One of the figures began to run towards her. It was Silas Rowe. He stared up at her in the darkness.
“Well, I swan!” he muttered. “Ralph, it’s Maggie Hamilton,” he called over his shoulder. The other figure came to the extreme edge of the stoop, hesitated, then stopped. But his voice, light and eager, floated out over the ground.
“Margaret!”
Silas lifted Margaret out of the trap. She was numb, and cried out as the thick water oozed up about her ankles and her cramped limbs straightened themselves. “Of all the damn foolishness!” growled Silas. He jerked his thumb toward the house. “Go on in. I’ll tend to this pore beast.” Margaret began to walk, weak and half fainting. Ralph stood on the stoop, hands outstretched to her impatiently.
“Hurry, Margaret, hurry! Why are you walking so slowly?”
She walked slowly, indeed, suffering. Mrs Blodgett had joined her son, wrapped in her shawl. She shrilled:
“Whatever! You comin’ out this way after the flood and all, Maggie Hamilton! You ain’t got no sense! And alone! You’re a fool, Maggie Hamilton!”
In a nightmare, Margaret heard herself gasping. She thought that she would never reach the stoop. Even when she did, and Ralph grasped her hand and pulled her up, it seemed to her that she was still walking in the darkness, with the cold waters about her ankles.
He put his arm around her and led her into the house, Susan Blodgett pounding ridicule in the rear. It was blessedly warm in the crowded farmhouse; a fire leapt and danced redly. Margaret fell into a chair, she felt Ralph pulling off her wet boots, felt Susan tugging roughly at her jacket and bonnet. She began to cry. Through the shimmering of her tears she looked down at Ralph, at her feet. He did not seem familiar to her. She was conscious only of a great tiredness, of a desire for the power of a strong arm, for a voice that would comfort her. She cried harder.
Susan pushed something into her hands, still scolding. It was a cup of hot coffee. Margaret drank gulpingly.
“You look a sight!” said Susan. “Like a drowned pup. Served you right if you’d have got stuck somewhere in the mud. Of all things! Here, now, rest a while, and I’ll go out in the kitchen and see if I can get you some vittles.”
She went out, grumbling, Margaret looked at Ralph. He smiled. He was standing beside her. For the first time she noticed that he was holding her hand. His hand was soft and fine, unfamiliar after years of John’s calloused grip. She felt the pressure of a ring on his finger. She stared at him blankly.
She hardly recognized him. Though he was still in his middle twenties, he had put on weight and through the fine broadcloth of his clothing he bulked larger than Margaret remembered. There was even a fold of soft flesh over the edge of his high white collar and red silk cravat. The fine modeling of his face, too, was obscured by heaviness. For some reason she thought of the almost Grecian nose of the old Ralph. When he touched her wet eyes with his fine linen handkerchief, she caught a whiff of scent, and the musky odor caught in her throat.
He, in his turn, studied her. His first thought was: She’s grown older, yes. We both have, but the years have been kind to Margaret. She’s still beautiful. It’s because she’s suffered that there’s something haunted about her. It’s because she hasn’t forgotten me, no more than I’ve forgotten her. And he sighed.
“Margaret,” he said softly, “I’ve so much I want to say to you.” But she only stared at the fire, her hands wrung hard together in her lap. Yes, she thought, it was almost the same voice, the voice that had been filled with troubled glory. But now it was serene, satisfied. She looked at him wearily, tried to smile.
“I had a lot to say, too,” she said faintly. He smiled, then bent and kissed her cheek. It was very cold. He felt cheated; all these years she had been a vital and glowing memory to him, a heightened creature of splendor. This tired, white-faced woman with drawn lips had come to him instead. A faint anger began to stir in him, a sort of indignation that she had cheated him.
Susan came in with a plate of cold potatoes, fried pork and beans, and a smaller plate with a flabby piece of pie upon it. Margaret looked at these offerings, and then at Ralph, so grotesquely out of place in that plain and ugly farmhouse “settin’ room” that she wanted to laugh madly. Ralph had left her on that hilltop so many years ago, and he would never return. Her disappointment was like acrid poison in her mouth. Mingled with it was an enormous self-contempt, enormous laughter turned against herself. She had been dreaming of a dead man.
