XLV
Lucy Crosby was dead. One moment she was of the quick, moving about thehouse, glancing in at David, having Minnie in the kitchen pin and unpinher veil; and the next she was still and infinitely mysterious, on herwhite bed. She had fallen outside the door of David's room, and laythere, her arms still full of fresh bath towels, and a fixed and intenselook in her eyes, as though, outside the door, she had come face to facewith a messenger who bore surprising news. Doctor Reynolds, running upthe stairs, found her there dead, and closed the door into David's room.
But David knew before they told him. He waited until they had placed heron her bed, had closed her eyes and drawn a white coverlet over her, andthen he went in alone, and sat down beside her, and put a hand over herchilling one.
"If you are still here, Lucy," he said, "and have not yet gone on, Iwant you to carry this with you. We are all right, here. Everybody isall right. You are not to worry."
After a time he went back to his room and got his prayer-book. He couldhear Harrison Miller's voice soothing Minnie in the lower hall, andReynolds at the telephone. He went back into the quiet chamber, andopening the prayer-book, began to read aloud.
"Now is Christ risen from the dead, and become the first fruits of themthat slept--"
His voice tightened. He put his head down on the side of the bed.
He was very docile that day. He moved obediently from his room forthe awful aftermath of a death, for the sweeping and dusting and cleancurtains, and sat in Dick's room, not reading, not even praying, alonely yet indomitable old figure. When his friends came, elderly menwho creaked in and tried to reduce their robust voices to a decorouswhisper, he shook hands with them and made brief, courteous replies.Then he lapsed into silence. They felt shut off and uncomfortable, andcreaked out again.
Only once did he seem shaken. That was when Elizabeth came swiftly inand put her arms around him as he sat. He held her close to him, sayingnothing for a long time. Then he drew a deep breath.
"I was feeling mighty lonely, my dear," he said.
He was the better for her visit. He insisted on dressing that evening,and on being helped down the stairs. The town, which had seemed inimicalfor so long, appeared to him suddenly to be holding out friendly hands.More than friendly hands. Loving, tender hands, offering service andaffection and old-time friendship. It moved about sedately, indark clothes, and came down the stairs red-eyed and usingpocket-hand-kerchiefs, and it surrounded him with love and lovingkindness.
When they had all gone Harrison Miller helped him up the stairs to wherehis tidy bed stood ready, and the nurse had placed his hot milk on astand. But Harrison did not go at once.
"What about word to Dick, David?" he inquired awkwardly, "I've calledup Bassett, but he's away. And I don't know that Dick ought to come backanyhow. If the police are on the job at all they'll be on the lookoutnow. They'll know he may try to come."
David looked away. Just how much he wanted Dick, to tide him over thesebad hours, only David knew. But he could not have him. He stared at theglass of hot milk.
"I guess I can fight this out alone, Harrison," he said. "And Lucy willunderstand."
He did not sleep much that night. Once or twice he got up and tip-toedacross the hall into Lucy's room and looked at her. She was as whiteas her pillow, and quite serene. Her hands, always a little rough andtwisted with service, were smooth and rested.
"You know why he can't come, Lucy," he said once. "It doesn't mean thathe doesn't care. You have to remember that." His sublime faith that sheheard and understood, not the Lucy on the bed but the Lucy who had notyet gone on to the blessed company of heaven, carried him back to hisbed, comforted and reassured.
He was up and about his room early. The odor of baking muffins andfrying ham came up the stair-well, and the sound of Mike vigorouslypolishing the floor in the hall. Mixed with the odor of cooking and offloor wax was the scent of flowers from Lucy's room, and Mrs. Sayre'smachine stopped at the door while the chauffeur delivered a great massof roses.
David went carefully down the stairs and into his office, and there, athis long deserted desk, commenced a letter to Dick.
He was sitting there when Dick came up the street...
The thought that he was going home had upheld Dick through the days thatfollowed Bassett's departure for the West. He knew that it would be afight, that not easily does a man step out of life and into it again,but after his days of inaction he stood ready to fight. For David, forLucy, and, if it was not too late, for Elizabeth. When Bassett's wirecame from Norada, "All clear," he set out for Haverly, more nearly happythan for months. The very rhythm of the train sang: "Going home; goinghome."
