THE UNCERTIFIED

GRANNY JOSLIN was accurate in one statement regarding her neighbor’s household, but was not so accurate in other details. Had Polly Pendleton known surely that Marcia Haddon was in the house she now approached, she certainly must have turned and gone the other way. And had Marcia herself suspected the presence in town of these two visitors of all in the world, it is most likely that she would have prolonged her visit in the hills indefinitely, and not have returned earlier in the day, as had been the case.

In her room, Marcia Haddon heard voices—voices of the two old women, voices of two younger women—one voice which caused her to stop and listen—all her faculties arrested.

It was Granny Williams who after a time knocked at her door and called her out to meet the newcomers. Marcia, with sudden prescience of what was to come, summoned all her fortitude for what seemed to her the unkindest blow she ever had known of fate. This woman—here—following her to the edge of the world—to her husband’s very grave-side—it was a thing unspeakable in its unfitness! Her very soul rebelled against it.

Her color was high as she stepped out into the room, facing what she felt must be an encounter. “You asked for me?” said she, looking directly into the face of Polly Pendleton. “I think there must be some mistake.” Her eyes now passed calmly from one to the other, her face cold.

Polly, quick of wit, did what she could. “Mrs. Haddon,” said she impulsively, “we didn’t know you were here when we came in. We didn’t know you were in town. It’s all a mistake—everything’s a mistake. We wanted to go away right now—but they wouldn’t let us—there’s no other place for us. Won’t you let me talk to you now? May we——”

Her gesture indicated the room from which Marcia had but now emerged, which seemed to offer privacy for what Polly Pendleton as well as herself knew was to be a scene.

“As you like,” said Marcia Haddon icily, and held open the door, closing it as the other entered.

“It’s all a mistake, Mrs. Haddon,” began Polly once more as she found herself alone with the other.

“So it would seem,” replied Marcia, still coldly. “Not one of my own making.”

“We didn’t know a thing about it, Mrs. Haddon. I’m sorry, awfully sorry—sorry as I can be.”

“You would seem to have cause for regret, perhaps? I suppose you refer to my husband’s death?”

Polly nodded rapidly, her upper lip trembling a little bit. The situation was not in the least easy for her.

“I can fancy it would mean something to you.”

“A lot,” said Polly frankly, “an awful lot. But what’s the use! He was backing us, of course, you know that—had been for a long while. We wanted help—we’re on our uppers now. We heard he was in here, and we came in ourselves to have a little talk with him over things. We were over on the railroad, don’t you see? We’ve had bad business all along for weeks. The war knocked us out. Oh, I tell you, we knew nothing about this—we hadn’t heard of any accident. And Jimmy was such a good chap!”

“I presume you refer to my husband when you say Jimmy? Yes?” Marcia’s voice was not only icy, but worse.

“Well,” resumed Polly uneasily, “I’ve known him for a long time, you see.”

“I know all about the length—and the nature—of your acquaintance with my husband, Miss Pendleton.”

“My real name is Amanda Brown,” said Polly, calmly.

“Yes, Miss Brown? I don’t know whether or not my husband has made any provision for you in his will. I haven’t been made fully acquainted with the nature of his will. My lawyers have asked me to come back at once, but I have been stopping on here. It was hard—I was not quite ready to go away from him. He needed some one to watch him, don’t you think?

“Now,” she went on, “I have been obliged to meet you——”

“Well,” said Polly, with a shrug, “we wouldn’t have been so apt to meet back in the city.”

“Hardly, I fear.”

Polly reddened a little at this. “You don’t like me, Mrs. Haddon, do you?” said she directly.

“Why should I?”

“That’s right—why should you, when it comes to that? I’m not sure that I should if it were the other way about But one thing is sure——”

“Need we discuss these matters at all? I don’t see why. This whole situation is not in the least of my making, or my liking.”

