Chapter XXXIII

by Susan Glaspell

　　Children seemed to spring up from the sidewalk and descend from the roofsas his cab, after a long trip through crowded streets with which threemonths before he would have been totally unfamiliar, stopped at thenumber Ann had given. All the way over he had been seeing children: dirtychildren, pale-faced children, children munching at things and childrenlooking as though they had never had anything to munch at—childrenplaying and children crying—it seemed the children's part of town. Themen and women of tomorrow were growing up in a part of the city tooloathsome for the civilized man and woman of today to set foot in. He wastoo filled with thought of Ann—the horror of its being where shelived—to let the bigger thought of it brush him more than fleetingly,but it did occur to him that there was still a frontier—and that the menwho could bring about smokeless cities—and odorless ones—would begreater public servants than the men who had achieved smokeless powder.Riding through that part of town it would scarcely suggest itself to anyone that what the country needed was more battleships.

　　The children still waited as he rang an inhospitable doorbell, asinterested in life as if life had been treating them well.

　　He had to ring again before a woman came to the door with a cup in herhand which she was wiping on a greasy towel.

　　She looked very much as the bell had sounded.

　　She let him in to a place which it seemed might not be a bad field forsome of the army's boasted experts on sanitation. It was a place to makeone define civilization as a thing that reduces smell.

　　Several heads were stuck out of opening doors and with each openingdoor a wave stole out from an unlovely life. Captain Wayneworth Jones,U. S. Army, dressed for dining at a place where lives are betterprotected against lives, was a strange center for those waves fromlives of struggle.

　　"She the girl that's sick?" the woman demanded in response to his inquiryfor Miss Forrest.

　　He replied that he feared she was ill and was told to go to the thirdfloor and turn to the right. It was the second door.

　　He hesitated, coloring.

　　"Would you be so kind as to tell her I am here? I think perhaps she mayprefer to see me—down here."

　　The woman stared, then laughed. She looked like an evil woman as shelaughed, but perhaps a laughing saint would look evil with two frontteeth gone.

　　"Well we ain't got no parlor for the young ladies to see theiryoung men in," she said mockingly. "And if you climbed as many stairsas I did—"

　　"I beg your pardon," said he, and started up the stairway.

　　On the second floor were more waves from lives of struggle. The matterwould be solemnly taken up in Congress if it were soldiers who werehoused in the ill-smelling place. Evidently Congress did not take womenand children and disabled civilians under the protecting wing of itsindignation.

　　Wet clothes were hanging down from the third floor. They fanned back andforth the fumes of cabbage and grease. He grew sick, not at the thingitself, but at thought of its being where he was to find Ann.

　　Though the fact that he was to find her made all the rest of it—the factthat people lived that way—even the fact of her living that way—thingsthat mattered but dimly.

　　As he looked at the woman in greasy wrapper who was shaking out the wetclothes he had a sudden mocking picture of Ann as she had been that nightat the dance.

　　The woman's manner in staring at him as he knocked at Ann's doorinfuriated him.

　　But when the door was opened—by Ann—he instantly forgot all outside.

　　He closed the door and stood leaning against it, looking at her. For themoment that was all that mattered. And in that moment he knew how much itmattered—had mattered all along. Even how Ann looked was for the momentof small consequence in comparison with the fact that Ann was there.

　　But he saw that she was indeed ill—worn—feverish.

　　"You are not well," were his first words, gently spoken.

　　She shook her head, her eyes brimming over.

　　He looked about the room. It was evident she had been lying on the bed.

　　"I want you to lie down," he said, his voice gentle as a woman's to achild. "You know you don't mind me. I come as one of the family."

　　He helped her back to the bed; smoothed her pillow; covered her with themiserable spread.

　　Ann hid her face in the pillow, sobbing.

　　He pulled up the one chair the room afforded, laid his hand upon herhair, and waited. His face was white, his lips trembling.

　　"It's all over now," he murmured at last. "It's all over now."

　　She shook her head and sobbed afresh.

　　His heart grew cold. What did she mean? A fear more awful than any whichhad ever presented itself shot through him. But she raised her head andas she looked at him he knew that whatever she meant it was not that.

　　"What is it about Katie?" she whispered.

　　"Why, Ann, can't you guess what it is about Katie? Didn't you know what

　　Katie must suffer in your leaving like that?"

　　"I left so she wouldn't have to suffer."

　　"Well you were all wrong, Ann. You have caused us—" But as, looking intoher face, he saw what she had suffered, he was silenced.

　　She was feverish; her eyes were large and deep and perilously bright,her temples and cheeks cruelly thin. But what hurt him most were not themarks of illness and weakness. It was the harassed look. Fear.

