It was only ten now.... Mud and miles and mail-boxes; dragging moments, and miles and cold rain.... She had to talk a little. The journey of thenight was nearest, and she told how good the train-men had been to her.
“You haven’t traveled much, Miss, I take it?” he said softly.
“Oh, no.” Then distantly again she remembered a Betty Berry of concert seasons—on the wing from city to city. It was all too remote for speech. At one house a woman came forth with tea and sandwiches. Betty was grateful for the warm drink and wanted to pay, but the carrier pushed back her hand and tucked her in again.
“Guess this is going to be a surprise for the bare-headed man?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“He’s your young man, then?”
“Yes.”
He seemed relieved. “He won’t be staying out here much longer—not likely—though we do have a spell of good weather in November mostly.”
Often she lost every sense of distance and identity. The lapses grew longer toward the end, and when she did not answer, Jethro thought she had fallen asleep.... A long stretch at last, barren of mail-boxes.... When he finally drew up, she followed his eyes to her lover’s name upon the tin by the roadside. Then he pointed beyond the low near trees and hollows. It was all desolate; the Fall tints subdued in the pervading gray. She saw a clump of greater trees in the upper middle distance.
“’Bout a thousand feet straight in. Miss—and up—under them big trees. You’ll see his shanty before you’re half-way. Just keep your eye on them elms. He’d be down here if it was any kind of weather. Guess you’re glad. D’ruther go alone and find him there, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes.... And now I want to give you this, please.”
He shook his head.
She could not leave him so. “For Lizzie—she’s so steady. I’m rich ... and I’ll be much happier—going to the bare-headed man. Please—for me——”
“Don’t you take that robe off!” he said suddenly. “I don’t want it—jumpin’ in and out. I never take it out of the office till snow flies. He’ll bring it down to the box, when I’m passin’ to-morrow. Why, you’d get all soaked, Miss—a-goin’ up to him.... Well, I’ll take the money for Lizzie—if you’re rich—but it’s ridiculous much, and I’d have fetched you for nothin’.”
She pressed his hand in both of hers and turned away through the break in the fence.... It seemed darker; and when the grinding of the tires on the wet gravel died away, the dripping silence came home to her, alien and fearful.... She had seen the name; soon she would see his house—but this was no man’s land, an after-death land; this was ‘the hollows and the vagueness of light,’ of which he had written....
She saw the house and faltered on. She had not the strength to call.... On the slope to the great trees the burden of the heavy robe would have borne her to the ground, had she not let it fall from her.... She could not believe the padlock on the door, felt it with her hands, the weight and the brass of it. It was hard for her to understand the cruel cold of it—as for a child that has never been hurt intentionally. She sank to her knees and prayed that it was not there.... But it was. The reality entered her brain, the thick icy metal of it.
“Betty Berry—Betty Berry, I am coming!”
She lifted her head in the rain. His call was like a thought of her own, but sharper, truer. This was his door. He was coming. It was still light. She wanted to sleep again, but the death-like cold warned her. She would die before he came....
She raised herself against the door. The black heap of the fur-robe on the slope held her eyes.... On the way to it she fainted again; again the cold rain roused her.... Always on the borders of the rousing, she heard it:
“Betty Berry—Betty Berry, I am coming!”
She knelt in the wet leaves beside the robe ... her thoughts turned back to the night—the goodness of the men, their tender voices.... There was a calling up in the dusk among the trees. Yes, she must lie at his door. Men were good; the lock alone had hurt her. His Guardian had put it there.... Upward she crawled, dragging the robe.
“Yes, you are coming!” she answered. Always when the cold rain roused her, she would answer, and crawl a little farther with the robe. At the door at last, she lay down beneath it....
Still again his calling roused her. It was darker—but not yet night....
“Betty Berry—Betty Berry, I am coming!”
It was nearer.
“I knew you would let me in,” she tried to say, and then—voices.... It seemed as if the porter of the Old South had come.... His voice lulled her, and his smile was the glow of the home-hearth.
