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About The Omaha morning bee. (Omaha [Neb.]) 1922-1927 | View Entire Issue (Feb. 4, 1923)
tried to sleep. Mary had had her temptations. One of them had been big. She had put it away without taking much credit for It because it had appeared clear to her that the cost of mortally wounding Billy and putting the years of relationship with her chil dren in jeopardy and dumping a rich store of valuable happy mem ories was a cost she could not dream of paying. Nevertheless there was a man. He would come bark. She could begin all over with him if necessary. He had a little more skill In living than Billy. He would be a little more unselfish. And surely more loyal. Damn the thought of It! At the very moment when Billy and she both needed all her help and sense there was that thought, plucking, plucking, plucking, and that voice sounding again as it had once sounded. "Dear stranger: If you ever want them, these hands and these nrms are yours.” They were nice hands and strong fine arms. She had not thought of them for years. Now they were stretching out to her through the dark of night, and when her eyes filled with tears they stretched out to her at high noon. She felt like crying to the heavens and the stars. "I can go! I can go!” Once In an unreasoning moment, a moment of hot folly, she asked Billy out of a clear sky, "Have you ever kissed Edith Barston?” He rose from the porch chair In a rage; this was his opportunity for righteousness, technical righteous ness, and he would make the most of It. "dad!” he shouted. “What are you made of? What a revolting mind! Of course, I haven't. Sex doesn’t mean anything much to me." Of course, at times of arrectlon It meant something to him. It would have meant a good deal more, loo, if he had not acquired the no tion that It was In some ways base rather than an urge of nature cap able of all the exquisite beauty which a person can put into it. •'Listen!” he said. "I won't have you interfering with my right to know whatever is good and fine In anybody In the world! I won’t have you attributing vulgar motives eith er to me—or to her!” To her? Ills righteous defense of her! Now a passionate champion of her? Disclosed were all his attempts at indifference, and attempts to moke gestures of contempt for Kdlth. Now he had raised his voice so high that little Jane dropped her sand bucket and came up peering* at her father curiously. "Daddy’s cross all the time," she announced. The inscrutability which occasionally blankets the emotions and Impressions of a child made her assertion sound as colorless as s statement that the fisherman had come on Ms weekly round. But Mary, watching Jane as she return ed to her play, shuddered. She could not foresee what would come in those next 24 hours. She could only now feel the resentment against rank Injustice surge up her throat, into her eyelids, fill her un til It seemed to strain at her finger tips. Coward, trickster, liar, brazen self lover, fool made ridiculous by parading In the borrowed misfit of wisdom, seeking to avoid playing the game, trying to cheat, to beat it, baying at the moon, rocking the boat when other lives than his own were at stake, quitter! She held these words behind her closed teeth; restraint came because there came the thought that this was not the real Billy—tho Billy she . had loved and trusted and guided — ihis was the human Billy — the poor human thing which gets off Its track of decency occasionally—the feeble thing which, having been of fered the best candy of Ooil, demands the whole box and refuses to contribute to It, to earn It, to pay for if, to prove by achievement rather than plan achievement, to pav as it goes. fine was glad she had not said these things, because, after the children were In bed and she had come down. Billy had a moment of tenderness. He, probably, had not noticed that whenever in the old days he had gone by her when she was sitting, he had patted her fare, put his hand on her shoulder, turn ed her chin so that her face was raised to his. but that now he no longer did these things and walked by pleasantly, but a little as if pass ing were a nuisance and an em barrassment. Of course, he might think that bis leaning toward the calm, female philosopher Edith had no such coarse urge as physical con tacts, hut something had effectively killed spontaneous tenderness to ward Mary. The moon was on the water, the jagged hills on the cape projecting out into the blue black of the quiet sea were half concealed in a silver