　　Fear—that thing so invaluable in building character.

　　Thought of the needlessness of it wrung from him: "Ann—how could you!"

　　"Why I thought I was doing right," she murmured. "I thought I wasbeing kind."

　　He smiled faintly, sadly, at the irony and the bitter pity of that.

　　"But how could you think that?" he pressed. "Not that it matters now—but

　　I don't see how you could."

　　She looked at him strangely. "Do you—know?"

　　He nodded.

　　"Then don't you see? I left to make it easy for Katie."

　　He thought of Katie's summer. "Well your success in that direction wasnot brilliant," he said with his old dryness.

　　Her eyes looked so hurt that he stroked her hand reassuringly, as hewould have stroked Worth's had he hurt him. And as he touched her—itwas a hot hand he touched—it struck him as absurd to be quibblingabout why she had gone. She was there. He had found her. That was allthat mattered.

　　He became more and more conscious of how much it mattered. He wanted todraw her to him and tell her how much it mattered. But he didnot—dared not.

　　"And how did you happen to be so unkind as to call me up, Ann?" he askedwith a faint smile.

　　"I wanted—I wanted to hear about Katie. And I wanted"—her eyes hadfilled, her chin was trembling—"I was lonesome. I wanted to hearyour voice."

　　His heart leaped. For the moment he was not able to keep the tendernessfrom his look.

　　"And I knew you were there because I saw it in the paper. A woman broughtback some false hair to be exchanged—I sell false hair," said Ann, witha wan little smile and unconsciously touching her own hair—"and what shewanted exchanged—though we don't exchange it—was wrapped up in anewspaper, and as I looked down at it I happened to see your name. Wasn'tthat funny?"

　　"Very humorous," he replied, almost curtly.

　　"I had been sick all day—oh, for lots of days. But I was trying to keepon. I had lost two other places by staying away for being sick—and Ididn't dare—just didn't dare—lose this one. You don't know howafraid you get—how frightened you are—when you're afraid you'regoing to be sick."

　　The fear—sick fear that fear of sickness can bring—that was in her eyesas she talked of it suddenly infuriated him. He did not know what or whomhe I was furious at—but it was on Ann it broke.

　　He rose, overturning his unsteady chair as he did so, and, seekingcommand, looked from the window which looked down into a squalid court.The wretchedness of the court whipped his rage. "Well for God's sake," heburst forth, "what did you do it for! Of all the unheardof—outrageous—unpardonable—What did you mean"—turning savagelyupon her—"by selling false hair?"

　　"Why I sold false hair," said Ann, a little sullenly, "so I could live."

　　"Well, didn't you know," he demanded passionately, "that you could livewith us?"

　　She shook her head. "I didn't think I had any right to—after—whathappened."

　　He came back to her. "Ann," he asked gently, "haven't you a 'rightto'—if we want you to?"

　　She looked at him again in that strange way. "Are you sure—you know?"

　　"Very sure," he answered briefly.

　　"And do you mean to say you would want me—anyhow?" she whispered.

　　He turned away that she might not see how badly and in what sense hewanted her. His whole sense of fitness—his training—was against herseeing it then.

　　The pause, the way she was looking at him when he turned back to her,made restraint more and more difficult. But suddenly she changed, herface darkening as she said, smolderingly: "No—I'm not that weak. If Ican't live—I'll die. Other people make a living! Other girls getalong! Katie would. Katie could do it."

　　She sat up; he could see the blood throbbing in her neck and at hertemples. She was gripping her hands. She looked so frail—so helpless.

　　"But Katie is strong, Ann," he said soothingly.

　　"Yes—in every way. And I'm not." She turned away, her facetwitching. "Why I seem to be just the kind of a person that has to betaken care of!"

　　He did not deny it, filled with the longing to do it.

　　"It's—it's humiliating."

　　He would at one time have supposed that it would be, should be; wouldhave held to the idea that every man and woman ought be able to make aliving, that there was something wrong with them if they couldn't. Butnot after the things he had seen that summer. The something wrong wassomewhere else.

　　"And yet you don't know," Ann was saying brokenly, "how hard it is. Youdon't know—how many things there are."

　　She turned to him impetuously. "I want to tell you! Then maybe it willgo. I couldn't tell Katie. But I don't know—I don't know why—but Icould tell you anything."

　　He nodded, not clear-eyed, and took one of her hands and stroked it.

　　Her cheeks grew more red; her eyes glitteringly bright. "You see—it'smen—things like—that's what makes it hard for girls."

　　He pressed her hand more firmly, though his own was shaking.

