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III
THE next week was a strange one. It is not easy to explain why a young man in possession of his health, his faculties, a beautiful and capable wife, a sweet and obedient daughter, should find a most extraordinary and spontaneous happiness in wandering the woods with a vagrant and red-headed boy. Nor is it to the point to dilate upon the manner in which the boy made his confrere acquainted with certain of the neighbors; nor how the man sat in farm kitchens and laughed and talked with more vivacity than he had shown in any drawing-room for many and many a month; nor how the introductions extended to dogs, hens, rabbits, pigeons, and even included a brown-eyed steer. It is enough to say that Elizabeth Stoddard, pining in her immaculate frocks, wandered her garden in the severe company of Beulah, and wondered why no little girls grew in those woods; and that Anita Stoddard took to keeping a diary — a piece of sentimentality of which her husband would have supposed her incapable — and forgot to specify the sort of soup she wished for dinner, or to oversee the trimming of the lawn.
A gulf of good manners yawned between the different members of this little family; and three persons with everything in the world to make them happy went their miserable ways. Only Ralph Stoddard had his clandestine joy.
In the midst of all this, a summons from town reached him. He left quite suddenly, and with no opportunity to say farewell to the red-headed partner of his innocuous escapades.
The business which had demanded his presence in the city was soon completed, and, quite unexpectedly, Stoddard found himself able to return the next day. He might have wired his wife to meet him, but he did not. He crept into a corner of the car, and sat there for five hours, staring at nothing in particular, and
The train drew in at the station, and he got out and made his way toward a dilapidated bus which waited there for the infrequent visitor. It was his intention to ride in this to the village, and there to hire some sort of a conveyance to take him out to his place. But he saw, with a leap of the heart, that his wife was awaiting him. He hastened toward her.
"All is well at home?"
"Yes," she said, "I came down because I had a feeling that you might come home on this train."
"Oh!" said Stoddard significantly. His heart felt singularly light. He leaped into the trap and took the reins from Anita. "I am so glad you had the notion!" he cried.
"It looks as if we were going to have a bad storm," Anita remarked. "There have been little cold gusts blowing for the past hour, and now I can feel the rain in the air."
"You are getting to be quite a country woman," laughed Stoddard. "Next thing you'll be talking about crops."
"Crops are rather interesting," Anita said. "They have already become a topic of conversation with me."
"Have they, indeed? I hadn't noticed it."
Anita looked at her husband in a side-long fashion, like a timid girl. "You haven't heard very much of my conversation recently, have you?" she asked.
A twinge of remorse struck Stoddard sharply. It occurred to him for the first time that he might have his share of responsibility for the low barometric condition of his domestic atmosphere. He was searching about for an honest and adequate answer when a sharp blast of air struck them, and over the top of the long hill came rushing a battalion of cloud. It reminded the observers of a desperate battle onslaught — a strategic triumph, culminating in that reckless and irresistible charge. A few seconds more and the roar of the strife was about them. The world was darkened, but there were horrible saffron lights through the murk. The trees beat the air like gigantic lunatics. Flying branches and leaves, swirls of dust, the bitter air beating back the sultriness of the day, the lightning darting like devils' lances, the sharp thunder, the deep diapason of the storm underneath, transformed the world.
The horse Stoddard was driving became all but unmanageable, and, hardly able to see the road before him, with the bending forest on one side and the long hill on the other, he bent forward, grasping the reins with tense and determined arms. Anita said not a word. Stoddard could feel her trembling, but she was silent. When a tree crashed down across the road just behind them, she did not even exclaim. Once Stoddard shouted:
"Where's Elizabeth?"
"I don't know," Anita shouted back.
"Wasn't she at home when you left?"
"No."
Neither said more. They were stricken by the same apprehension. Stoddard understood then why she had evinced no fear for herself; he also ceased to feel it now. He had one absorbing curiosity, one unspeakable apprehension. If little Elizabeth were out in this storm, she would be beaten down like a butterfly. It would crush her down, stifle her, submerge her in its windy torrents, till all her delicate loveliness was obliterated!
The horse went on, wild-eyed, mastered, but quivering. A ball of fire fell all but before his eyes, and he staggered and groaned, and went on. He seemed not to be able to keep the road after that; and Stoddard himself felt half stunned, but not enough so to mitigate the poignancy of his apprehension. He only felt the more infuriated at the confusion of his faculties; for the world seemed to have found a voice
"Took a seat upon the enshrouded sofa. — Page 581."
[Description: Girl on sofa.]"I know!" cried Anita. "I know! Elizabeth was out when the storm came, and they have all gone to look for her."