and violet mist. The little waves In the cove ran their tongues along tin beat-h and made a sipping noise V glad beings tasting daintily of JXV.OC. Billy did not turn on the porch light. Me came behind her and took (tor cool cheek in the palm of bis hand. He used to Bay that it Just fitted. She leaned her head eager ly toward that welcome touch and heard his voice say, "Well, old girl, you’ve put a lot of hours Into your work today.” She laughed softly. She was afraid she would cry out her joy to the moon. She could not believe it was his step behind her. She could not believe It was his hand. She could not believe It was his voice. She managed to summon the thoughts which she always felt she must have about her work — that It must never look backward; that It must never look forward too far; that she must always regard herself as an instrument to be used and at last worn out, and If necessary, throw away. "I feel rested now,” she said. "I lost my temper with the children tonight. Why should the young mind conceive the idea of taking a cake of soap to bed.” "It’s that bright blue color,” he answered. "Tou ought to go back to the white soap.” A few months ago he would have said "we ought." Now he gave her a kind of outsider’s counsel. But Joy had surged over her. It had caught her up in its arms and she was afraid she would be un able to contain her emotion. She always marveled that the same con trol which made her follow a rou tine, the same which had brought her name in a small way to the scientific world, never came to her rescue when she desired to conceal her real self. How could she ac count now to Billy for her tears? He would not believe they were tears of Joy. He would begin to discuss. Perhpas that would de stroy an illusion. Some illusions are necessary to go with life, she thought, and those who in the name of truth declare against all illu sions have only reached the first primer in the art of reading human existence. ••Billy," she said quite steadily. “I'm going to take a walk—a walk alone." He made no protest. She remem bered now that once he would have said immediately: "Alone? What alls you? Brooding? Why don’t you take me? I’m a good compan ion." He had said that very thing often and sometimes she remem bered she could have burst out at him, "Can’t I have a minute away from work children—even you, to be with myself?" But now she would have given. It seemed, ths whole world to have him say, “I’ll go with you.” Instead, be flopped down In the pillows on the swinging couch and said as she walked out Into the light of the moon. "Don’t go alone along the cliff. It’s dark in the underbrush. Tou might get a fall.” She did no care. She was happy. It was coming out all right. Every body had bumpy places In life and always thought when they were reached that It was the end of ev erything. Usually the end is not the end: usually the hesitant pendu lum swings on and the clock ticks once. more. What a comfort! She sat down, content to be free again from panic and pain—deliberately weighing nothing- If the top of the cliff were hard, what of It? If the needles of a pine seedling pricked her cheek, what of that? There waa-ih*> moon now white and high, and the waves marking a lullaby rhythm below and a world of black blue sea and blue-black sky meet ing each other somewhere behind the long thin veil of the fog. Once she glanced toward Edith's house. Lights still burned in the lower windows with that peculiar red eyed appearance that summer cottages always give out. Perhaps Edith was working on her poetry, or her sculpture, or her philosophi cal essays, or writing letters. She was best known for her letters: she finished letters. But that was not Edith’s shadow there passing and passing Inside. No. It was her aunt s shadow. Mary had forgotten the aunt. There teas an aunt—Miss Tompkins—sis ter of Edith’s mother. Mary had for gotten about the aunt. Poor Miss Tompkins, tiny, a little worn, prim, not an idea of her own, used to being dominated, half a chaperon, half a maid, always so neat and so suppresed. so umld. so self-effacing. She depended on Miss Bars*«n for her living, her existence, and she was almost nonexistent, seldom seen, always ready, a tiny voice, a tiny personality. Everybody for got about the aunt. Edith helped everybody to forget about the aunt. It was the aunt who puttered around, afraid, putting out Edith's night clothes, saying nothing, listen ing to Edith—bultied. perhaps. Her little hands were somewhat emaci ated and the sinews and veins were prominent enough