One day John said to young Bill half sourly, half goodnaturedly, “When you and Linda get hitched, and your dad don’t pay me the mortgage, maybe I’ll give you both his farm for a weddin’ present.”
Young Bill merely laughed evasively. He had no intention of marrying Linda.
Little Dick, at four, was pretty, but rather small for his age, and sensitive. He was afraid of his father and deathly afraid of the farm animals, so when John tried to seat him on a horse Dick had violent hysterics. He loved his mother, and fled to her for protection when he heard John’s step.
Little Gregory was different. He had his mother’s straight black hair and his father’s blue eyes. He was a strong, exuberant baby, who screamed with delight when his father tossed him in the air. He adored John; he was restive with Margaret. When he was two, and Dick five, he had already developed a feeling of superiority over his shy and gentle brother. Dick would sit quietly near his mother; Gregory’s sturdy legs usually scampered over the yard and the garden.
Margaret loved both her children, but from the first she had felt alien to Gregory. There was something about Dick which reminded her painfully of Ralph. Because of this she protected him. He would have his chance.
She had heard, through Susan Blodgett, that Ralph had a child, a pretty little girl, and that he and his wife were doing well in New York. “He’s got a twelve-room house, now,” wrote Susan proudly. “And three hired girls.” She wrote to Margaret only when she wished to convey news of Ralph’s increasing success.
Ralph with a wife and child! Margaret still remembered that night so long ago on the hilltop when she had given him what he wanted, but of love and pity. But she didn’t remember how she had failed to respond to him, how she had shrunk from that contact. And she didn’t compare this with the still violent upsurge of her blood when John held her to him. When he took her, she forgot everything, even that she loved Ralph.
For the rest of the time she had made him miserable with her silences, her remotenesses, her pale face. And quarreled with him at every occasion.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Bill King been courting Linda for two years, and they were no nearer marriage. Then, quite suddenly, he dropped her.
Linda’s face became pinched, dazed and absent. She avoided John, where she had sought him out before.
One day Margaret had gone for a drive with the children and returned earlier than expected. She entered the cool dimness of the house, and found Linda crouched on the lower steps of the staircase, weeping bitterly. She had bent her head upon her knees in an attitude of abandoned despair. Margaret sat down beside her, put her arm over the thin shoulders.
“Linda,” she said urgently. “Won’t you tell me about it, dear?”
Linda lifted her head, but she flung Margaret’s arm away with viciousness. She tried to get up, but Margaret tightened her hands suddenly on the girl’s shoulders.
“Linda, you’ve got to tell me. I want to to help you.”
Linda laughed shortly. “You help me!” she cried. “You don’t want to help me! Look what you did to pore Ma!”
Margaret had heard this accusation a dozen times before, but her depression had made her indifferent. Now, she faced it squarely.
“Just what did I do to Ma, Linda? Come on, I’ve heard this before, but now I want it brought out. What did I do?”
And Linda could say nothing. Just what had Maggie done? Linda had never really said, though she had accused Maggie obscurely.
“You ought to know!” she burst out at length. “Ma knew, and you knew! She didn’t tell me just what.” A fury rose up in her against Margaret, and she struggled to her feet. Margaret stood up, too: her face was pale and grim.
“Linda, there was nothing, except that Ma always hated me ever since I can remember.”
“I don’t believe you!” spat the girl. “Ma always said you’d suffer some day for what you did to her, so there must have been somethin’. And, I ’spect you are sufferin’, with the way you drag yourself around, and I’m glad of it! I’d like to see you die! You ain’t even good to John, even though he gives you everythin’ and don’t expect you to work like other wimin. Everyone talks how you treat him like dirt, and laughs behind your back!”
For a moment Margaret stared at her, her face expressionless. Then she struck Linda heavily across the cheek. The girl staggered back, caught hold of the newel post to save herself from falling, and cried out when she saw Margaret advancing again upon her. She flung up her arm to defend herself.