　　"Katie told you—Katie must have told you about—the first of it—" Shefaltered. He drew in his breath sharply and held it for an instant. "Andafter that—" She turned upon him passionately. "Do they know? Doesit make a difference?"

　　He did not get her meaning for an instant and when he did it brought thecolor to his face; he had always been a man of great reserve. But Annseemed unconscious. This was the reality that realities make.

　　He shook his head. "No. You only imagine."

　　"No, I don't imagine. They pretend. Pretend they know."

　　He gritted his teeth. So those were the things she had had to meet!

　　"They lie," he said briefly. "Bluff." And for an instant he covered hiseyes with her hand.

　　"You see after—after that," she went on, "I couldn't go back to thetelephone office. I don't know that I can explain why—but it seemed theone thing I couldn't do, so—oh I did several things—was in a store—andthen a girl got me on the stage—in the chorus of 'Daisey-Maisey.' Ithought perhaps I could be an actress, and that being in the chorus wouldgive me a chance."

　　She laughed bitterly. "There are lots of silly people in the world,aren't there?" was her one comment on her mistake.

　　"That night—the last night—" she told it in convulsive littlejerks—"the manager said something to me. He pretended. And when he sawhow frightened I was—and how I loathed him—it made him furious—and hesaid things—vowed things—and he kissed me—and oh he was soterrible—his face—his lips—"

　　She hid her face, rocking back and forth. He sat on the bed beside her,put his arm around her as he would around Katie or Worth, holding hertenderly, protectingly, soothingly, his own face white, biting his lips.

　　"He vowed things—he claimed—I knew I couldn't stay with the company. Iwas even afraid to stay until it was over that night. I had a chance torun away—Oh I was so frightened." She kept repeating—"I was sofrightened.

　　"I can't explain it—you'd have to see him—his lips—his thick, looseawful lips!"

　　"Ann," he whispered. "Please, dear—don't talk about it—don't thinkabout it!"

　　"But I want it to go away! I don't want to be alone with it. I wantsomebody to know. I want you to know."

　　"All right," he murmured. "All right. I want to hear." His whole body wasset for pain he knew must come.

　　Ann's eyes were full of terror, that terror that lives after terror,the anguish of terror remembered. "It's awful to be alone with awfulthoughts," she whispered. "To be shut in with something you'reafraid of."

　　"I know—I know," he soothed her. "But you're going to tell me. Tellme. And then you'll never be alone with it again."

　　"I've been afraid so much," she went on sobbingly. "Alone so much—withthings that frightened me. That night I was alone. All alone. And afraid.You see I went and went and went. Just to be getting away. And at lastI was out in the country. And then I was afraid of that. I went insomething that seemed to be a barn. Hid in some hay—"

　　He gripped her arm as if it were more than he could stand. His face wascolorless.

　　"I almost went crazy. Why I think I did go crazy—with fear. Beingalone. Being afraid."

　　He looked away from her. It seemed unfair to her to let himself see herlike that—her face distorted—unlovely—in the memory of it.

　　"When it came daylight I went to sleep. And when I woke up—when I wokeup—" She was laughing and sobbing together and it was some time beforehe could quiet her. "When I woke up another man was bending over me—anold man—so old—so—

　　"Oh, I suppose it was just that he was surprised at finding me there. But

　　I thought—I hadn't got over the night before—

　　"So again I went. Just went. Just to get away. And that was when I saw itwas life I'd have to get away from. That there wasn't any place in it forme. That it meant being alone. Afraid. That it was just that—thosethick awful lips—that old man's eyes—Oh no—no—not that!"

　　She was fighting it with her hands—trying to push it away. It took bothtenderness and sternness to quiet her.

　　"So I hurried on,"—she told it in hurried, desperate way, as if fearfulshe would not get it all told and would be left alone with it. "To finda way. A place. I just wanted to find the way—the place—beforeanything else could happen. I thought all the people who looked at meknew. I thought there was nothing else for me—I thought there wassomething wrong with me—and when I remembered what I had wanted—Ihated—hated them.

　　"I saw water—a bridge. On the bridge I looked down. I was going to—butI couldn't, because a man was looking up at me. I hated him, too." Shepaused. "Though I've thought of it since. It was a queer look. I believethat man knew. And wanted to help me.

　　"But I didn't want to be helped. Nothing could help. I just wanted to getaway—have it over. So I hurried on—across your Island—though I didn'tknow—just looking for a place—a way. Just to have it all over."

　　She changed on that, relaxed. Her eyes closed. "To have it all over," sherepeated in a whisper. She opened her eyes and looked up at him. "Doesn'tthat ever seem to you a beautiful thing?"

　　His eyes were wet. "Not any more," he whispered. "Not now."

