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.)