8
Shewas lying upon the single narrow bed.... Something long ago had been premonitive of this. Morning’s mind, too, caught up the remembrance of Moto-san and the Japanese Inn.... He watched. Sometimes he said with all his will that she must not die. She could not die, when his will was dominant, but he was exhausted; his will-power flagged frequently.
All day yesterday in the train he had held her in his mind—sent his calls to her across the miles. From differentstations he had telegraphed to Jake at Hackensack, to Jethro at the post-office, and to his neighbor, the dairyman, who had a telephone. Jethro had been the first to reach the cabin, but it was nearly dusk then. The others were quick to appear. Jethro found her at the door, partly covered in the furry robe. That robe crowned him in Morning’s mind. They had broken in the door, and lit the fire. Morning reached the cabin at nine. Jethro spoke of a doctor.
“I’m the doctor,” Morning said. The three had left him.
It was now after midnight. She had not aroused. Old scenes quivered across the surface of her consciousness, starting a faintly mumbled sentence now and then: The Armory, the first kiss, the road to Baltimore, letters, hurried journeys, the Guardian; and much about the latest journey—from cab to station, from porter to Pullman, from car to clerk to carrier. He saw how the night and the day had used her final strength. Always the Guardian intervened to break her will, and Morning did not understand. There were other enemies; the studio, the nurse, the padlock, and the rain. After brief hushes, she would speak of his coming, or answer his calling.
It was the one theme of his life even now—the great thing Betty Berry had done. It awed and chilled him to realize how coarse-fibered he had been, so utterly impervious, not to sense the nature of the force that had upheld him, nor the quality of the bestowals.... There was a rending about it, and yet it was all so quiet now. It seemed to him that a man’s life is husk after husk of illusion, that the illusions are endless. He had torn them away, one after another, thinking each time that he had come to the grain.... And what was the sum of his finding so far? That good is eternal; that man loves God best by serving men; that greatness is in the working, not in the result; that a man who has found his work has found the soul’s sunlight, and thatservice for men is its rain. Surely, these are not husks.... It had been a hard, weary way. He was like a tired child now, and here was the little mother—wearied with him unto death.... He had been so perverse and headstrong. She had given him her love and guidance until her last strength was spent. He must be the man now.... He wondered if his heart would break, when he realized fully his own evil and her unfathomable sweetness?... Must a woman always fall spent and near to death—before a man can be finished? Or is it because her work is done that she falls?
He knelt beside her. Sometimes, in the lamplight, she looked as he had seen her at the Armory; again, as if she were playing; now, it was as she had been to him in the dark of the Pullman seat.... Who was the Guardian?
... And this was what had come to her from teaching him the miracle of listening alone.... It was true. He belonged to that life, as Duke Fallows had always said. She had made him see it by going from him. He would never be the same, after having tasted the greater love, in which man and woman are one in the spirit of service, having renounced the emblem of it. And with all her vision and leading—the glory of it had not come to her as to him. It had all but killed her. She had come to him—a forgotten purpose, a broken vessel.
He would love her back to life. That was his work now. Everything must stop for that—even truth.... He halted. If he loved her back to full and perfect health again, would she not be the same as she had been? Would she not take up her Cross again?... No, he would not let her. He would destroy the results of his work if necessary. He would force himself to forget, even in the spirit—this taste of the mystic oneness that had come to him. He would show his need for her every hour. That would make herhappy—his leaning upon her word and thought and action. He would show her his need of her presence in the long, excellent forenoons, in the very processes of his task—and in the evenings, her hands, her kisses, her step, her voice; he would make her see that these were his perfect essentials.
“I’ve talked and written a lot about how a man should live—in the past six months,” he said grimly. “I’ve got to do a bit of real living in the world now. God knows I love her—as I used to. That seemed enough then!”
He looked up from her face. The ghost of day had come softly to the South. He arose, took the lamp across the room and blew it out. Then he opened the door. The mingled night and dawn came in, a cool dimness, but the rain had ceased. He replenished the fire, left the door open, and returned to her. She had become quiet since the lamp had been taken away.... A sense of the man and woman together, and of her strength returning crept upon him. He welcomed it, though the deeps cried out.
