So his thoughts were running in this perplexed and absent manner when suddenly a very urgent question burst through.

“What of Agnes?”

She was not at home. He could think of no way to find her unassisted. He knew not where to look next and time was pressing. It was necessary to raise a wide alarm and organize a search. But he had no authority to act. It was her father’s business to take such steps. Now recalling what he had said to Enoch through the gate about Agnes he realized that it was absurdly inadequate. He had not at all communicated his fears concerning her. Therefore, though the thought of another encounter with Enoch made him shudder, he would have to go back. On this decision he came to a sudden stop and was surprised to see how far he had come unawares, and that he was not on the highway. When or how he had left it he did not remember. “I must have come fast,” he thought. He was half way back to New Damascus, not far from the mill, in a road that further on became a street running into sooty locust trees, cinder sidewalks, rows of company houses and a stale, historic smell of fried food. Turning in his tracks he was making back when his name was called from the side of the road by a voice he instantly knew.

“Thane!” he said, going toward him. “I need you. Please go—oh! I’m sorry. I thought you were alone.”

He veered off at seeing the figure of a woman behind Thane, leaning on the fence, her face averted; but Thane, coming forward, caught him by the arm, saying anxiously:

“I need your advice is why I called you.”

“Hold it, whatever it is, Thane,” John answered. “I can’t stop now. I just can’t.” He was pulling away.

“Won’t hold,” said Thane.

“It must,” said John. “I can’t stop. I’m sorry.” He liked Thane and was loath to leave him in a lurch. “Go to the hotel and wait for me there,” he said, pushing him off. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

With that he was going when the woman spoke.

“Are you looking for me?”

“Agnes!” said John to himself, as a declaration of preposterous fact. He wheeled around and stood stone still.

One instant before he had been mad with anxiety to hear her voice. Yet to the sound of it, so collected and sure, his emotional reaction was one of fierce anger. There was also a desolate world-wide sense of loss. Why he was angry or what was lost he could not have said in words. These feelings referred to her. Toward Thane there was a thought that seemed to rise behind him with purpose and power of its own; and he braced his back against it.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he said, approaching her. “I found these.” He held out the handkerchief and scarf. She took them. “Then I went to the mansion ... and....” There he stopped.

“Yes. What did you learn there?” she asked.

His anger kept rising. How could she be so suave and frontal about it? He had actually the impulse to set hands upon her roughly and demand to know what she had been doing, how she came to be here alone on a dark road with an iron puddler and how she could pretend to be so unembarrassed.

“Nothing,” he said. “It had just this instant occurred to me to go back and try again. I was in a beastly fume about you.”

“And seem to be still,” she said, in a way to put him in mind of the high tone he had been using.

“For reasons to which you are pleased to be oblivious,” he retorted. “It is to be imagined that I have some interest in seeing you safely home. May I take you on from here?”

“Another one,” Agnes murmured in a tone of soliloquy. “How repetitious!”

The thought touched off her feelings. They exploded in a burst of shrill, irrelevant laughter. John was scandalized. His rage was boundless. Yet at the same time his sense of responsibility increased. Abominable thoughts assailed him. He wondered if perhaps her father had not been right to keep her under restraint. He fervently wished he had never tempted her to break out. A resolve to get her home by force if necessary was forming in his mind when Thane put in.

“They ain’t no home,” he said. “That’s the trouble.”

“What do you know about it?” John asked, blazing.

“Oughten I know somewhat about it seeing as she’s my own wife?” said Thane, with dismal veracity.

John, for an instant appalled, turned fiercely on Agnes. “Now what have you done?” he asked. She was so startled by his manner that she couldn’t speak. “What have you done?” he demanded, now shaking her and with such authority that for a moment her spirit quailed. “Is it true? Are you married?”

“Yes,” she said.

“To a....” He caught the word just in time, slowly let go of her and stepped back.

