II
Kennicott had seemed nervous and absent-minded through
that supper-hour, two evenings after. He prowled about the
living-room, then growled:
"What the dickens have you been saying to Ma Westlake?"
Carol's book rattled. "What do you mean?"
"I told you that Westlake and his wife were jealous of us,
and here you been chumming up to them and— From what
Dave tells me, Ma Westlake has been going around town saying
you told her that you hate Aunt Bessie, and that you fixed
up your own room because I snore, and you said Bjornstam
was too good for Bea, and then, just recent, that you were
sore on the town because we don't all go down on our knees
and beg this Valborg fellow to come take supper with us. God
only knows what else she says you said."
"It's not true, any of it! I did like Mrs. Westlake, and
I've called on her, and apparently she's gone and twisted
everything I've said—"
"Sure. Of course she would. Didn't I tell you she would?
She's an old cat, like her pussyfooting, hand-holding husband.
Lord, if I was sick, I'd rather have a faith-healer than Westlake,
and she's another slice off the same bacon. What I can't
understand though—"
She waited, taut.
"—is whatever possessed you to let her pump you, bright
a girl as you are. I don't care what you told her—we all get
peeved sometimes and want to blow off steam, that's natural—
but if you wanted to keep it dark, why didn't you advertise
it in the Dauntless, or get a megaphone and stand on top of
the hotel and holler, or do anything besides spill it to her!"
"I know. You told me. But she was so motherly. And
I didn't have any woman— Vida 's become so married and
proprietary."
"Well, next time you'll have better sense."
He patted her head, flumped down behind his newspaper,
said nothing more.
Enemies leered through the windows, stole on her from
the hall. She had no one save Erik. This kind good man
Kennicott—he was an elder brother. It was Erik, her fellow
outcast, to whom she wanted to run for sanctuary. Through
her storm she was, to the eye, sitting quietly with her fingers
between the pages of a baby-blue book on home-dressmaking.
But her dismay at Mrs. Westlake's treachery had risen to
active dread. What had the woman said of her and Erik?
What did she know? What had she seen? Who else would
join in the baying hunt? Who else had seen her with Erik?
What had she to fear from the Dyers, Cy Bogart, Juanita,
Aunt Bessie? What precisely had she answered to Mrs.
Bogart's questioning?
All next day she was too restless to stay home, yet as she
walked the streets on fictitious errands she was afraid of every
person she met. She waited for them to speak; waited with
foreboding. She repeated, "I mustn't ever see Erik again."
But the words did not register. She had no ecstatic indulgence
in the sense of guilt which is, to the women of Main Street,
the surest escape from blank tediousness.
At five, crumpled in a chair in the living-room, she started
at the sound of the bell. Some one opened the door. She
waited, uneasy. Vida Sherwin charged into the room. "Here's
the one person I can trust!" Carol rejoiced.
Vida was serious but affectionate. She bustled at Carol
with, "Oh, there you are, dearie, so glad t' find you in, sit
down, want to talk to you."
Carol sat, obedient.
Vida fussily tugged over a large chair and launched out:
"I've been hearing vague rumors you were interested in
this Erik Valborg. I knew you couldn't be guilty, and I'm
surer than ever of it now. Here we are, as blooming as a
daisy."
"How does a respectable matron look when she feels
guilty?"
Carol sounded resentful.
"Why— Oh, it would show! Besides! I know that you,
of all people, are the one that can appreciate Dr. Will."
"What have you been hearing?"
"Nothing, really. I just heard Mrs. Bogart say she'd seen
you and Valborg walking together a lot." Vida's chirping
slackened. She looked at her nails. "But— I suspect
you do like Valborg. Oh, I don't mean in any wrong way.
But you're young; you don't know what an innocent liking
might drift into. You always pretend to be so sophisticated
and all, but you're a baby. Just because you are so innocent,
you don't know what evil thoughts may lurk in that fellow's
brain."
"You don't suppose Valborg could actually think about
making love to me?"
Her rather cheap sport ended abruptly as Vida cried, with
contorted face, "What do you know about the thoughts in
hearts? You just play at reforming the world. You don't
know what it means to suffer."
There are two insults which no human being will endure:
the assertion that he hasn't a sense of humor, and the doubly
impertinent assertion that he has never known trouble. Carol
said furiously, "You think I don't suffer? You think I've
always had an easy—"
"No, you don't. I'm going to tell you something I've
never told a living soul, not even Ray." The dam of repressed
imagination which Vida had builded for years, which now,
with Raymie off at the wars, she was building again, gave way.
"I was—I liked Will terribly well. One time at a party—oh,
before he met you, of course—but we held hands, and we were
so happy. But I didn't feel I was really suited to him. I let
him go. Please don't think I still love him! I see now that
Ray was predestined to be my mate. But because I liked him,
I know how sincere and pure and noble Will is, and his
thoughts never straying from the path of rectitude, and—
If I gave him up to you, at least you've got to appreciate him!
We danced together and laughed so, and I gave him up,
but— This is my affair! I'm
not intruding! I see the
whole thing as he does, because of all I've told you. Maybe
it's shameless to bare my heart this way, but I do it for him—
for him and you!"
Carol understood that Vida believed herself to have recited
minutely and brazenly a story of intimate love; understood
that, in alarm, she was trying to cover her shame as she
struggled on, "Liked him in the most honorable way—simply
can't help it if I still see things through his eyes— If I
gave him up, I certainly am not beyond my rights in demanding
that you take care to avoid even the appearance of evil
and—" She was weeping; an insignificant, flushed, ungracefully
weeping woman.
Carol could not endure it. She ran to Vida, kissed her
forehead, comforted her with a murmur of dove-like sounds,
sought to reassure her with worn and hastily assembled gifts
of words: "Oh, I appreciate it so much," and "You are so
fine and splendid," and "Let me assure you there isn't a thing
to what you've heard," and "Oh, indeed, I do know how
sincere Will is, and as you say, so—so sincere."
Vida believed that she had explained many deep and devious
matters. She came out of her hysteria like a sparrow shaking
off rain-drops. She sat up, and took advantage of her victory:
"I don't want to rub it in, but you can see for yourself
now, this is all a result of your being so discontented and
not appreciating the dear good people here. And another
thing: People like you and me, who want to reform things,
have to be particularly careful about appearances. Think
how much better you can criticize conventional customs if you
yourself live up to them, scrupulously. Then people can't
say you're attacking them to excuse your own infractions."
To Carol was given a sudden great philosophical
understanding, an explanation of half the cautious reforms in history.
"Yes. I've heard that plea. It's a good one. It sets
revolts aside to cool. It keeps strays in the flock. To word
it differently: `You must live up to the popular code if you
believe in it; but if you don't believe in it, then you
must live
up to it!' "
"I don't think so at all," said Vida vaguely. She began to
look hurt, and Carol let her be oracular.
