Chapter I

by Susan Glaspell

　　Miss Katherine Wayneworth Jones was bunkered. Having been bunkered manytimes in the past, and knowing that she would be bunkered upon manyoccasions in the future, Miss Jones was not disposed to take a tragicview of the situation. The little white ball was all too secure downthere in the sand; as she had played her first nine, and at least paidher respects to the game, she could now scale the hazard and curl herselfinto a comfortable position. It was a seductively lazy spring day, thevery day for making arm-chairs of one's hazards. And let it be set downin the beginning that Miss Jones was more given to a comfortable placethan to a tragic view.

　　Katherine Wayneworth Jones, affectionately known to many friends in manylands as Katie Jones, was an "army girl." And that not only for theobvious reasons: not because her people had been of the army, even untothe second and third generations, not because she had known the joys andjealousies of many posts, not even because bachelor officers werecommitted to the habit of proposing to her—those were but the trappings.She was an army girl because "Well, when you know her, you don't have tobe told, and if you don't know her you can't be," a floundering friendhad once concluded her exposition of why Katie was so "army." For her tomarry outside the army would be regarded as little short of treason.

　　To-day she was giving a little undisturbing consideration to that thingof her marrying. For it was her twenty-fifth birthday, and twenty-fifthbirthdays are prone to knock at the door of matrimonial possibilities.Just then the knock seemed answered by Captain Prescott. UnblushinglyMiss Jones considered that doubtless before the summer was over she wouldbe engaged to him. And quite likely she would follow up the engagementwith a wedding. It seemed time for her to be following up some of herengagements.

　　She did not believe that she would at all mind marrying Harry Prescott.All his people liked all hers, which would facilitate things at thewedding; she would not be rudely plunged into a new set of friends, whichwould be trying at her time of life. Everything about him was quite allright: he played a good game of golf, not a maddening one of bridge,danced and rode in a sort of joy of living fashion. And she liked the wayhe showed his teeth when he laughed. She always thought when he laughedmost unreservedly that he was going to show more of them; but he neverdid; it interested her.

　　And it interested her the way people said: "Prescott? Oh yes—he was inCuba, wasn't he?" and then smiled a little, perhaps shrugged a trifle,and added:

　　"Great fellow—Prescott. Never made a mess of things, anyhow."

　　To have vague association with the mysterious things of life, and yet notto have "made a mess of things"—what more could one ask?

　　Of course, pounding irritably with her club, the only reason for notmarrying him was that there were too many reasons for doing so. She couldnot think of a single person who would furnish the stimulus of anobjection. Stupid to have every one so pleased! But there must always besomething wrong, so let that be appeased in having everything just right.And then there was Cuba for one's adventurous sense.

　　She looked about her with satisfaction. It frequently happened that theplace where one was inspired keen sense of the attractions of some otherplace. But this time there was no place she would rather be than justwhere she found herself. For she was a little tired, after a long roundof visits at gay places, and this quiet, beautiful island out in theMississippi—large, apart, serene—seemed a great lap into which to sink.She liked the quarters: big old-fashioned houses in front of which thelong stretch of green sloped down to the river. There was somethingpeculiarly restful in the spaciousness and stability, a place which thedisagreeable or distressing things of life could not invade. Most of thewomen were away, which was the real godsend, for the dreariness anddesolation of pleasure would be eliminated. A quiet post was charminguntil it tried to be gay—so mused Miss Katherine Wayneworth Jones.

　　And of various other things, mused she. Her brother, Captain WayneworthJones, was divorced from his wife and wedded to something he was hopingwould in turn be wedded to a rifle; all the scientific cells of thefamily having been used for Wayne's brain, it was hard for Katie to getthe nature of the attachment, but she trusted the ordnance departmentwould in time solemnly legalize the affair—Wayne giving inmarriage—destruction profiting happily by the union. Meanwhile Wayne wasso consecrated to the work of making warfare more deadly that he scarcelyknew his sister had arrived. But on the morrow, or at least the dayafter, would come young Wayneworth, called Worth, save when his Aunt Katecalled him Wayne the Worthy. Wayne the Worthy was also engaged inperfecting a death-dealing instrument, the same being the interrogationpoint. Doubtless he would open fire on Aunt Kate with—Why didn't hismother and father live in the same place any more, and—Why did he haveto live half the time with mama if he'd rather stay all the time withfather? Poor Worth, he had only spent six years in a world of law andorder, and had yet to learn about courts and incompatibilities andannoying things like that. It did not seem fair that the hardest part ofthe whole thing should fall to poor little Wayne the Worthy. He couldn'thelp it, certainly.

　　But how Worthie would love those collie pups! They would evolve all sortsof games to play with them. Picturing herself romping with the boy anddogs, prowling about on the river in Wayne's new launch, lounging underthose great oak trees reading good lazying books, doing everythingbecause she wanted to and nothing because she had to, flirting justenough with Captain Prescott to keep a sense of the reality of life, shelay there gloating over the happy prospect.

　　And then in that most irresponsible and unsuspecting of momentssomething whizzed into her consciousness like a bullet—somethingshot by her vision pierced the lazy, hazy, carelessly woven web ofimagery—bullet-swift, bullet-true, bullet-terrible—striking the centerclean and strong. The suddenness and completeness with which she sat upalmost sent her from her place. For from the very instant that her eyerested upon the figure of the girl in pink organdie dress and big hat sheknew something was wrong.

　　And when, within a few feet of the river the girl stopped running, shrankback, covered her face with her hands, then staggered on, she knew thatthat girl was going to the river to kill herself.