“Say it,” she dared him. “To a ... to ... a what? Go on. Say it.”

John’s anger was gone. Other emotions had swallowed it up,—sorrow, pity, remorse, that devastating sense of loss again, more poignant than before in some new way, and above all a great yearning toward both of them.

“Where?” he asked, in a changed voice.

“In my father’s house,” said Agnes, derisively. “What a pity you missed it!”

“But what happened?” asked John.

She answered weirdly, improvising silly words to a silly tune:—

A horrified silence fell.

“Was it flat?” she asked. “I’m sorry. I know something to do. Let’s each one tell the story of his life. Shall I begin?”

She began to sing again:—

“Please,” said John. “Please don’t. You make my blood run cold.”

“She’s that way ever since,” said Thane, with an air of sharing his misery.

“Then you tell me,” said John.

“I carried her home,” said Thane, now weary of telling it, “from where she got hurt between me an’ the Cornishman knocking ourselves around in the path, an’ old Enoch he got a wicked notion as I don’t know what an’ sent for the preacher an’ we was married. Then he handed me the blue ticket an’ put us out of the house.”

John turned to Agnes with a question on his tongue. She anticipated him and began to sing:—

As he shuddered and turned away again she stopped.

“I was coming for my street clothes to where I live,” continued Thane, “being as I was all that time in my puddling rig an’ we got bogged here like you see us now. Nothing I say let’s do will move her. And when I say all right, what does she want, she chanties about me, making them up out of nothing.”

“When they get like that,” said John, “you have to use force. You’ve got to pick them up.”

“Can’t work it,” said Thane.

“Why not? Does she bite?”

“No.”

“What then?”

“Can’t work it,” said Thane. “Not since,” he added.

“The subject of this clinic is conscious,” said Agnes, pleasantly.

They paid no attention to her.

“You board, don’t you? You were not intending to take her there?” said John.

“Only so as to get my clothes,” said Thane.

“We can’t do anything until you get your clothes,” said John. “That’s plain. I’ll stay here with her while you go for them. But don’t be long. Then maybe we can think of something to do.”

Thane went off at once with a tremendous sigh of relief in the feeling of action. His feet made a cavernous tlump, tlump, tlump-ing on the hard dirt road. John, who stood regarding Agnes from the side of the road, was sure he saw her shudder. Then from the heedless tone with which she broke the silence he was sure he had been mistaken.

“It seems you know my husband,” she said.

He was surprised that she had no difficulty with the word, though it must have been the first time she had ever used it in the possessive sense—and in such circumstances!

“Can’t you think of anything feasible to do?” John asked.

“Do you like him?” she inquired.

“Because if you can’t,” said John, “I can. It’s too much for Thane. That isn’t fair.”

He supposed she was thinking. To his disgust she began to sing, softly, tunefully:

“Stop it!” He moved as if to menace her. She stopped and looked at him soberly.

“Is there nothing I can do to entertain you? I might recite. And you haven’t answered my question.”

“You give me the horrors,” he blurted. “No, no I’m sorry. I’m unstrung, that’s all. Please do be serious. We’ve got to think of what we shall do.”

“Who are we?”

“I beg your pardon. You, then,” he amended.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Agnes, do for....”

“Mrs. Thane, please.”

“I don’t expect you to be amiable,” he said, “but please for one moment be reasonable.”

“When they are like that you can’t do anything with them,” she said. “Really you can’t. You will have to see my husband.”

She had seated herself on a grassy bench with her back to the fence, her feet in the dry ditch, and was viciously jabbing the earth with a limber stick. She threw the stick from her, leaned back, folded her arms and tilted her chin at the sky, with an air of casting John out of existence. He had given up trying to talk and stood observing her in an overt manner. It was thus he saw how she looked at the moon, first vacantly without seeing it, then with a start as of recognition or recollection, and at length with an expression of such twisted mocking wistfulness that he knew one shape of her heart and turned wretchedly away, almost wishing he had not seen.