They stood in the dusk of the cellar with earthy, heavy smells creeping up around them, and stared at each other grim and fearful as spectres. They saw visions of dread grow in each other's eyes. They
Then Anita stretched out her arms toward her husband.
"Oh, our baby! Our baby!" she sobbed.
Stoddard drew her to him with protecting tenderness. He felt his arms and his heart strengthen to shield her from sorrows present and potential. The head on his breast seemed pitiful, and he kissed it passionately. He drew her closer and closer, that she might feel the beating of his heart; and that their torment might be as one torment, not as the sorrow of two who dwelt together. Then he comforted her with inarticulate words not heard for the crash of the storm, but felt by her in her soul and welcomed even in the midst of misery.
It was only for a moment that they paused. Anita tore herself away from her husband's arms and ran up the stair. As they entered the dining-room, a blast of light confounded them; the house gave a shudder like a stricken ship, and a great locust tree which grew by the side of the hill crashed through the roof of the porch and shattered the glass in the wide window. The wind swept in and seemed to run snarling about the house like a wild animal.
Anita had leaped back, and she stood regarding the catastrophe with eyes that pictured a disaster which minimized this one infinitely.
"We must go out," she cried to her husband. "Even if it does no good, we'd better go. I can't stand the waiting."
"We'll not go out," said Stoddard, with command in his tones. "Come into the kitchen, Anita. Shut the doors. I'll build a fire. We'll have hot water ready. Put some coffee in the pot, and find the liquor and some blankets — soft warm ones."
He made the suggestions to occupy her, and, in a way, the plan worked. When their preparations were finished, the storm really began to abate. The air lightened, and once more objects became clearly defined. Then the torrent ceased, and the rain fell moderately.
"Now we will go out," said Stoddard, and he found his wife's mackintosh and wrapped it about her, and brought her rubber shoes. He was very tender with her, and she looked at him hungrily.
"Our poor baby," she whispered.
"We'll find her! We'll find her!" he said over and over. When he went for his own coat she followed him, and as they stepped out into the chilled fateful air, with the cloud-wrack scurrying southward and the trees torn and broken, they involuntarily clasped hands. They started for the gate together that way, but a second later they stopped, for a procession advanced toward them.
First came Ged Angel's dog, important but wet; then Ged Angel himself, rather shamefaced but not particularly wet; then Watkins, carrying Elizabeth; lastly, Beulah, waving reassuringly to the Stoddards, and finally Jane, who had been weeping.
Upon nearer view it appeared that little Elizabeth must have been seeing the world. Her frock was torn with briers and stained with berries; she was minus shoes and stockings; her soft brown braids having become unruly had been tied together with a wisp of grass; her face bore evidences of a woodland feast.
"Ah didn't choose fo' to wash heh, ma'am," Beulah said, half laughing and half crying, "twell you-alls hed seen heh jus' as she was."
Just as she was she was good enough for Anita Stoddard. Just as she was she did perfectly well for Ralph Stoddard.
Watkins started to relate the adventure — a man knows his privileges — but Stoddard cut him short.
"Go to the barn, Watkins," he commanded. "The horse — I left him in a bad way." Watkins started toward the stables, but from the nature of his ejaculations and commands it appeared that nothing serious had occurred. Watkins's voice had to make itself heard over several other voices, for Jane was telling how the storm came up suddener than any she ever see, and how the clouds dipped right down to the chimbly top, and how she thought of that blessed child out somewhere or other gadding with Beulah, and how she closed up the house and ran out — 'thout a hat nor nothing — an' ranged an' ranged 'round, and the wind tore her apron off — that new one with the cross-stitching — and carried it mercy knows where, and — and —
And Beulah said she was jus' slumbahin', ma'am, a minute on the ground
"He ate it to the last crumb. — Page 586."
[Description: Man and boy fishing.]And Elizabeth said, hugging her mother in tenacious and rather tremulous arms, that Beulah read "A Child's Garden of Verses" to her till she fell asleep, and that she — Elizabeth — just walked a little way down the road, and she wished and wished she had some one to play with, and while she was wishing she saw a boy, and she spoke to him and he spoke to her, and they went off a little way, so they wouldn't wake Beulah. And they picked some blackberries, and he showed her a place to wade, and she was sorry, but she tore her dress, and then the storm came up and she forgot her shoes, and perhaps Beulah could find them if she would run back and —
And Gerald Angel, vulgarly denominated Ged, twisted his toes in the dust and said when it began to get so dark, by ginger! he thought they'd better run, and they went to Sally Greison's house, and she giv' 'em coffee cake, and whin they saw Beulah running like a chicken with its head off, they called her in; and then they see Jane, and they called her in; and whin the storm was all over and they set out for home, they met Mr. Watkins, sir, and he had hid in a barn, and he wasn't wet neither, and he took Elizabeth out of Beulah's arms and carried her, and he
Stoddard said nothing. He laughed, though — a strange laugh, down deep in his throat — and he took Ged's hand and led him into the house.