to throw shad ows. Mary wondered why she thought of Miss Tompkins. Wondering why, she got up slow ly and continued her walk. It was an unpleasant shock after crossing the patch of delicious cool carpet of fine grass beyond the path to the spring to hear Billy’s voice Just below her, on the rocks. He was protesting in a low tone. He said, “After all, I have beet *** one who has said that come what may. we must never let the physical side enter into it.” "No, Billy,” said Edith. "I have never tempted you, have I?” "Not by anything you’ve ever done.” "Only by what I am?” "Yes, that's it.” "Well. Billy, I only said what I said because of pity. I know things without being told. I know when a person is hungry for affection. X know—famine—when I come near It, Billy.” "Then if ever—if ever we-” Edith's voice was quite clear now; attove a mumble. She said: "We most keep our little world %o clean now, Billy. So irreproachable and clean.” He did not appear to be enthuei « astic, as he said, "Of course, dear, of course!" There was a long, long pause. Other people's Intense conversations always sound so silly! Mary felt ashamed to hear on her own ac count, but also on theirs. She had tried to retreat. She had moved five steps or more when she heard the other woman say: "Billy, I can give you more than that, dear. I can give you release. I can give you freedom to express yourself. There is no crime in the world like that of one personality dominating and absorbing and fet tering another. The one thing I fear above all else Is to dominate some one. And you. Billy, have such an unusuol capacity! You are like a great virgin country full of infinite resources of soil and unmlned treas ure. After the plans you have told me tonight, I -” Mary could not hear the rest. one knew those plans of his! It was old ■tuff to her. It was like a vaude ville act comprising the pick of all the old lines she had learned these many years. She could see that compressed into a few weeks they would make an outpouring of pro gram, aspiration, drama and false dawn which could in mere volubil ity create a kind of personal tidal wave. But Billy was speaking, saving quietly as if the words were not freely quoted from Mary’s own lips: ‘‘We must not base our un derstanding on words, Edith. Words are so easy. We must turn our words Into life.’’ *‘I can do that, Billy—for you. I've been an awful fraud, but now—’’ Mary wondered why at this mo ment she could admit that much of Edith was so good. At this moment unaccountably she gave the other her due. 8he admitted to herself that Edith was sincere, that Edith, like Billy, felt on a high plane, that she, like Billy, would try, as human beings do to avoid kisses, touch of hand and hand, and all that leads to. Mary admitted Edith’s charm: It was the charm of slow, dreamy yearnings in a nature seeking, if not finding ways to use ful unselfishness. Edith was pretty. Edith was clever. She was clever in easy agreement with the opinions of others, clever in attention to those from whom she desired atten tion. Her nose tilted up. Her fore head was high and white. Her slender, fragile body was not with out its beauty. Her slender limbs were not without their responsive sinews. Her chin was not without its firmness. Her attempt to give just appraisal of Edith saved Mary something of heartbreak on the way home. Once at the door, she felt an Impulse to fly up the stairs, tear Jane out of bed. and hold her tighty, as if everything in the world had gone. She undressed by moonlight, and simulated sleep. He came in, it appeared to her, softly, furtively, tiptoeing around—like a burglar, with the furtive manner of a bur glar—like one who fears the sleep er, regaining consciousness, will say. "What have you stolen?’’ But she, too. was deceptive now. She only said. “Is that you Billy?” Yep.” Only after lie had slept did she get up. cautiously. The breeze on the little balcony blew her night goy/n and crept caressingly up the skin of her torso like the cool fin gers of friendly ghosts. It helped. It helped her to think carefully and in order; It helped to make her de cide what she must do now. She .eliminated one wrong, hasty idea after another. She must do some thing for herself, something effec tive for the children; and then, at last, she thought she must do some thing for Billy. Billy was nine tenths worth her best effort. Dear Billy! How could one say it of sucli a fool? She wondered. Dear Billy! Just across the cove a light still burned in an upper window; Edith was there, perhaps sitting