For a long time she did not move. She seemed under a kind of spell. Thane found them so, in separate states of reverie. Neither heard his footsteps approaching.

“I was thinking why should I bother you like this,” said Thane, “being though as we are friends in a way. If only it was so as I could touch something.”

“Thane,” said John, slowly, “listen to what I am thinking. The skeins of our three lives have run together in a hard knot. Mine and that of Agnes were already twisted together in a very strange history. Yours got entangled by chance, heaven knows why. Fate does it. Nobody is to blame. But I am responsible.”

“For us being married?” asked Thane.

“For that, yes. But for a great deal more. I am only beginning to see the meaning of things. By inheritance I am responsible for something my father and mother did to Enoch before I was born, for the fact that Agnes is his daughter and he is not my father, for the fact that he is mad. He has had his revenge on Aaron’s son, greater than he knows. What that means I cannot tell you. I shall never say it again. But what I want you to see is that I cannot leave you to face the consequences alone. It is not a matter of friendship. You are married to Agnes. In a foster sense I am married to both of you.”

His face was lighted from within. He spoke in the absent, anonymous manner of one undergoing a mystical experience. Something of his mood entered Thane. With one impulse they had struck hands and now stood looking deeply into each other’s eyes.

“I don’t know as I see what you mean,” said Thane.

“No,” said John. “You wouldn’t. I’ve confused you, trying to get it all said at once. There is first the fact that we are friends. My feeling for you in that way has increased suddenly, I don’t quite know why. And now, above that, is my sense of responsibility for what has happened. You must accept my view of that. It shall be understood that I have a right to stand by and that I may be trusted ... absolutely trusted ... whatever comes....”

He groped and stopped and seemed to have gone to sleep with his eyes open.

Thane moved uneasily. John, returning to himself, started slightly and released Thane’s hand. When he spoke his voice was altered.

“I can’t make it come clear,” he said. “I thought I could.”

“I’ve looked my eyes out that way, too,” said Thane. “Let’s take it as it is.”

What John at first had so clear a vision of was an act of heroic self-denial. It thrilled him with momentary ecstasy. That may be understood. Man is an emotional formation, subject to sudden passions, one of which is the passion of sacrifice. Blindly on the spot he rears an altar, lays the wood in order and looks to see what offering hath in a miraculous manner provided itself to be burnt. Lo! there stands the one thing most beloved in all the world. The Lord sometimes interferes, as for Isaac. Sometimes the victim saves itself. Then again the man draws back. He has not the heart to do it.

John drew back. To conclude the covenant with Thane meant forswearing Agnes in his heart forever. That was a vow he could neither bring himself to make nor trust himself to keep. And yet, any secret reservation seemed treachery to Thane. So there he stood before this truth of contradiction and “looked his eyes out” at it. How came Thane to have a thought like that?

Agnes was observing them intently with one elbow on her knee, her chin in her hand, eyes half closed. She was not thinking. She was verifying a kind of knowledge that underlies the mind. She knew why John faltered, why he lost his way toward what he meant to do, what that was, and why he dropped Thane’s hand. She knew what it was of a sudden to become a woman and why a woman need never be afraid.

Far away in the sky of her immemorial self, so far that what she saw of it was but its heat’s reflection, passed a flash of contempt for those tame, romantic vanities in which now man sublimates the reckless impulses of his savage egoism. At that instant, too, as it were in the light of this archaic intuition, there stood upon her memory the figure of the Cornishman, and she was horribly ashamed.

Nevertheless she continued to feel cynical about the emotional male principle. It bored her. There was one obvious thing to do. There was in fact only one thing possible to be done. But apparently neither Thane nor John was ever going to think of it, or give her a chance to suggest it without boldly naming it. One might have thought they had forgotten her existence. They stood in the middle of the road, John with his back to her, Thane with his eyes in the heavens, sharing a vast man-silence. She was at the core of that silence; she was all there was there. That did not interest her at all. She wished to be somewhere else.