“When you are yourself, you will want to go away again—the long, blinding ways of the sun,” he whispered. “But I will say, ‘I cannot spare you, Betty Berry. This is the place for two to be. We will begin again——’”
His thought of what she would answer brought back to mind the play,Compassion, and the Book of John Morning.... He smiled. He had almost forgotten. Night before last, at the beginning of the third act, he had left theMarkheim. He had given way suddenly to the thought that had pulled at him all day—to take the train to Betty Berry that night.... The play had seemed good. Even to him there had been moments of thrilling joy. It had been surprisingly different, sitting in front with the audience, from the rehearsals. Of yesterday’s notices he had not seen a single one. It was a far thought to him even now of the play’s failure, but ifit did fail, how easy to say to Betty Berry, “You see, how mad I was alone—how mad in my exaltation—how terribly out of tune? I needed you here. I need you now——”
Then he thought of the bigger thing—the Book. There wasn’t a chance for that to fail. It would find its own. What would he say about that?... He would say, “I love you, Betty Berry. It was loving you that made the book. And when it was done—how I longed for you!”
That was true—true now.... He kissed her shut eyelids. There was blessedness in her being here—even shattered and so close to death—blessedness and a dreadful fear. That fear was ever winging around, but did not come home to him and fold its wings. He was not himself.... “My God!” he cried out, “what folds upon folds and phases upon phases of experience a man must pass to learn to live——”
For an instant it all came back—that taste of the open road and larger dimension of man—the listening, the labor, the sharpened senses, scant diet, tireless service, ‘the great companions’—love of the world and unfailing compassion.... It was as they had said. He had belonged everywhere but in a woman’s arms....
It came clear as a vision, and he put it from him as an evil thing—and all the voices. The red dawn was staring into his eyes, and afar off a horse nickered. He held his hands against the light, as if to destroy it.
“I have said it in the Book, ‘We have all eternity to play in,’ and if that is not a lie—this Call will come to me again!”
And this was his renunciation.
Her stillness troubled him.
“I am your lover,” he whispered. “I will not let you go, Betty Berry. Don’t you hear—I love you?”
He lifted her, walked to and fro between the fire andthe cot. She was so very little.... The day came up with a mystic shining, and the warmth returned. These were the first hours of that fleeting Indian summer, the year’s illumination—the serene and conscious death of Summer.... The door was wide open to the light.... Morning put down his burden, but could not be still. He brought water and scrubbed the floor and door-step. The wood shone white as it dried—white as the square table which was an attraction of daylight. He tossed the water away down the hollow, drew more and washed as the countrymen do, lifting handfuls to his head. Then he brought basin, soap, and towels—bathed her face and hands, afterward carrying her forth to the sunlight. The thin shade of the elms was far down the meadow, for the day was not high.
“I love you, Betty Berry,” he continued to repeat, as he turned again and again to the cot. There was an hypnotic effect in the words; and there was a certain numbed surface in his brain that refused to cope with the immediate stresses in the room.
Jethro came early, and was not content to leave the mail at the box. He brought letters, a paper, and a large package. Jethro looked at the face on the cot and at the bare-headed man. Words failed him to whom words were so easy. He ventured to mention the name of a doctor, and was answered furiously:
“I am the doctor.”
Jethro lingered. Morning turned suddenly to look at the cot, and it seemed to the carrier that his eyes would have frightened away death.... Morning caught him by the shoulders:
“You’re a good man, Jethro,” he said hastily. “When I think of that fur robe—it seems as if I’ve got to do something for you with my hands.”
The carrier went his way.
This he found in the newspaper—a “follow” paragraphapparently to the dramatic notice of the day before:
“The second performance ofCompassionlast night to a fairly filled house is interesting in its relation to the fear frankly expressed in this column yesterday, to the effect thatCompassionis too good a play to get on well. The fear was well founded upon experience; and yet we may have before us an exception—a quality of excellence that will not be subdued. It is too much to hope for, that at any other time this season we will be equally glad to find our fear for a play’s future ill-founded.”