At the Haverly station the agent stopped, stared at him and then noddedgravely. There was something restrained in his greeting, like thevoices in the old house the night before, and Dick felt a chill ofapprehension. He never thought of Lucy, but David... The flowers andribbon at the door were his first intimation, and still it was Davidhe thought of. He went cold and bitter, standing on the freshly washedpavement, staring at them. It was all too late. David! David!
He went into the house slowly, and the heavy scent of flowers greetedhim. The hall was empty, and automatically he pushed open the door toDavid's office and went in. David was at the desk writing. David wasalive. Thank God and thank God, David was alive.
"David!" he said brokenly. "Dear old David!" And was suddenly shakenwith dry, terrible sobbing.
There was a great deal to do, and Dick was grateful for it. But first,like David, he went in and sat by Lucy's bed alone and talked to her.Not aloud, as David did, but still with that same queer conviction thatshe heard. He told her he was free, and that she need not worry aboutDavid, that he was there now to look after him; and he asked her, if shecould, to help him with Elizabeth. Then he kissed her and went out.
He met Elizabeth that day. She had come to the house, and after hercustom now went up, unwarned, to David's room. She found David there andHarrison Miller, and--it was a moment before she realized it--Dick bythe mantel. He was greatly changed. She saw that. But she had no feelingof pity, nor even of undue surprise. She felt nothing at all. It gaveher a curious, almost hard little sense of triumph to see that he hadgone pale. She marched up to him and held out her hand, mindful of theeyes on her.
"I'm so very sorry, Dick," she said. "You have a sad home-coming."
Then she withdrew her hand, still calm, and turned to David.
"Mother sent over some things. I'll give them to Minnie," she said, hervoice clear and steady. She went out, and they heard her descending thestairs.
She was puzzled to find out that her knees almost gave way on thestaircase, for she felt calm and without any emotion whatever. And shefinished her errand, so collected and poised that the two or three womenwho had come in to help stared after her as she departed.
"Do you suppose she's seen him?"
"She was in David's room. She must have."
Mindful of Mike, they withdrew into Lucy's sitting-room and closed thedoor, there to surmise and to wonder. Did he know she was engaged toWallie Sayre? Would she break her engagement now or not? Did Dick for amoment think that he could do as he had done, go away and jilt a girl,and come back to be received as though nothing had happened? Because, ifhe did...
To Dick Elizabeth's greeting had been a distinct shock. He had not knownjust what he had expected; certainly he had not hoped to pick things upwhere he had dropped them. But there was a hard friendliness in it thatwas like a slap in the face. He had meant at least to fight to win backwith her, but he saw now that there would not even be a fight. She wasnot angry or hurt. The barrier was more hopeless than that.
David, watching him, waited until Harrison had gone, and went directlyto the subject.
"Have you ever stopped to think what these last months have meant toElizabeth? Her own worries, and always this infernal town, talking,talking. The child's pride's been hurt, as well as her heart."
"I thought I'd better not go
into that until after--until later,"he explained. "The other thing was wrong. I knew it the moment I sawBeverly and I didn't go back again. What was the use? But--you saw herface, David. I think she doesn't even care enough to hate me."
"She's cared enough to engage herself to Wallace Sayre!"
After one astounded glance Dick laughed bitterly.
"That looks as though she cared!" he said. He had gone very white. Aftera time, as David sat silent and thoughtful, he said: "After all, whatright had I to expect anything else? When you think that, a few daysago, I was actually shaken at the thought of seeing another woman, youcan hardly blame her."
"She waited a long time."
Later Dick made what was a difficult confession under the circumstances.
"I know now--I think I knew all along, but the other thing was like thatcraving for liquor I told you about--I know now that she has alwaysbeen the one woman. You'll understand that, perhaps, but she wouldn't.I would crawl on my knees to make her believe it, but it's too late.Everything's too late," he added.
Before the hour for the services he went in again and sat by Lucy's bed,but she who had given him wise counsel so many times before lay in hermajestic peace, surrounded by flowers and infinitely removed. Yet shegave him something. Something of her own peace. Once more, as on thenight she had stood at the kitchen door and watched him disappear in thedarkness, there came the tug of the old familiar things, the home sense.Not only David now, but the house. The faded carpet on the stairs, theold self-rocker Lucy had loved, the creaking faucets in the bathroom,Mike and Minnie, the laboratory,--united in their shabby strength, theywere home to him. They had come back, never to be lost again. Home.