　　There was one frozen instant of powerlessness. Then—what to do? Call toher? She would only hurry on. Run after her? She could not get there. Itwas intuition—instinct—took the short cut a benumbed reason could notmake; rolling headlong down the bunker, twisting her neck and mercilesslybumping her elbow, Katherine Wayneworth Jones emitted a shriek to raisethe very dead themselves. And then three times a quick, wild"Help—Help—Help!" and a less audible prayer that no one else was near.

　　It reached; the girl stopped, turned, saw the rumpled, lifeless-lookingheap of blue linen, turned back toward the river, then once more to themotionless Miss Jones, lying face downward in the sand. And then the girlwho thought life not worth living, delaying her own preference, withrather reluctant feet—feet clad in pink satin slippers—turned back tothe girl who wanted to live badly enough to call for help.

　　Through one-half of one eye Katie could see her; she was thinking thatthere was something fine about a girl who wanted to kill herself puttingit off long enough to turn back and help some one who wanted to live.

　　Miss Jones raised her head just a trifle, showed her face long enough toroll her eyes in a grewsome way she had learned at school, and with a"Help me!" buried her face in the sand and lay there quivering.

　　The girl knelt down. "You sick?" she asked, and Katie had the fancy ofher voice sounding as though she had not expected to use it any more.

　　"So ill!" panted Kate, rolling over on her back and holding her heart.

　　"Here! My heart!"

　　The girl looked around uncertainly. It must be a jar, Katie conceded,being called back to life, expected to fight for the very thing one wasrunning away from. Her rescuer was evidently considering going to theriver for water—saving water (Katie missed none of those finepoints)—but instead she pulled the patient to a sitting position,supporting her.

　　"You can breathe better this way, can't you?" she asked solicitously.

　　"Have you had them before? Will it go away? Shall I call some one?"

　　Katie rolled her head about as she had seen people do who were dying onthe stage. "Often—before. Go away—soon. But don't leave me!" sheimplored, clutching at the girl wildly.

　　"I will not leave you," the stranger assured her. "I have plenty oftime."

　　Miss Jones made what the doctors would call a splendid recovery. Herbreath began coming more naturally; her spine seemed to regain control ofher head; her eyes rolled less wildly. "It's going," she panted; "butyou'll have to help me to the house."

　　"Why of course," replied the girl who was being delayed. "Do you think

　　I'd leave a sick girl sitting out here all alone?"

　　Kate felt like apologizing. It seemed rather small—that interrupting adeath to save a life.

　　"Where do you live?" her companion was asking. She pointed to thequarters. "In one of those?"

　　"The second one," Katie told her. "And thank Heaven," she told herself,"the first one is closed!"

　　"Lean on me," directed the girl in pink, with a touch of the gentleauthority of strong to weak. "Don't be afraid to lean on me."

　　Kate felt the quick warm tears against her eyelids. "You're very kind,"she said, and the quiver in her voice was real.

　　They walked slowly on, silently. Katie was trembling now, and inearnest. "My name is Katherine Jones," she said at last, looking timidlyat the girl who was helping her.

　　It wrought a change. The girl's mouth closed in a hard line. A hard,defending glitter seemed to seal her eyes. She did not respond.

　　"May I ask to whom I am indebted for this kindness?" It was asked withgentleness.

　　But for the moment it brought no response. "My name is Verna Woods," cameat last with an unsteady defiance.

　　They had reached the steps of the big, hospitable porch. With deep reliefKatie saw that there was no one about. Nora had gone out with one of heradorers from the barracks.

　　They turned, and were looking back to the river. It was May at May'sloveliest: the grass and trees so tender a green, the river so gentlybuoyant, and a softly sympathetic sky over all. A soldier had appearedand was picking twigs from the putting green in front of them; anothersoldier was coming down the road with some eggs which he was evidentlytaking to Captain Prescott's quarters. He was whistling. Everythingseemed to be going very smoothly. And a launch was coming down the river;a girl's laugh came musically across the water and the green; it inspiredthe joyful throat of a nearby robin. And into this had been shot—!

　　Katie turned to the intruder. "It's lovely, isn't it?" she asked in aqueer, hushed way.

　　The girl looked at her, and at the fierce rush of things Kate took afrightened step backward. But quickly the other had turned away her face.Only her clenched hand and slightly moving shoulder told anything.

　　There was another call to make, and instinct alone could not reach thistime. For the moment thought of it left her mute.

　　"You have been so kind to me," she began, her timidity serving well ashelplessness, "so very kind. I wonder if I may ask one thing more? Am—amI keeping you from anything you should be doing?"

　　There was no response at first, just a little convulsive clenching of thehand, an accentuated movement of the shoulder. Then, "I have timeenough," was the low, curt answer, face still averted.

　　"I am alone here, as you see. I am just a little afraid of a—a returnattack. I wonder—would you be willing to come up to my room withme—help make a cup of tea for us and—stay with me a little while?"

　　Again for the minute, no reply. Then the girl turned hotly upon her,suspicion, resentment—was it hatred, too?—in her eyes. But what she sawwas as a child's face—wide eyes, beseeching mouth. Women who wondered"what in the world men saw in Katie Jones" might have wondered less hadthey seen her then.

　　The girl did not seem to know what to say. Suddenly she was tremblingfrom head to foot.

　　Kate laid a hand upon the quivering arm. "I've frightened you," she saidregretfully and tenderly. "You need the tea, too. You'll come?"

　　The girl's eyes roved all around like the furtive eyes of a frightenedanimal. But they came back to Katie's steadying gaze. "Why yes—I'llcome—if you want me to," she said in voice she was clearly makingsupreme effort to steady.

　　"I do indeed," said Kate simply and led the way into the house.