Margaret, from the excess of her rage and obscure shame, would have struck again and again, but, despite the dimness of the hall, she saw something in the girl’s figure. She halted abruptly. Linda was sniffling abjectly, her face in the crook of her elbow. Margaret siezed her wrists in one powerful hand, grasped the back of the girl’s hair, and made her face her.
“So that’s the trouble!” she said in a low voice. “You—you. Who was it—Bill King? Bill King? Answer me, you dirty little cat!”
Linda struggled in Margaret’s grasp, twisting from side to side. She began to sob; but she could not free herself.
“I won’t tell you!” she cried thickly. “Don’t hit me, Maggie! I’ll tell you! Yes, it was Bill! And now he won’t marry me! He promised to marry me!”
Margaret released her so suddenly that she fell backwards again, and again caught hold of the newel post. She stared at her sister in terror. But Margaret’s rage had only been assumed to force the truth from the girl. Actually, she was filled with compassion and protective love.
“Hush, Linda! Stop making all that noise. Do you want Mary and Mabel to hear you, way out in the kitchen? Come into the parlor. I want to talk to you.”
With the door shut, Margaret began, “Let’s talk about this sensibly, Linda. Where’s Bill now? I haven’t seen him for three months.”
Linda sobbed chokingly. “He—he’s gone away. To Williamsburg. He must’a told his Pa and Ma. When I went over there the other day, Miz’ King shut the door in my face and hollered through it, ‘Go ’way! You ain’t goin’ to find out nothin’ ’bout my boy, you bad girl.’”
Margaret’s eyes flashed ominously, but she only said quietly, “Go on, Linda.”
“I went to Ezra, too. I said, ‘Mist’ King, Bill’s got to marry me. You got to tell me where he is. Maybe he don’t know about me.’ And he said, kind of gloatin’, ‘Yes, he does, but he ain’t gonna be forced to marry a gal like you. He ain’t gonna be a father to someone else’s young un.’ And he walked away and shouted to the cows so that he wouldn’t hear me no more.”
Margaret’s face was sick. “And so the whole county knows about it now! God!”
“I don’t want you to do nothin’, Maggie. I—I love Bill. If he don’t want to marry me, it’s all right. I—I’ll go away. I’ll go somewheres. I don’t mind nothin’ any more.”
She fell into a chair and covered her face with her hands. Margaret looked at her with bitter pity. Somewhere she had failed. No, it was Melinda who was the cause of this. Her hatred had poisoned anything that might have been between Linda and herself; Linda was a victim of that hatred.
She touched the girl’s hand gently.
Linda did not appear for supper, and John and Margaret sat down alone. They barely spoke to each other these days; the meal usually passed in silence. Margaret watched him. He kept his head down and ate stolidly; a few gray hairs had appeared in the blackness of his hair; beneath it his skin was burned a deep red-brown and was rough with faint webbing.
Linda’s words suddenly repeated themselves in her, and she felt a pang of remorse. She had treated him badly; she might have forgotten herself a little, for his sake. It was not his fault that she loved Ralph; she had been unjust to him.
“John,” she said quietly. “John, I want to talk to you.”
He glanced up warily. “What is it?”
He hates me too, she thought sadly. It’s my fault. I never speak to him unless I want something. “John,” she sa
id. “I want to talk about Linda.”
He made an abrupt gesture of dismissal. “I ain’t goin’ to talk about Linda! Got more important things on my mind. Not that they’d interest you, though,” he added shortly.
She felt, under his words, his resentment and deep hurt. She opened her mouth to speak, then stopped; words would never set things right between them. It was too late for that.
But John was really pleased that Margaret wanted to talk to him, if it were only about Linda. After a moment, he said, “Saw Ezra King today. Asked me for an extension, and I said, ‘Why not?’ So, we’re goin’ to the bank tomorrow to sign up again.”
“John! I want to talk to you about the Kings!” So, he had not heard yet. “And, it’s about Linda, too. You know Bill was courting her, and now he’s gone away.”
John shrugged. “If she can’t keep a man, what you want me to do? She’s got to work that kind of thing out for herself.”
