John felt as if his whole world had fallen about him with an enormous crash. He turned from his wife; he was swallowing hard. He put a hand on the mantelpiece, supported himself by it. He seemed to sag.
“They’re here, John,” said Miss Betsy from the doorway. “I’ve sent the girls to look for things, and you’d better call the men and have them taken over to the house.”
Very slowly John turned to her. His aunt stood in the doorway, a black shawl about her head and shoulders, the wool glistening with drops of water. Though her controlled expression did not change, her eyes were bitter with compassion. How long she had been there, how much she had heard, neither husband nor wife knew. The children stood on the hearth, side by side, staring.
“All right, Aunt Betsy,” said John heavily. He looked for a moment at Margaret; she did not stir. “All right,” he repeated. His step, as he went toward his aunt, was slow and heavy, as though he had suddenly become old. When he had gone, Miss Betsy stood there and looked at Margaret. Then she too slowly went out.
After a long while Margaret sat upright. She began to sob. The tears rushed over her cheeks. She struck her hands together. She sobbed for several minutes without control. Something ached in her chest and she did not understand it.
John worked for hours among the families in the old house and Miss Betsy worked with him. Lights glowed from every window; a lamp was set in the attic where three men and six boys were bedded. Margaret was left alone in the deserted house with the two children; she put them to bed. Little Gregory fell asleep immediately, his fist in his cheek, but Margaret knelt beside Dickie’s bed and held his hand. The child watched her gravely in the dim light. She held his hand suddenly against her breast.
“Oh, Dickie, Dickie!” she whispered. “If I could only talk to you! Dickie, I’ll take you away from here!”
“Yes, Mamma,” said Dickie, uncomprehending.
“I’m going to protect you!” she whispered fiercely. And then it seemed to her that a cold and detached voice asked: “From what?” She stood up, puzzled. From what? She could see the lights of the old house through the window, could see the passing shadows of those who were making the refugees comfortable. She pulled the shutters closed against the night and went from the room.
Downstairs she sat before the fire. She tried fo sew, to read, but could not. The clock chimed nine, then ten. John had not returned. She went up to her room. The hearth was gray with ashes. She built a fire, shivering in the dank chill, and then sat before it.
She had fallen asleep in her chair when she heard the door open and John come in. She did not turn to him, though the painful throbbing had begun in her chest again. She knew that he stood for a long time, watching her. Then he went to his chest of drawers and began to pull blankets from it.
“Those are the only ones left, John,” she said sharply. He continued to pull bedding, from the drawer for several moments before he answered. He did not look at her.
“I want them for myself,” he said expressionlessly. “I’m movin’ over to the bedroom across the hall.”
She stood up; her right temple began to pound and she put up her hand to stop it.
“You mean—you’re going to sleep over there tonight?”
“Yes. And every other night.”
She stared at him. He looked exhausted and dirty. She took a step toward him, then stopped. She pressed her hands together and swallowed.
“It’s cold and unaired over there, John. We haven’t used it since Greg was born. Wait, I’ll get sheets for you, and some fresh pillows—”
“I don’t want you to do nothin’ for me—ever,” he said.
He clutched the blankets in his arms and started toward the door on stumbling feet.
“John!” she cried. “Wait, just a minute. John, I’m—sorry for what I said to you tonight! I—I didn’t really mean it. Please believe me. I was—just that I hate them so that I wanted to hurt you as you were hurting me, helping them. Please try to understand!”
He stood with his back to her for a long moment; she did not know that she was crying desperately, but it seemed to her that she must stop him at all costs, that if he went out of the room something would be lost to her for all time. When he dropped the blankets on the floor and turned slowly to her, her relief was so great that she sobbed loudly. But his face was still heavy and drained.
“I don’t understand you, Maggie.” His voice was emotionless. “It wasn’t long ago, before Dickie was born, when you wanted me to let young Townsend have more time on account of his six kids. Remember that? You was always doin’ somethin’ for the no-accounts in Pine Hollow. And then, when I bring these folks to the old house, you raise a row.