“The second performance ofCompassionlast night to a fairly filled house is interesting in its relation to the fear frankly expressed in this column yesterday, to the effect thatCompassionis too good a play to get on well. The fear was well founded upon experience; and yet we may have before us an exception—a quality of excellence that will not be subdued. It is too much to hope for, that at any other time this season we will be equally glad to find our fear for a play’s future ill-founded.”
Morning had not known of the doubt; and this was the rise of the tide again from the doubt.... He glanced at the package. There was a spreading cold in his vitals. It was from the publisher he had chosen—the Book of John Morning returned.
He was hostile for an instant—an old vindictive self resenting this touch upon his gift of self-revelation. The protecting thought followed quickly that the book was in no way changed by this accident of encountering the wrong publisher. The really important part of the incident followed these insignificant thoughts: Above all things, this letter would help to prove to Betty Berry his need for her. He would not send it out again at once. This refusal would weigh more than anything he could say, to prove that loneliness had been too much, too strong for him—that it had thrown his work out of reality, instead of into it.... He was bending over her. A step at the door, and he turned to find Helen Quiston there.
9
Sheentered and went to the cot, without words, but pressed his hand as she passed....
“You were there—and you let her get so low as this.”
Helen turned to search his face. “Yes,” she said.
“Who is this—Guardian?”
“Some angel that came to her, I think.”
“He seems very real to her——”
“Angels are real.”
“Angels do not make saints suffer——”
“On the contrary, that appears to be the life-business of saints——”
“She will never go back to that!” he said with low vehemence.
Helen regarded her old comrade for a moment, kissed her reverently, and then turned to the man.
“You poor boy,” she said.
There was something cold and rock-like about this slave of the future, looking over and beyond the imminent tragedy. He was helpless, maddened....
“She always said you loved her—that you were the one woman absolutely true. How could you let her destroy herself?”
“I knew her before you came, and loved her. I gave her my house. I waited upon her night and morning. I love Betty Berry. You are torn and tortured, but you will see——”
“She will not be away from me again!... Bah! what is work—to this?”
Helen smiled. “Do you think she would have come if she had been the real Betty Berry?”
“Do you think I would have been duped—had I been the real John Morning?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean a man is mad when he is doing a book. He may call it happiness, but it is a kind of devil’s madness. He is open for anything to rush in.... I am a common man. I do not belong to that visionary thing——”
“You are caught in your emotions. I know your work——”
He drew her to the door, saying excitedly:
“Compassionthreatens to fail. My book has come back,” he said triumphantly. “Look at this——”
He gave her the publisher’s letter.
“Your play has not failed,” she said.... “And this—why, this is just a bit of the world. John Morning at thirty-three—talks of failure. Let us talk over this day, when you are fifty-three.... What an empty victory for her—if you failed now——”
She was looking back at the cot. Morning whispered his reiteration:
“I love her. I shall have her here. I shall make her see that I love her.Thatis my service. You are all mad conspirators against us. We are man and woman. Our world is each other. She shall see and believe this—if I write drivel——”
Helen did not seem quite to hear him. She drew away from him as if called in a trance to the bedside.
“My little dearest—oh, Betty Berry—you have done so well. You have paid the price for a World-Man——”
Morning followed her.... Betty’s eyes were opened—fixed upon Helen Quiston.
“What did you say?” she questioned wonderingly.
“God love you, Betty. I said you had paid the price for a World-Man——”
She raised on her elbow alone, her eyes now looking beyond the woman to Morning.
“He is there,” she whispered. “He is there. He has come.”
Her hand stretched toward him, and sank slowly to his brow as he knelt.
“My love,” she said.... “It is all right. I see it all once more. It is so good and right—just as your Guardian told me.... It was only the birth-pangs I suffered. They were hard.... Birth is hard, but death is easy. Don’t you see, Helen, he was my littlebaby?... Oh, you came so hard, John Morning—and, oh, I love you so!”
He saw the fact of her passing, but the deeper realization was slow. It was much to him, for the instant, that she spoke and looked into his eyes.
“I love you, Betty Berry,” he said, his voice lifting. “I love you as a saint, as a mother—as a child!”
“But not as a woman,” she whispered.
THE END.