Susan stood fussily near Margaret until the latter pretended to eat. Margaret’s hand shook with complete exhaustion; the food nauseated her.
“I must say, Maggie,” said Susan fretfully, “that I don’t see how you got over here. In all that mud. And the bridges down, and the flood over everythin’. Land, you must have wanted to come a heap to half drowned yourself.”
“I did want to come,” said Margaret in her tired voice.
Ralph smiled at her significantly. She tried to smile in return; she felt only ludicrous. So she asked Ralph about Lydia and the little girl. Ralph sighed gently before answering; he looked at Margaret meaningly when he spoke of his wife. He implied to Margaret that Lydia had never, could never, take her place. Only Margaret counted, the girl who had walked hand in hand with him through this valley. However, beneath his words, she saw that he was not at all discontent. “It’s only a pose,” she thought with bitter amusement.
It occurred to her, sharply, that he had not asked about her at all, that he had never mentioned John or the children. He was not interested. She remembered, now, that he had never been interested in what had concerned her. How had she forgotten that?
Suddenly it seemed to her that this man was a caricature; that he was something to weep over. This was not Ralph; Ralph had gone away and never come back. This was not even a man, only a stranger blurred in the image of Ralph, a stranger without a heart and only a secondrate mind.
She looked at him. “Have you seen anything of the flood country?”
He was puzzled and slightly offended. “What? Flood country? No, I haven’t seen the flood country. It’s bad enough out here. But I was worried about mother in this dreadful region, so I came.” Susan beamed on him fondly, clicked her needles. But into the dark scarred places of Margaret the painful new blood was rushing, healing but agonizing.
She said, “You know, of course, that Pa was killed by a horse. Mashed. You would hardly have recognized his face.” She watched him closely as she spoke. Ralph’s brows wrinkled.
“Yes. I was sorry to hear about Uncle Peter. But, Margaret, need you describe it so realistically?”
“Death is realistic, Ralph,” she heard herself saying. “Just as realistic as life. Perhaps more.”
He stared at her. Her face had become flushed, her eyes were sparkling. Here was the old Margaret, strong with vitality and anger. He could not be angry with her. He, too, had an enchantment he wished to keep.
“I ain’t asked you yet, Maggie,” said Susan tightly, “but how’s John? Much damage done to his land down there?”
Margaret turned her eyes upon her. “John,” she said slowly. “John is well. No, the farm isn’t hurt much.” She continued to look at her aunt, but into her eyes leaped a fire. John! Why, John was her husband, steady, inarticulate, forever there! She loved him. She had always loved him! How had she forgotten that? Suddenly, desperately, she wanted him. She half rose, then fell back, shaking. But she was filled with joy and incredible satisfaction. What a fool she had been!
She thought of the wasted years, the silly years, when she might have been happy with her husband and her children! Miss Betsy had known what was in her mind; no wonder she had despised her. But, no more than she despised herself.
Thank God, it’s not too late! she thought humbly.
She marveled at her monumental blindness. She was seized with a passion of longing to see John, to hear his voice, to feel the touch of his hand. How miserable she had made him! She had robbed herself of life, of joy
, of the beauty of reality. But, it was not too late. Thank God, it was not too late!
Susan, yawning, stood up. “Well, seems like it’s time to go to bed. You better go, too, Maggie. I’ll fix up a room for you. The one at the head of the stairs, cross from mine and Si’s.”
Margaret and Ralph, left alone, looked at each other. He reached over, and took her hand. “Margaret,” he said softly. She merely smiled. But she was compassionate; she must rid him of his enchantment, too.
They heard Susan scolding as she went upstairs, followed by the growling Si. A deep silence fell upon the house. Ralph drew his chair closer to Margaret.
“Margaret. Maggie, dear. You asked me to come,” he whispered.