“Now, wait a minit. I’m agoin’ to do the talkin’ for a few minits. I’v got a lot to say to you, Mag, and might’s well say it now and have it over. I’ve wanted to for a long time, and I’m agoin’ to say them now.
“You hate all the folks hereabouts. You got your reasons. I ain’t in love with ’em, either. But that don’t mean I can’t be friends with ’em. I can’t go all my life with everybody against me. T’aint only the business side of it, either. I wondered for a long time why they ran away when they saw me, but, now I know. It was because of you. And now I know I can’t have things like that: I got kids to think of. This is their home, and they’ll want friends. Besides, it ain’t healthy, no matter how much money you’ve got, to have everybody’s hand against you. I can’t let my kids grow up where every breath they take in their lungs is full of pizen. No, ma’am!
“I don’t go around with my heart bleedin’ over the trouble folks get into on account of their own damfoolishness. But, when somethin’ like this happens, like this here flood, it ain’t nobody’s fault. And everybody’s got to help. It’s just plain human decency.
“They got young uns in there, like mine. Young uns that ain’t been eatin’ regular. Aunt Betsy’s over there now, takin’ care of one that mightn’t live until mornin’. I looked at them kids, and I thought, what if they was mine? If you’d any of that heart I thought you used to have, you’d be over there, too.
“But all these things tonight just made me realize that they wasn’t nothin’ in themselves. They just made me sort of realize what’s wrong between you and me. What’s always been wrong. I always knew you had funny ideas that wasn’t connected with real livin’, but I thought you sort of loved me, underneath. And so, I held on, standin’ lots of things no other man’d stand from his woman.
“But now I know that things’ll never be any better. You wouldn’t let ’em be better. You’ve got somethin’ in you that’d never let you be happy, and wouldn’t let you let anybody else be happy. What it is I don’t know. And somehow, now, I don’t care. That’s somethin’ you got to get over yourself, or die in. It’s—it’s a sort of spell on you.
“I didn’t think you hated me. But I saw it in your eyes tonight. I didn’t need any of your words. I saw it plainly.
“And so we can’t be a man and his woman any more. T’aint my doin’; it’s yours. You’ll go on makin’ a misery for yourself, but, by God! you ain’t goin’ to make a misery for me and the young uns no more! I’m agoin’ to see to that, myself.
“You ain’t got any kin, there ain’t a soul that’ll take you in. If there was, I’d say to you, ‘Go away, where you won’t have to see me, pore soul, and where you’d have your sickness by yourself.’ But, you ain’t got nobody. So, I want you to stay here; I won’t ever bother you agin.
“I’m sorry for you, Maggie. Right sorry. Livin’ here all these years in your misery when you might’ve been happy, if it wasn’t for your own self. You miss a lot, Maggie. You used to like to run around and sit on the hills; seemed like you was part of them, part of everythin’ that growed, and I loved you for it. You’ve lost that, too.
“Seems like only God can help you. I can’t. I tried. T’wasn’t any use. And that’s all I got to say.”
He looked at her steadily. For the first time she
saw compassion and real, impersonal grief in his eyes. While he had been speaking it seemed to her that the conflagration within herself had grown to terrible proportions, that she was being consumed in it. She could not endure the anguish of it. Worse, she did not understand it. She wanted to cry out to him: “John! Don’t leave me! I’ll die if you leave me!” But she could not. There were so many things clamoring in her to be said, but now that they had become articulate she was only terrified, dumfounded. She made herself speak, and loathed herself for the words.
“You thought I didn’t know, John, but I’ve known for three weeks that Bill King came back, that’s he’s staying with his folks until they get out in the spring. And you never said anything to him—”
He looked at her for a long moment before replying. Then he smiled sadly.
“Maggie, that wasn’t what you wanted to say. Perhaps, one of these days, you’ll say it to me. But until you do, we won’t be seein’ much of each other. All I can do is wait. Good night.”
