  Her blood coursed drummingly as she went back along the road, half running, her hat fallen, held by the loose ribbon under her chin, her hands opening and closing nervously. Her head was high and her mood struck through her like the smell of turned earth to a wild thing of the jungle. She wanted action, hard movement, and she ran with fingers spread to feel the breeze. Her thoughts were a tumult—her feelings one massing, striving storm of voices, through which ran constant, vibrating, a single, insistent, dominant chord. “You shall! You SHALL!” she repeated under her breath. “Why do I like that? It’s sweeter than bells! I can hear him say it yet. It was like a hand, pulling me!” “What can I do? What can I do?” she said. “I’m afraid! I can’t go on fighting this way! It—drags me so.” Her fingers were pulling up the tapery grass-spears in a sinister terror. “I felt so strong the last few weeks, and it’s gone—utterly gone! Why—it went when I first looked at his face. If he had kissed me again, this time; if—if he had held me as he did that other day—in the woods—oh, my heart’s water! There’s something in me that won’t fight. The ground goes from under my feet. It’s dreadful She felt herself shivering, resentful of the ecstasy of sweetness that lapped and folded her. The dull glow of the sky irritated her with its very serenity. “If I only hadn’t seen him! If I had been strong enough not to! It’s ungenerous of him. He ought to leave. He ought to have gone away after that last time! He ought!” But if he had! The thought obtruded itself. She had longed for him to come; she knew, down in her soul, she had. Her heart had given her lips the lie. The woman in her had betrayed her conscience. “It’s the truth!” she cried, lifting her hand. “It’s the truth! Oh, if he hadn’t come—if—he—hadn’t!” She muttered it to the wind by the loneliness of the slashed hedges. “That would have been the one last terrible thing. It would She pressed her arm against her eyes till her sight blent in golden-lettered flashes. The one presence was all about her; she could even feel his breath against her hair. His eyes had been the color of deep purple grapes under morning dew. The old hunger for him, for his hand, his voice, swept down upon her, and she crouched closer to the ground wet with fog-dew, striking the sod hard with her hands. He had come. He was there. He never would go—she knew that. If he stayed, she must yield. She had been perilously close to it that day. After a time she became quieter and drew from her skirt pocket a crumpled letter, received that “Your letter has somehow distressed me,” it read. “It seemed unlike your old self. It seemed sad. I imagine that you are troubled about something. Is it only that you are tired and dissatisfied? I have wondered much about you since you left the city in the spring. What have you been doing? How have you spent the time in the stale places of idleness? I have been so busy here at the hospital that I have seen none of our old friends. Time goes so quickly when you like your work! And I enjoy mine. It has come to mean a great deal to me. Dr. Goodno intends soon, he says, to put me in charge of the children’s ward. Poor little things! They suffer so much more uncomplainingly than grown folks. Dr. Goodno is our superintendent and Mrs. Goodno is superintendent of nurses. She has been so dear and kind to me, one could not help loving her. It “Margaret, have you ever thought seriously of the last letter I wrote you? There is a great deal of compensation in this life, and I have thought sometimes (I know you’ll forgive me for saying it) that you needed some experience like this. Every woman ought to be the better for it. You are my dearest friend, and if I could only show you something—some new satisfaction in living—something to take you out of yourself more, I would be so glad. “I have told Mrs. Goodno so much about you, and she would welcome you here, I know. It might be just what you need. You know the nurses are taken on three months’ probation, and there is no compulsion to stay. If you did not like it, you could leave at any time, and you would be the gainer by the experience. You need no preparation. Just telegraph me at any time and come.” A resolution had formed itself rapidly in Margaret’s “Melwin,” she said, “I’m going back to the city. I have received a letter which makes it necessary. I think I will take the evening train.” He turned again to the window. “Must you—go?” His voice was toneless and dull. “Yes,” she answered. “I will look in and say good-by to Lydia.” She waited a moment uncertainly, but he did not speak, and she left him standing there. Turning the knob of Lydia’s door softly, she Margaret closed the door noiselessly. Going to her room, she pencilled a little note, and tiptoeing cautiously back through the hall, slipped the missive under Lydia’s door. And this was her farewell. |
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