under her boudoir lamp with her own thoughts tumbling helter - skelter and her frilly night gown laid out on her bed by the little hands of her effaced aunt. Mary suddenly felt like a god who gazes down upon tiny, lovable crea tures- And her mind grew cool and took ita steps from one firm stone to the next. When she went to bed at daylight she felt that she had crossed a torrent, that she had ar rived on another shore. This new day! Billy? Oh. Billy was going fishing. He was with the Thurman boys—13 and 10—and old Captain Perkins, who never combed his beard. That was Billy—Inter ested In boys, like a boy; giving himself as freely to boys as boys gave their personalities to him. It was absurd. He himself such a boy. and then suddenly a discoverer of great new thruths which he be lieved would meet the thing he called the New World. As If there ever were a New World! Billy, who always said he wanted to face the facts and the truths, no mat ter what the cost, was clinging so fast to all the great illusions. Yes, the great and wasteful Illusions— that a program can supplant the need for deeds; that by a few for mulae humanity can be transformed; that a being becomes larger, and not smaller, by shutting himself up in a temple of the Sacred Self; that, somehow. It was always neces sary to deny that this significant creed had anything to do with sex. He kissed her goodbye. The same old feeling of the falling elevator! If anything should happen to Billy! It was 11 when she sent Jane with a note to Edith. Of course, she had no right to request Miss Barston to come to see her, but Mary smiled as she realised how rertaln It was that Edith would come. The other woman came across the narrow strip of daisy field In the hollow, following the path through the old turnstile. Swallows darted above her head. She was swinging a wide brimmed hat In her band. A red book was under her other arm. making a pretty con trast with the happy yellow of her dress. She may have believed Billy would be home. ••Oood morning, Mrs. Elbridge She had called Mrs. Elbriige Mary for a time, and then had dropped the practice. *‘T wonder If you can Imagine why I wanted to see you?” Mary asked cheerfully. She even turned her glance toward Jane as she asked, as If she did not care at all about the expression of apprehension sure to appear on Edith's usually composed features. "Run in the house, dear. Mother wants to talk with Miss Barston.” "I can’t imagine!” the other wo man replied. In a tone of exagger ated, childish expectancy. Mary felt a warm content now. If the other had only shown brav ery, she would have felt a moment of doubt. "It's about Billy,” she announced in a patient voice. "O. about Billy?” "Yes. Billy and you. About these two or three weeks ” "He has been talking about me?” Self was alert in Edith. There was a little snarl of distrust and self defense In her sentence; there was a little suggestion of an accusa tion, as if she had started to say, "He has been talking about me, the cad!” Mary said: “O. no. It is too soon. If you had lived with Billy as long as I have, he would talk about you perhaps. Just as he has talked to you about me. Not so one could accuse hint of actually saying anything—but by inference. I am to blame for—what shall I call it?—his sterility.” Miss Barston leaned forward, pick ed up a current magazine from the floor, trying to regain her balance. "I assume you have offered Billy something I cannot give him," Mary said. “A set of unfortunate circumstances—and somehow they always come in cases like this— lias made me see what is, approxi mately. even, the fine values of vour friends hip—with Billy." "It has been too fine to deny— even to you,” the dther said with defiance but with evident belief in a pertain righteousness. Mary smiled. I believe you, she said. “I may be an odd kind of person, but I honestly see that there Is always something good about relationships. Of course, the damage done to one's self or others may overtop the good. But I can't condemn you much, because it isn't in my head to do it: and somehow I cannot condemn Billy, because it isn’t in my heart." "What do you mean by ‘dam age'?” . Mary answered Kdith after % moment of thought. “Well, for In stance. neither you nor Billy made a confidante of me. Somehow those forces which compete with the fam ily, even when they have no ele ment of sex in them—and that’s not often—fail to uncover them selves. There is always something surreptitious about them; some thing furtive even when they are carried on in so great a cause