He picked up his blankets and went out of the room, closing the door gently behind him.
For a long time Margaret stood where he had left her, in the center of the room. She stared at the closed door. It was as if a part of her had run out after John, screaming wordlessly.
Finally she flung herself across the bed, limp, and deadened. When dawn came into the cold room, she was still lying there, fully clothed, in a deep sleep of exhaustion, her hair strewn about her.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
When Margaret came downstairs in the late morning the house was quiet. John was gone. The children were in the kitchen with the girls, coaxing cookies. A fire was crackling in the dining room and she sat beside it, feeling utterly drained. Mary brought her come coffee and biscuits. The girl looked tired and cross, and she thumped the dishes on the table. She put a letter down beside them.
“Coffee ain’t so good,” she mumbled, without looking at Margaret. “But you didn’t come down right away.” She went out of the room.
Margaret picked up the letter. It was from her Aunt Susan. Listlessly, she tore it open. Another envelope fell out. She stared at it blankly. There was a note in Susan Blodgett’s scrawl.
“Ralph is here visiting me, and he wants me to send you this letter. I ain’t got nothing else to say.”
It seemed to Margaret, as she ripped open the other envelope, that she could never tear through the stubborn paper, that eternities swung dreamily about her until she had spread open the paper. Even then, the letters blurred before her eyes for moments.
“Dear Margaret: I received your letter. I knew it would come some day and so I have waited. You took longer than I thought you would. I have come down to see my mother and will be here for two days. Won’t you come to me at once? For obvious reasons, I cannot come to you. R.B.”
Margaret read the letter over and over before she understood it. Then she thrust it quickly between the coals in the fireplace. She was breathing hard as she ran to the window; she was vaguely surprised to feel herself trembling. There was no sign of rain though the sky was low. She caught up a shawl and ran out to the barn. The ground was brown and slimy under her feet and she slipped once or twice.
Several men, refugees were in the barn too, waiting with small pails for milk for their children. They were talking to John, chewing the tobacco he had given them, and spitting. They were all gaunt and dirty. They stared at Margaret as she came in, then looked aside. She ran up to John, breathing hard.
“John! I just got a letter from Aunt Susie! She’s—she’s sick, and she wants me to come down at once. I’d like to have the trap in about an hour, and I’ll drive it down there myself!”
He waited a full minute before he replied, and then he said slowly, “It’s twenty miles, Mag. And the road’s bad, even if the flood ain’t been goin’ down that way. Wait till evenin’, and I’ll drive you down, myself.”
“No. No! I’ve got to go, now. Twenty miles isn’t bad.”
He looked at her steadily. Haggard though she was, life glittered on her face, and her lips usually so dry and pale, were moist and glowing.
Funny, he thought, saw Si Rowe yesterday and he didn’t say nothin’ about old Susie bein’ sick. But—but, and it seemed to him that a jagged flash of lightning struck him apart, he did say somethin’ about Ralph Blodgett bein’ down to see his ma for a couple days. Ralph Blodgett. So that’s it! I been a fool for years!
Nothing of what he thought showed in his stolid expression. But he felt physically sick. He wet his lips.
“It’s a long way, Mag. And bad goin’. It’ll take you most all day. I don’t like you goin’ alone, but seems like you’re set on it. Are you takin’ both the young uns with you?”
“No,” said Margaret. She did not look at him directly. “I don’t want to take either of them. It’s—it’s bad going, as you say. I’ll leave them here, and I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“That’s good,” commented John with apparent easiness. He felt moisture pricking his scalp. “I been thinkin’ of runnin’ in to Whitmore today or tomorrow mornin’. I need some things. Got to see what they think up there ’bout me runnin’ for mayor next year, too. I’ll take both the young uns.”
Margaret, who had already started for the door, halted. “But the river’s up, John.”
“The bridge at Big Bend’s all right. It’ll hold. And the river’s been goin’ down for three days. It’ll be good for the kids to take a ride with their dad, and the wimin folk bein’ so busy and all, I don’t like to leave ’em here in the way.” Margaret was already outside now, so he called, “If Ole Susie needs anythin’, let me know.”