Then, little by little, they carried their claim further. They werenot only home. They were the setting of a dream, long forgotten but nowvivid in his mind, and a refuge from the dreary present. That dream hadseen Elizabeth enshrined among the old familiar things; the old housewas to be a sanctuary for her and for him. From it and from her in thedream he was to go out in the morning; to it and to her he was to comehome at night, after he had done a man's work.
The dream faded. Before him rose her face of the morning, impassive andcool; her eyes, not hostile but indifferent. She had taken herselfout of his life, had turned her youth to youth, and forgotten him. Heunderstood and accepted it. He saw himself as he must have looked toher, old and worn, scarred from the last months, infinitely changed. Andshe was young. Heavens, how young she was!...
Lucy was buried the next afternoon. It was raining, and the quietprocession followed Dick and the others who carried her light body undergrotesquely bobbing umbrellas. Then he and David, and Minnie and Mike,went back to the house, quiet with that strange emptiness that follows adeath, the unconscious listening for a voice that will not speak again,for a familiar footfall. David had not gone upstairs. He sat in Lucy'ssitting-room, in his old frock coat and black tie, with a knitted afghanacross his knees. His throat looked withered in his loose collar. Andthere for the first time they discussed the future.
"You're giving up a great deal, Dick," David said. "I'm proud ofyou, and like you I think the money's best where it is. But this is aprejudiced town, and they think you've treated Elizabeth badly. If youdon't intend to tell the story--"
"Never," Dick announced, firmly. "Judson Clark is dead." He smiledat David with something of his old humor. "I told Bassett to put up amonument if he wanted to. But you're right about one thing. They're notready to take me back. I've seen it a dozen times in the last two days."
"I never gave up a fight yet." David's voice was grim.
"On the other hand, I don't want to make it uncomfortable for her.We are bound to meet. I'm putting my own feeling aside. It doesn'tmatter--except of course to me. What I thought was--We might go into thecity. Reynolds would buy the house. He's going to be married."
But he found himself up against the stone wall of David's opposition. Hewas too old to be uprooted. He liked to be able to find his way aroundin the dark. He was almost childish about it, and perhaps a trifleterrified. But it was his final argument that won Dick over.
"I thought you'd found out there's nothing in running away fromtrouble."
Dick straightened.
"You're right," he said. "We'll stay here and fight it out together."
He helped David up the stairs to where the nurse stood waiting, and thenwent on into his own bedroom. He surveyed it for the first time sincehis return with a sense of permanency and intimacy. Here, from now on,was to center his life. From this bed he would rise in the morning,to go back to it at night. From this room he would go out to fight forplace again, and for the old faith in him, for confiding eyes and theclasp of friendly hands.
He sat down by the window and with the feeling of dismissing themforever retraced slowly and painfully the last few months; the night onthe mountains, and Bassett asleep by the fire; the man from the cabincaught under the tree, with his face looking up, strangely twisted, fromamong the branches; dawn in the alfalfa field, and the long night tramp;the boy who had recognized him in Chicago; David in his old walnut bed,shrivelled and dauntless; and his own going out into the night,with Lucy in the kitchen doorway, Elizabeth and Wallace Sayre on theverandah, and himself across the street under the trees; Beverly, andthe illumination of his freedom from the old bonds; Gregory, glib anddebonair, telling his lying story, and later on, flying to safety. Hishalf-brother!
All that, and now this quiet room, with David asleep beyond the wall andMinnie moving heavily in the kitchen below, setting her bread to rise.It was anti-climacteric, ridiculous, wonderful.
Then he thought of Elizabeth, and it became terrible.
After Reynolds came up he put on a dressing-gown and went down thestairs. The office was changed and looked strange and unfamiliar. Butwhen he opened the door and went into the laboratory nothing had beenaltered there. It was as though he had left it yesterday; the microscopescrewed to its stand, the sterilizer gleaming and ready. It was asthough it had waited for him.
He was content. He would fight and he would work. That was all a manneeded, a good fight, and work for his hands and brain. A man could livewithout love if he had work.
He sat down on the stool and groaned.