good pan's burnin'. Water boiled away. Hoi!" Mrs. Trestrial called. "Anybody to home?"

  Henr)' turned and just looked at her as, wearing her purple toque and a long shapeless gray summer coat, she came bustling in.

  Her canny eyes scanned the sick-faced girl in the chair.

  "Way up the 'ill I was," she panted. " 'Ow do vou feel, eh?"

  "I guess I was foolishly alarmed," Libby said with her face gray. "It's not . . . happening quite yet."

  "The baby!" Henry was startled.

  Libby was glad. She said in a revengeful monotone, not looking at him, "Nobody would come, not the doctor, not the nurse, not Mrs. Gilchrist," her lip twisted, "not you. I was a little worried. Celestina was absolutely no use to me and I said so. She flew into a rage."

  Mrs. Trestrial was grim but silent.

  Henry was silent, his whole face listening.

  "I thought," Libby said in the same tone, "at a time like this I would have a little bit of attention. But it seems I was foolish. And ignorant," she added revengefully.

  Mrs. Trestrial grinned, showing her long teeth. She cast off the gray coat.

  "Now, nothing foolish, child. 'Ot drop to drink and a bite to eat will do us all good. Nor do I think 'twill be long either, that's my opinion. Doctor's been called, Mr. Duncane."

  Henry left the phone, cast one quick unreadable look at his wife and strode to the back stairs.

  He bellowed, "Celestina."

  No Henn,', she thought, no more.

  But Libby felt Mrs. Trestrial's calming and restraining hand on her shoulder as if to remind her that a man did as he pleased in his house,

  Henry's voice was not itself, but hoarse and tired. Even so, they could hear every word he said.

  "There will be no more of these rows." He was cold and strict.

  The girl was sobbing.

  "Or you must go."

  Sobbing.

  "Yes you are needed, if you can behave."

  Then Libby, listening in a trance of dismay, was astonished to hear him go on quite quietly, "You know the Tre-zona boy is down there I suppose?"

  Wild sobs, but they in the far room could catch no word except his.

  "Naturally, you can't help hoping he'll be all right."

  Mumble.

  "Maybe you don't. But suppose you do? That's nothing scandalous."

  Sobbing.

  "Why help it?"

  Her voice with a questioning rise to it.

  "I'm sorry to have this kind of news, but we know now that one of them died."

  A cry.

  "No, we don't know which one, and we won't know until they are reached. Yes, it's hard."

  Silence.

  Whimper.

  "Of course you can pray," said Henry kindly. "And of course you are worried. But don't take it out on Mrs. Dun-cane."

  Sobbing.

  "All right."

  Silence.

  HS

  Then Mrs. Trestrial left the sitting room.

  "There you are, gel," Libby heard her say loudly and cheerily. "Well you can get busy and 'elp me, h'if you please. Cups we'll 'ave and saucers, bit of bread, butter. Cream in the 'ouse?"

  Henry came in.

  Libby said drearily, "Surely I ought not to think of anything but the baby right now."

  "Don't even try," he said kindly, "Sorry, Libby. You must have had a bad scare."

  "I was—shocked." she said.

  "Why?"

  "Oh," she evaded. "Because I was so alone. I don't want to try to remember all she said. Not right now."

  "No. Don't try. She's pretty upset, and all alone in her trouble, you know."

  "Oh?" Libby's eyes glittered.

  "Maybe the captain broke it up between her and the boy, but you can't legislate the affection away,"

  She bit her lips.

  "If she's drawn to him, she cannot help it, Libby,"

  "I , . . see that," she said.

  "And the poor girl's frantic,"

  "Yes. So was L"

  "Do you feel , , . safer?" He was awkward. "You called the nurse? Well, I'll find one, somewhere,"

  "If Mrs, Trestrial will only stay , . ."

  "Never fear," said that lady briskly, "And 'ere's doctor coming in the gate. Now Mr. Duncane, you're best out of the way. That's my opinion."

  "I mind one time," said Mrs. Trestrial, "they took twelve men out of Briar Hill, and not a bruise on a one. Lively as ever, the whole dozen."

  She sat in the only rocker in the house, the one in Libby's bedroom, and she rocked while Libby Duncane sat, stood, walked about, and sat again, and the blazing afternoon poured down outside.

  "That was a do," said Mrs, Trestrial. "But I mind one time they tapped up into a lake bottom, up by Ishpeming,

  'twas. Mud and water was sucked down, sec, in a rush, and not a one of that lot was ever seen again. Sealed it up, they did, for their tomb. Fifty men or more." She shook her head. "That was not the same as 'ere. There's 'ope 'ere, mind."

  "I don't know very much about it," Libby said feebly.

  The doctor had co
me and gone. All was well, he said. He would return. In good time. Later.

  Henry had gone, too.

  "Best go about your business," Mrs. Trestrial had advised him cheerily. "'You'll do no good 'ere, Mr. Duncane. We've a long way to go yet."

  But Henry had asked Libby's permission, or so she judged. Work left undone, he explained, and if she was sure . . . ?

  She'd said quietly that if Mrs. Trestrial would stay that was all she cared.

  Now the house was quiet and it waited. Celestina, swollen-eyed, worked apart in the kitchen. Mrs. Trestrial rocked and told tales, her sharp eyes comfortingly watchful.

  Libby Duncane had had quite a fuss made of her, after all.

  But she walked, sat, rose, walked.

  Her heart was breaking.

  No, it wasn't.

  The girl had been hysterical, been blindly shouting anything that would hurt. There was no reason to believe everything she'd said.

  But Libby Duncane believed some of it because she recognized it. She came of people who tended to examine themselves. She knew there was no denying that she was ignorant. She had not understood what this thing in the mine amounted to. She had not known, either, that Celestina's friend was one of those in danger of their lives in that terrible place. Nobody had told her, of course. But that was not excuse enough. She might have been told if something about herself had not made the barrier between her and plain information.

  What pierced her was the memor)' of Henry's understanding for that girl, as he never seemed to understand Libby who had been, surely, upset and alone in her trouble, too—or so she had thought. Feared. It's the fear, she thought now.

  It is the fear. He just has none. So he can't. To him having a baby is Hke what? Like a thunderstorm. There is some danger. But you discount it according to probabihty. You just take your chances. That would be his approach and he expects it to be mine.

  But she was ignorant. Didn't he know the terror of that?

  How ignorant was she?

  Now she remembered the cool, withdrawn beauty of that woman's face, that Madeline Cole. Well, Henry was not a man to be attracted by beauty, all alone. Libby was no beauty. Oh, she was nice looking with a certain charm, dainty and pleasing. No need to be silly. In all modesty, she was all that. (In former days and when all this was over.) But there might be, she mused, some stronger, other thing in Madeline Cole, if he was attracted. Fearlessness, perhaps, she thought sadly. Some brave kind of thing. Maybe the woman was brave or strong or serene, or able to calculate her chances so that, between those two, there could be, or was, a contract.