Margaret did not answer; in fact, she had not heard. She ran back to the house. She was startled and annoyed to see Miss Betsy in the dining room, rubbing her dry hands before the blaze.
She turned as Margaret entered. She had been about to speak, but at the sight of Margaret’s thin face, vivid as it had not been for years, she stopped.
“Aunt Betsy,” said Margaret, “I’ve got to go away, until tomorrow night. To my aunt’s. She’s sick. I can’t take the children, and I wonder if you’d sort of keep an eye of them—”
“Going away? And we’re short-handed, with all those folks in the old house. I came over to ask you to help. Two of the children are very sick over there, and I thought you’d have the Christian decency to help us. I haven’t been to bed yet, and the hired girls are all played out. They’re not mules.”
Margaret removed her shawl, clutched it tightly in her hands. Now that the glow was fading, she looked ill. But resolute, terribly resolute, as though she had at last got a hold upon life and would not let go. Something frantic sprang into her eyes.
“I’m sorry. I’ve got to go to my aunt. I’ll be back tomorrow and help.”
She left the room; her hurried feet stumbled on the stairs. She was throwing articles into a small carpetbag. The children came into her room, and her voice, as she told them to leave, had something wild in it.
When Margaret came downstairs in her short brown jacket and thick brown skirts, her bonnet tied neatly under her chin, and carrying her bag, John was already standing at the side door beside the horse and trap. With burning impatience she allowed him to tuck the rug about her knees and listened fumingly to his advice. She did not notice how unusually quiet his voice was. She did not know that he stared after her for a long time, as she drove away over the muddy road.
Margaret drove swiftly, almost recklessly, now that she was on the highway. The air was chilly and dark, and there was no sound but that of the horse and the straining wheels. Even the houses they passed were huddled and gray, half-drowned, though this section had been spared the worst of the flood. Smoke hung over desolate eaves. It might have been late twilight instead of midday. For miles Margaret met no one, saw no one. All she heard was the riotous beating of her heart, the humming of her thoughts.
She was going to see Ralph.
She felt delirious, unreal. Her hands, in thei
r thick gloves, were hot with nervousness. She slapped the reins on the horse’s back; she soared out of the trap, out of her body, flew to the farmhouse eight miles away.
She had forgotten to bring any food, and two hours later she was surprised at the pangs of hunger she felt. The horse was becoming exhausted; the skies were darkening rapidly. Then slow drops thrummed on the roof of the trap.
The horse began to limp, and she still had nearly two miles to go. It was already twilight, a twilight of inundated and silent horrors. She was shivering with cold and nervousness. She passed a cabin, standing alone in a shallow lake of mud and water. She stopped the horse and shouted. After an interminable time, filled with the sound of the relentless rain and wind, a door opened and a young boy came out onto the stoop.
“Hey, you!” shouted Margaret, her voice thick in the wet air. “My horse’s got a stone. Help me, will you?”
The boy went back into the house. He was gone a long time. Then he came out again in hip boots. Margaret watched his slow approach apprehensively. She had not realized the waters were so high. He came abreast of the trap; he was pitifully thin. He lifted the horse’s foot, removed the stone, all without a word. Then he looked at Margaret. She fumbled in her bag, drew out a silver cartwheel, and gave it to him. He was still staring stupidly at it as she drove away.
Night had fallen before she reached her aunt’s home. She was shuddering, wet through, the horse limping again, the rug half out of the trap. She was conscious of total exhaustion which even anticipation could not lighten.
The house was shut and grim, but a dim light showed in one window. It was several minutes before she had strength to shout and even then her voice was weak. The door opened reluctantly, and two men came out. They were just indistinct figures against the lamplight behind them, but Margaret knew that one of them was Ralph. She began to tremble again, and tears fell over her face.
Maggie—Her Marriage Page 15