“Yes,” she said clearly. “I asked you to come. I didn’t know, then, how glad I would be to see you again.”
He misunderstood, of course. He kissed the palm of her hand, then he looked up at her.
“Margaret, why did you do it to me? Why did you send me away, and then turn around and marry that—that country laborer, that melodramatic village squire? What had I done, Margaret?”
Why, she thought, you wouldn’t have things different if you could! You wouldn’t change your devoted Lydia for me, not for twice as much money! You wouldn’t give up your position, your comfort, your fine gold chain and your private carriage, your publishing business, your satisfaction and security, for a dozen like me! You’re acting a part.
Then, all at once, she knew that he believed himself sincere, that to show him his real insincerity would be to deal him a cruel blow. She had really hurt him once; she could not do it again. She said gently:
“I knew I could never make you happy, Ralph. I knew what I was, inside. So I married John to save you—I thought I was doing the best thing. I wanted to have you forgive me.”
Suddenly he knelt before her, took her hands and held them to the smoothness of his cheeks. She had to check an instinctive recoil.
“Margaret,” he said in a choked voice, “I want you to know this. I forgive you. I forgave you long ago. I knew that in some way you were being wise and kind. You were always that.
“Margaret, through all these years, you have been more to me than anyone else. I love Lydia, yes, but not the way I have always loved you, and still love you. When I write my poems, I write them for you. You give my life substance and beauty. I’ll go away, and I’ll never see you. I know that. But you will continue to give me substance and beauty. You will make the world lovely for me, as you have always done. You will give me your strength, as you did before. Without remembering you, without loving you, there would be nothing.”
She looked blindly into the distance. She knew he spoke the truth. Yes, for the first time, he had spoken from his own depths. She knew that she could never take this illusion from him. His enchantment had been to him a refuge of lush, tree-hidden lands. It had taken the place of courage in him. It had rescued him from fear. His life and happiness depended on a lie.
She moved her hands over his face, smoothed his hair.
“You have been all that to me, too, Ralph dear,” she whispered. “You’ll always be that to me. Perhaps you’re right and we won’t ever see each other again. But we’ll always remember how we love each other, and it will give us courage, won’t it? We’ll always have that. We’ll always love each other.”
He held her tightly. The clock ticked; the coals fell into dimness. Ralph was silent in his happiness. But Margaret was conscious of a growing weariness. Even as he held her, she was making plans to slip away in the morning. She wanted to rest, so that she could drive relentlessly. She wanted to go back to John, to see him, to hear him. Even as she murmured to Ralph, her eyes were bright with the thought of her husband.
Finally he released her. He was very pale. He kissed her hands slowly and tenderly, while she smiled down at him. She let him kiss her lips, and she thought, Did we really lie together that night on the hill? She felt shame and disgust, and so kissed him lightly.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Silas Rowe had just set his lantern down in the acridly pungent barn when he heard a step behind him. It was barely half-past five of a raw gray morning, drifting with vapors. He was amazed to see Margaret Hobart, fully dressed and bonnetted behind him. She smiled at him in the yellowish lantern light.
“Si, will you harness my horse for me? I’m leaving right away.”
“Eh?” he grunted. He put a thick hand to his ear and scratched it.
“Please hurry, Si. I’ve got to go home. I can’t wait another minute.”
Silas glanced involuntarily at the house. There was not a glimmer of light showing in its slumbering huddle.
“Ain’t you stayin’ for breakfast?” he asked.
“I’ve been in the kitchen and I drank well onto a quart of milk, ate five cold biscuits and butter, and a piece of pie. Isn’t that enough?”
“Susie know you’re agoin’?” he persisted.
“Oh—what does it matter?” she demanded impatiently. “No, she doesn’t know I’m going! You tell her I had to go. Tell that to Ralph, too. He’ll understand.”
“Bet Susie won’t,” muttered Silas, with a half leer at Margaret.
He hitched the horse for her. She swung into the trap lightly and caught up the reins. Silas lifted the lantern; she looked like a young girl, he thought, all asparkle and aquiver, instead of a woman going out before dawn into a desolate and dangerous country.