as opening the door of the cage to set an enslaved soul free.” Miss Barston looked down into the white china silk lining of her broad brimmed hat. "I remember a man who thought he was Infatuated with me two years ago. He had that great cause. He wanted to set me free. We are all susceptible to that, and I am. too. Particularly every spring. I had to tell him finally that, having given it due thought, I really did not want to be ««t free.” ^ Edith laughed, and after a mo- ■ nient wild. "You spoke of damage to ’ ourselves?” "For instance?” Mary answered promptly. "Well, you blamed Billy for telling me about your—Intel lectual—intimacy and harmony. If I had asked him, what would you have had him do? Tell, I suppose. That’s what you have done.” "I can't be put in the position of telling an untruth,” said Miss Barston. "Particularly when you appear to know. We’ll put it an other way. If I have affection for him—a high kind of affection—1 cannot deny it. It would be llkj^^ your denying that Jane was own child.” t “But you have given Billy away.,, Mary said. “You were furioix # within when you thought he migoL have exposed you. Apparently^ there is the dilemma.” "Well, what do you want?” Miss ^ Barston said wearily. “I thought ^ I was contributing something. I certain have not suggested to Billy —any—any-” "I know what you mean.” "Well, then—what is there to do?” ."I'll tell you my thought,” Mary replied. “It may not be worth much. But, at any rate, people al ways seem to overlook it. It is this: you and Billy ought to have the chance to really know each other. You both, apparently, make a kind of fetich of destroying illu sion and facing truth squarely, and I think it would be a good thing— for you to know Billy.” "Know him?” “Of course. Both you and Billy are so concerned about life and its problems—and are so troubled about them—surely you want your judgments founded on the evi dence." “You mean Billy isn't what I think he is?" “I didn’t Bay so. How do 1 know? I suspect he isn’t—quite." "I’d like to know why you sus pect it.” “Well, in a way, because he isn’t what I thought he was once.” “Your opinion has changed?" “No.” “Billy — Mr. Elbridge — ha* changed?” “No.” “Then, what can you mean?” "I mean that most human being* are like a barrel of apples packed for the market. The best ones— the ones without the worms or rot, the large, pink cheeked fruit—are always on top.” Miss Barston stared. “For instance, Billy has talked * stream to you,” Mary went on. “He has exhibited his top layer. It Is quite fascinating, as I myself know very well. You always see him when he is shaved and well and carefully prepared. That is the top of the barrel. I suppose you have shown Billy the top of your barrel, too, Miss Barston?” Edith did Hot answer at once. She finally said, “That certainly wasn’t my intention.” “I know it wasn’t,” Mary said. “It never is. It's merely human. I think it is unavoidable. Tempo rary stimulation of anybody brings out the best side. Who can blame anybody for showing what is on the top of the barrel? But I won der how much trouble could be saved in the world if fascinated per sons could only see”—she paused —'“see the bottom of the barrel.” “Rut there is no way,” said Edith eagerly, becoming interested. "Be sides. you have seen it, of course.” “Yes; I know the layers all the way to the bottom of Billy's barrel. Even better than he does. He doesn't know that when he tries to make fun of my work In the labora tory it isn’t good natured humor, but jealous, destructive, dominating instinct that does it. And he thinks he means It when he tells me that talk is idle and that acts are the only things that count. Yet it is not Billy who makes into reality the plans he sets forth. 1 hope he will. He hasn't yet.” Edith clasped her hands nerv ously. "Of course. I cannot deny that It would be useful to be aide to see to the bottom of the barrel.” she admitted. "It is possible,” Mary said, brushing away a fly. “Possible!” Mary laughs. "Quite. When I was in college I went rather far with physics. I never dropped my interest. There have been wonders done with the dlctaphonic instru ments. I’m not joking. I’m se rious. I can put a little receiver behind a picture in our bedroom and at the other end of a wire a little transmitter beside your desk or your l>ed. You can hear Billy.” “It Is dishonest!” exclaimed Miss Barston. "Which is more dishonest,” asked Mary, “concealment of the truth or revelation?” The breeze from the sea blew across the honeysuckle blossoms on (fouttaaed en fM« *eves.)