Margaret kept down her anger. “But,” she said slowly and steadily, “I’ve got to mind her business now, John. You see, Linda’s in trouble; Bill got her in trouble.”
He dropped his fork and stared at her, his mouth open. “Eh? What’s this you’re sayin’? Linda in trouble? Bill? What the hell is this? Think I’m goin’ to have my house disgraced by such goin’s on? Well, she can pack her bag and get out of here. I’ll not have it, y’hear?”
“That’s just the point, John. She can’t go to him. He promised to marry her, but his father sent him away.” He fell silent, scowling. She tried to follow his thoughts; she watched the dark blood coming into his face. Then he deliberately picked up his fork again and ate. She clenched her fists tightly, and waited. He swallowed his coffee. Then he put down the cup and regarded her with something vicious in his face.
“Can’t blame them, in a way. What do you ever do to try to be neighborly to ’em? ’Spect this is their way of gittin’ back at you. Not good enough for you, eh? Well, they’re showin’ you now that your sister ain’t good enough for ’em. Linda’ll get out of this the best way she can. And she can’t stay in my house after tomorrow, no, ma’am!”’
He’s trying to hurt me, to repay me, she thought bitterly. He’s never had the upper hand before. Well, I can’t blame him, much. I’m ashamed to plead with him, when I ignore him other times. She stood up.
“All right, then, John. I’ll go to see them, myself. Linda’s my sister. And she can’t leave here, until she leaves right. If she goes, I’ll have to go with her.”
He smiled sourly. “Fine talkin’. But it don’t mean a thing, Maggie. Sounds high and mighty like a book, but this is real life. Where’d you both go? Bah!”
In spite of herself, she began to cry weakly. He looked at her for a long time, and his face became somber. He turned his coffee cup several times in its saucer. She ought to know I don’t mean that, he thought. I couldn’t let Maggie go, not for a minute! If she’d only give me a chance. I can’t make her out, noways. She used to be so gay, so strong and full of life. Now, she drags around, looking sick, and someway lettin’ me know it’s all my fault. She don’t know it, but she loves me. Somethin’ stops her from knowin’ that. Wish’t there was some way of lettin’ her know it.
He put out his hand. “Sit down, Maggie,” he said gently. “’Spect we can talk this out sensible, ’thout gettin’ all stirred up about it. You know I like Linda. She’s got sense. No use you gettin’ bothered. Got to think of your own young uns, and the other one that’s comin’ soon. Hell, I’m sorry I said those things to you ’bout Linda. I want to help her, sure. But, you ain’t never tried to be friendly with folks. Even ole Miz’ Holbrooks don’t come avisitin’ no more. I ain’t sayin’ I want a house full of gossipin’ wimin-folks, but nobody don’t come ’cept the men on business. Folks’re scared to death of us. They don’t mind me, but they sure hate you, Maggie. I’m not sayin’ you ought to care about that, but with a gal like Linda in the house, and our young uns growin’ up, things ought to be different. You might’ve made friends in the county, but you didn’t. Now most of ’em would cut your throat in a minit. Hate to think of leavin’ you a widow!” He chuckled.
“Now then, I’ll go to Ezra King, tomorrow, and I’ll say, ‘If your boy don’t marry Linda Hamilton right away, you kin just pack up your parcels and leave. The farm’s mine. And I’ll give it to some young feller that’ll marry her. So smoke that a while.”
Margaret’s pale face glowed with gratitude. “John! I—I can’t thank you for this. Linda will, but somehow, I can’t say anything. I should have known you wouldn’t turn your back on me—”
He got up and kissed her. She pressed her head against his arm, and as usual the flow of his strength comforted her; her tears wet his sleeve. In a little while she ran upstairs, calling happily. But the girl’s room was empty. Margaret returned to the parlor where John was just lighting a lamp and humming through the pipe gripped in his teeth.
“John,” she said anxiously. “Linda isn’t here. Where could she have gone?”