She got up quietly and walked away from them, away from New Damascus, with a very bad list and limp. They overtook her in four or five steps, one on each side.

“What’s this way now?” Thane asked.

No answer.

“She isn’t fit to walk,” said John. “Don’t let her do it.”

She looked at Thane; the gesture he was making toward her froze in the air.

“Take her as you would a nettle, firmly,” John recommended.

“’Tain’t what’s outside I’m afraid of,” said Thane.

Stepping ahead and turning, John confronted her. Thane did the same. She made to go around them, right. They moved that way. She made to go around them, left. They moved that way. With a frustrated gesture she gave it up, turned a tormented profile and made them feel how much she despised them.

“Mrs. Thane,” said John, “do you wish to leave New Damascus—leave it now—tonight?”

Agnes turned on him in a sudden rage of exasperation.

“Fly, I suppose! Fly away with a—a—what is he? I forget.”

“Oh, oh,” John groaned.

“What are you?” she said to Thane.

“Puddler,” he answered, with dignity, the look of a hurt animal in his face.

“It’s very well known,” she said, “puddlers don’t fly. Besides it’s too late. We’ve stopped to think. We had to take time to change his clothes. He’s out of a job and has no money. He told me so. I wonder what the wives of puddlers do.”

“Some would envy you your sting,” said John, horrified at what she was doing to Thane. She understood him perfectly.

“But you are immune,” she said. “I have not married you. Or have I? Are you this puddler’s David? What are your rights in him? How come you to suppose that you have rights in me?”

“Tantrums, thank God, and not hysterics,” said John.

“Shall we spend the rest of the night in this way?” she asked. “And what then?”

“I am leaving New Damascus tonight,” said John, pursuing a flash of intuition.

Agnes gave him an incredulous glance.

“So far as I know, forever,” he continued. “This decision is my own. You have nothing to do with it. But if you were also about to leave, perhaps taking the same direction, why shouldn’t we go together, as far as it’s parallel?”

“Who goes or stays, no matter what happens, I shall not be in sight of New Damascus at daybreak,” said Agnes, her face averted from both John and her husband, and she spoke as one making a vow. “So, whatever you do,” she added, “please hurry.”

Thane would have asked her a question, not knowing how women consent; John restrained him with a sign.

“Then I’ll pick you up here,” he said, setting off abruptly. “And I won’t be very long.”

When he returned with a smart bay team and a light road wagon, his own rig, the moon was sinking. Agnes was asleep on the dewy grass in Thane’s coat. He wrapped her in the rug John held out to him and lifted her to the seat. She was docile and limp, like a groggy child. John had to hold her erect until Thane got up on the other side. She sat between them.

Where the road turns abruptly out of the valley John pulled up and looked back. It was now quite dark. All that he could see was the mill, like a live malignant cinder in the eye of darkness, glowing faintly, going almost out, then spurting forth quick tongues of flame. He had the sensation of a great solitary weight rolling about in his stomach. Tears came to his eyes. Until that moment he had not known that he cared for New Damascus. His caring was like an inherited memory.

And though he knew it not, this night was the time and his exit the sign that sealed the fate of New Damascus. It was left in the hands of Enoch, who fanatically withheld it from the steel age.

“Where to?” Thane asked.

“Wilkes-Barre tonight,” said John. “Then to Pittsburgh. I’m buying a mill at Pittsburgh that I want you to take hold of. We’ll discuss it tomorrow.”

“What shape of mill?” asked Thane.

John hesitated.

“Nothing like the mill behind us,” he said.

The idea of buying a mill had only that instant come to him. So of course he did not know what kind of mill it was.

He looked at Agnes. She was sound asleep, leaning on Thane, who had his arm around her. Again he looked at her. She was in the same position, but her eyes were wide open, staring straight ahead.