“Oh, now, listen, Mrs. Haddon! I know a lot of things. I’m not what you are—I never had your chance. I’ve done the best I could with what I had, the same as you, maybe. If I had married him you’d never have taken him away from me!”

“Indeed?” Her auditor did not even smile.

“Women like you,” broke out Polly, waxing somewhat tremulous herself—“women like you don’t know anything about women like me. I didn’t run after Jimmy Haddon—he ran after me. Why did he? What made him? Didn’t you have every chance in the world to keep him? Who’s to blame—me or you or him—or all of us? I wasn’t running after him so much even now. Of course I didn’t know anything about what has happened, or I wouldn’t have come.”

Marcia’s hands were intertwining nervously now. “Do you think I ought to talk to you at all now—coming here as you do—following him absolutely into his grave?”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” said Polly, coloring hotly now. “Maybe I’m not as bad as you think—or anyway, different. If men drift to my sort, how can my sort help it? I’m only a rag and a bone and a hank my own self, I suppose. If it hadn’t been him it would have been someone else, maybe. If it hadn’t been me, maybe it would have been someone else for him too—that’s the way it goes.”

Marcia Haddon was looking at the young woman before her with a new and strange feeling of curiosity, trying after her own ancient creed to be fair, to be just. She was trying now to understand, to find as much good as possible in the careless self-accusation of the young person who spoke thus artlessly and directly. But that young person went on now somewhat bitterly.

“We’re a good ways apart, Mrs. Haddon, I expect I hadn’t a thing to start with but my laugh and my looks—they would have left me comfortable if I’d never met your husband. If he’s gone now, all the better for me now, like enough, and all the better for him—and maybe for you too. You don’t know about my sort. Well, I don’t ask that of you. There’s milk, and fresh milk, and bottled milk, and certified bottled milk. You’re strictly respectable—you’re certified—you’re the sort that’s been taken care of all their lives. Me—I’m uncertified, I guess. It doesn’t make much difference to anybody now, does it? I told—him—another man—I was going over with the Red Cross.”

Still striving to be just in spite of all, Marcia Haddon held her speech, looking gravely at the other, who now went on, unsparing alike of herself and her hearer.

“It’s late to give you a tip about how to handle a husband—but I could have——”

“I’m afraid not,” said Marcia Haddon. “I’m afraid there’s nothing you can do for me. I’m afraid—well, I suppose I ought to try to be fair, even now.” She could not refer directly in speech to the relations between the dead yonder and the living here.

“That never gets anybody very much,” said Polly Pendleton. “You remind me of that chap that came into my place in New York—Joslin, his name was—he’s the grandson of this old lady that brought us in here!”

Now for the first time the slow red of anger rose to Marcia Haddon’s face.

“I think you’ve said quite sufficient about that and many other matters,” said she. “You certainly can’t discuss Mr. Joslin with me—I’ll not have it. In fact, I’m not sure that you can discuss anything with me any longer.”

“I’ve asked no odds of you,” she flared out, at last. “If you took my husband from me, you took my leavings—there was nothing about him that I cared for any more. Anything worth trying for—anything worth fighting for—why, yes—I don’t know that I’d need fear you so much. You came into my life not by my invitation, but I’m not so sure you need ask me so much for forgiveness. What have I to forgive—or you? He’s dead now—he’s gone from both of us. You’re welcome to what you had.”

Her gaze unconsciously passed beyond the window, up to the hillside where lay a little mound, a rude stone at the head.

“We’ll not say anything evil about him now—more than we have. He’s found the way out, even if we haven’t as yet for ourselves. Our ways must part, of course. But you can’t advise me and you can’t glory over me. You’ve had my leavings. Is that quite plain?

“And now the way is plain for all of us—at last.” Her voice was trembling.

It was like Marcia Haddon to stand erect, her features controlled, though tears dropped from her eyes. And it was like Polly Pendleton to grasp both her hands and kiss her, when, sobbing, she fumbled for her small belongings as she turned to go.