“She can’t’ve gone far,” replied John. “Maybe she’s upstairs with the kids. Don’t she usually sing the baby to sleep?”
Nevertheless, he went upstairs with Margaret. Despite her pregnancy, she moved with the hurried step of anxiety. The nursery was dim and silent. The two little boys lay in their flounced beds, asleep. The white curtains blew and a star shone in one window. The room was filled with the peace and evening fragrance of the quiet countryside beyond the house. Momentarily forgetting Linda, Margaret tiptoed to the small beds, bent over them. Even in the darkness of the room John could see the warm indulgent smile she bestowed on little Gregory, as though she felt some secret amusement. But she bent over little Dick with a sudden movement, as though of protection, and she did not smile. She kissed his forehead, slowly, and smoothed his fine dark hair.
John watched her. For a moment, in the twilight, he saw the woman Margaret had been, the woman who might be. It was as though these two forms stood on each side of the real Margaret, who was pale, subdued, depressed. He felt a great sadness; somewhere the real woman had been lost, this was a strange and alien creature. No one lost her, he thought. She’s lost herself.
She was still engrossed with Dick, straightening the quilts on his bed; so it was that only John heard a far and startled shout, the sound of running feet. He went to the window. Jack Winslow, his foreman, and three of the farm hands appeared at the barn door and stared at the new house through the dusk. John leaned through the window, called to them. Jack began to speak, but stopped abruptly. Margaret’s pale face had appeared at his shoulder and Jack had seen it. His wildly gesturing hands fell to his side. He began to speak again, and John could hear the strain of his voice.
“Hey, John, better come out to the barn. Ole red-eye’s broke his leg, or somethin’.”
Instantly John knew that he lied. He turned to his wife.
“Say, Mag, my prize bull’s hurt himself. Wait downstairs for me a minit, will you? And then we’ll get Linda and talk this thing over, all of us.”
Margaret nodded indifferently. She was never interested in any of the farm matters. She heard John running through the hall downstairs and out the door. But she heard the sounds with only her external ear; she was listening to the breathing of the children.
Suddenly it seemed to her that that breathing was infinitely sad. The children would not always sleep so; there were nights of pain and despair ahead for them, and in those nights she could do nothing. It would have been better if they had never been born.
She moved stiffly to the door. There was a dry and sickening sensation in her throat. Her hands were cold and numb as she started down the stairs. The front door opened, and John and Miss Betsy came into the hall, and stared up at her in the light of the swinging lamp.
Margaret stopped dead and clutched the banister with a slipping hand.
“Linda,” she said hoarsely.
John started up the stairs toward her; he held out his hands.
&
nbsp; “Linda—she got hurt, bad hurt,” he said. “Look, Maggie, you’ve got to lie down a while. Aunt Betsy’ll stay with you while I go see—what can be done for Linda.” He was sweating desperately; Margaret’s face, upturned to his, had turned gray. He could not tell her what they had found in the barn—Linda hanging from the rafters, quite dead. But she seemed to read it in his trembling flesh, his wet hands. She still stared at him blindly as he released her to Miss Betsy in the bedroom, continued to stare at him as the older woman laid her on the bed. He cursed Linda wildly to himself; to do this to Maggie, who was going to have a baby in three months. If the poor girl would only say something to show that she knew nothing.
But Margaret knew that Linda was dead, that she had killed herself. For hours she was very quiet. Then her physical agony began.
She almost died before dawn. She had lost the baby, a little girl. John, who had been able to control himself up to now, broke down entirely at the sight of his dead daughter. Somehow, even Margaret’s journey to the edge of death did not affect him so; it was as if he had lost something ineffably precious.
It was not for several days, long after Linda had been hurriedly buried, that the doctor could say that Margaret might recover. John could come and go, knowing he was recognized, that Margaret had actually smiled at him as she lay sunken in her pillows. She had wasted terribly; there were black shadows beneath her dull eyes.
She did not speak of Linda, nor of the baby she had lost. She seemed to have forgotten them both.