Anita sat down with Elizabeth in her arms and looked her over — looked at the scratched ankles, the berry-stained face, and the grass-bound hair.
"Isn't she the dearest!" she cried, ecstatically.
"Nicer than she ever was before," acquiesced Stoddard, amazed at the concurrence of his wife's opinion with his own.
"And the boy!" exclaimed Anita. She stared at the triumphant specimen of boyhood, with the glorious topknot. He blushed, and wriggled around behind Stoddard.
"Send them into the nursery to play," said Stoddard gently. "Ask Beulah to feed them. I wish to tell you a little story, Anita. It's quite curious, and I thought you wouldn't understand or I'd have told it sooner."
So the young ones went away, Elizabeth like a princess in rags; Gerald Angel feigning reluctance, with admiration shining from his red-brown eyes.
Stoddard went out again in the open air, taking Anita with him, and there, in the clearing of the storm, with the evidences of the convulsion all about them, he told all the story — he stripped his heart before the woman he had stood in awe of, and he told her the truth as he had never thought to speak it to any living ear.
A wonderful sunset of amber and green began to gather in the west. The whole world shone with a kind of crystalline beauty, and in a glow of pale golden light Anita, transfigured and tender, confessed what Stoddard had never expected to hear from her lips.
"You seemed tired, to me," she said half whispering, "and I took every burden from you that I could. If anything went wrong, no matter whether I was responsible for it or not, I felt responsible. I was in a torment all the time lest you should be troubled. I knew how you disliked ill-bred children, and I determined that Elizabeth should never annoy or mortify you. I repressed the child all the time, and when I saw her getting too exuberant, I managed to take her away out of your hearing. I tried to have her always tidy when you were about — and I — I meant you should never find me wanting in anything. I wanted to have the house perfect, and never to let down myself from — "
"And all the time," cried Stoddard, "I was wanting you, my dear, wanting you and my little girl! Not your clothes, not your manners, not your accomplishments, but you, you, you!"
"But we were here!" responded Anita, and Stoddard had never seen anything so near anger in her eyes. "We were here, and hurt, and lonely — O horrors, so lonely! You never looked our way, really. You never said what you thought. We met like creatures on a stage — like strangers on the road, I might almost say. Such chagrin, Ralph, as I have felt! A woman as proud as I am, to lose my husband's love! If you knew the way that cancer of an idea had eaten into me!"
Stoddard leaped to his feet and hurled his chair down the length of the veranda.
"Never mind how miserable we were!" he cried, with the impatience a man feels for pain. "A man may be a fool and outgrow it; don't you think so, my dear — my very dear dear?"
He stooped to kiss her, but a vision appeared at the door. Two children, freshly washed and quite seraphic, stood there side by side. Their eyes were shining, and they were both quiet from sheer content.
Anita Stoddard looked at the red-headed boy with an affectionate eye.
"I don't wonder you coveted him," she said. "He certainly does look about as invitingly human as anyone I have ever seen." She held out her hand to him, and the boy, grinning, and no longer abashed, came and stood by her, waiting, as children will, for a caress. She ran her white, jewelled hand in his astonishing crop of hair, and tilted back his head.
"What a boy!" she cried, a maternal hunger leaping into her eyes. "What a — an extremely boy boy!" She converted the word into an adjective. Then she leaned forward and kissed him — where the sun kissed him every day, where sleep and health and joy and youth kissed him — on the full curve of his lips.
"A procession advanced toward them. — Page 590."
[Description: Group of people.]"Let's be good friends, Ged," she said. Her eyes were soft with a gentle mist.
Stoddard stood watching her as one who awakes from a dream and beholds disaster melt before his saner vision.
"Come," he said, "we will go to dinner. The children shall eat with us, and afterward we'll walk home with Ged."
"Very well," said Anita, and Stoddard, as he lifted little Elizabeth in his arms, saw his wife take the boy's hand in hers and walk before him into the dining-room.
The broken tree was visible through the window, and the glass was in fragments, but these indications of danger past troubled no one.
"What a — an extremely boy boy!" — Page 592
[Description: Seated woman with boy, girl, and man.]
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