“Been rainin’ a lot last night,” he said warningly. “Mebbe the cricks are up agin and the bridges down. Then what’ll you do?”
“Swim!” she laughed. She cracked the whip and the horse, his breath rising in clouds, felt his way carefully in the half darkness. The trap crept out toward the public road. Moisture drummed ceaselessly on the roof; Margaret could hear the sucking of the mud around the horse’s hoofs. Beyond these sounds, and the sound of the horse and the creaking wheels, there was nothing. It gave Margaret a sense of unreality, as though she alone were alive in a dead world. She passed the dark angular shapes of farmhouses; no lights showed in them, though in the east the muddy skies were turning a faint yellow.
A fever was burning in Margaret, running along her flesh. Her body felt rigid and too intensely alive. She lost a sense of her surroundings, thought only of her return. She would go to John and look at him simply and put her hand in his, saying “Forgive me, John. I’ve been a fool.” And he would look at her in his steady way, and then he would take her in his arms. He would ask nothing, say nothing, but she would lay her head on his strong shoulder, close her eyes, and be at peace. All at once she began to sing wordlessly, in a wild, improvised tune, her voice muffled in the fog. She laughed aloud, whistled as she had not done since her marriage, laughed again when rain dashed into her face.
It can’t be more than seven, she thought at last. If I keep on this way without any accidents I’ll be homebefore three o’clock. She passed over a small wooden bridge. The horse was obviously frightened, and had to be whipped to go over it. The waters washed over the rotten boards, and the bridge shook and wavered under the weight of horse and vehicle. It was full daylight now, but a dark and threatening one. She passed farmhouses where disspirited chickens huddled on stoops and even more disspirited men sloshed about in barnyards and fed dejected cattle.
Alive, now, she was full of pity and sudden heaviness of heart. The damage was too great to be alleviated much by individual effort. But she and John would do their part; whatever they had would be at the disposal of these poor wretches. She felt a surge of impersonal love and compassion. She could hardly bear the poignancy of her awakened emotions.
I might have been dead for these past years, she thought bitterly. I’ve let these years mean nothing to me. I’ve robbed myself and I’ve robbed John of living. I’ll make it up! I’ll live as I never lived before. I’ll think only of making John happy, and the children.
At twelve o’clock, she reached higher land. The hills were crowding close. They were a darker brown than th
e muddy earth, but here and there they showed, on higher levels, the green of late grass, the thinning scarlet of small trees. And then, suddenly, the sun came out, splendid and overpowering, bursting its way through dun clouds. The hills became tawny with running light, and the earth shone and sparkled in all its small false lakes of flood water. The air became warmer, quivering with promise, and sparrows began to chirp on every tree.
After death comes life, thought Margaret, and was not ashamed to discover that she was crying. She stopped the horse and looked at the transfigured country. The standing horse dropped his head and moisture steamed from him.
The sun continued to shine, at first intermittently, and then steadily. Its joyous influence brought people out from the houses; they stared about at the ruins stupidly, then new hope showed in their quickened steps.
Margaret was coming to the higher land that marked the last miles of home. She passed whole pastures that were untouched by water, many farmhouses that were still dry and snug. The horse knew he was approaching his stable, and began to trot without the urge of the whip. The road was still terrible, full of holes and treacherous stones, but the shining countryside diverted Margaret’s attention from the constant swaying and grinding of the trap. She noticed a new sweetness in the air.
She was less than a mile from home, and recognized familiar landmarks. Three men were standing talking excitedly at a gate, with agitated gestures that were alien to a reserved people. They heard Margaret approaching, and stared at her. Then they glanced at each other, and stared again.
She waved her whip at them gaily, and called, “Hi, Elmer. Hi, Tom, and Charlie!”
“Hi, Miz Hobart,” they mumbled. She beamed upon them and drove on. But something made her look back; Elmer was shaking his head vociferously. “G’wan, I won’t!” she heard him say. “Time enough when she gits there.”
Maggie—Her Marriage Page 16