　　"Then again I saw water—the other side of the Island." She went back toit with an effort, exhausted. "I ran. I wanted to get there. Have it allover—before anything else could happen. I couldn't look—but I keptsaying to myself it would only be a minute—only a minute—then it wouldbe all over—not so bad as having things happen—being alone—afraid—"

　　She shuddered—drew back—living it—realizing it. Hervisioning—realizing—had gone on beyond her words, beyond the events.She was shuddering as if the water were actually closing over her. Butagain she was called back by Katie's voice and that look he felt heshould not be seeing went as a faint smile formed on her lips. "ThenKatie. Katie calling to me. Dear Katie—pretending.

　　"I didn't want to go. I thought it was just something else. And oh how I

　　wanted to get it all over!" She sobbed. "But I saw it was a girl. Sick. I

　　wasn't able to help going—and then—Well, you know. Katie. How she

　　fooled me. And saved me."

　　She looked up at him, again the suggestion of a smile on hercolorless lips. "Was there ever anybody in the world so wonderful—sofunny—as Katie?

　　"But at first I couldn't believe in her. I thought it must be justsomething else." She stopped, looking at him. "Why I think it wasn't tillafter I met you I felt sure it couldn't be—"

　　His arm about her tightened. He drew her closer to him. He was shaken bya deep sob.

　　And so she rested, lax, murmuring about things that had happened,sometimes smiling faintly as she recalled them. The terror had gone, asif, as she had known, telling it to him had freed her. That twisted,unlovely look which he had tried not to see, loving her too well to wishto see it, had gone. She was worn, but lovely. She was resting. At peace.

　　And so many minutes passed when she would not speak—resting, rescued.And then she would whisper of little things that had happened and smile alittle and seem to drift the farther into the harbor of security intowhich she had come.

　　He saw that—exhausted, protected, comforted—she was going to fallasleep. His heart was all tenderness for her as he held her, adoring her,sorrowing over her, guarding her. "I haven't really slept all summer,"she murmured at last, and after a few minutes her breathing told thatsleep had come.

　　But when, in trying to unfasten her collar—he longed to be doing somelittle thing for her comfort—he took his hand from hers, she started upin alarm and he had to put it back, reassuring her, telling her that shewas not alone, that nothing could ever harm her again.

　　An hour passed. And in that hour things which he would have believedfixed loosened and fell. It was all shaken—the whole of his thinking. Itcould never be the same again. Old things must go. New things come.

　　Watching Ann, yearning over her, sorrowing, adoring, he saw life as whatlife had done to her. Saw it as the thing she had found.

　　He watched the curve of her mouth. Her beautiful bosom rising and fallingas she slept. The lovely line of her throat, the blood throbbing in herthroat, her long lashes upon her cheek, that loveliness—beauty—thatsweetness and tenderness—and what it had met. She, so exquisitelyfashioned for love—needful of it—so perfect—so infinitely to bedesired and cherished—and what she had found. He writhed under apicture of that old man bending over her—of that other man—bully,brute—thick awful lips snatching at her as a dog at meat. And then stillanother man. That first man. Darrett. His friend. His sort. The manwho could so skillfully use the lure of love to rob life—

　　As he thought of him—his charm, cleverness—how that, too, had beenpitted against her—starved, then offered what she would have no way ofjudging—close to her loveliness, conscious of her warmth, her breath,the superb curves of her lovely body—thinking of what Darrett hadfound—taken—what he had left her to—there were several minutes whenhis brain was unpiloted, a creaking ship churning a screaming sea.

　　And now? Had it killed it in her? Taken it? If he were to kiss her in theway he hungered to kiss her would it wake nothing more than that sickterror in her wonderful eyes? That thought became as a band of hot steelround his throat. Was it gone? How could she be sleeping that way withher hand in his—his face so close to her—if there remained any of thatlife-longing that had been there for Darrett to find?

　　Life grew too cold, too gray and misshapen in that thought to see it aslife. It could not be. It was only that she was exhausted. And hertrust in him.

　　At least there was that. Then he would make her care for him by caringfor her—caring for her protectingly, tenderly, surrounding her with thatsea of tenderness that was in his heart for her. Life would come back. Hewould woo it back. And no matter how the flame in his own heart mightrage he would wait upon the day when he could bring the love light toher eyes without even the shadow of remembering of fear.

　　So he yearned over her—sorrowing, hoping. And life was to him twothings. What life had done to Ann. What life would be with Ann. He wantedto let himself touch his lips lightly to her temple—so close to him. Buthe would not—fearing to wake the fear in her, vowing to wait till lovecould come through a trust that must cast fear forever from the heart.

　　Passion melted to tenderness; the tenderness flooding him in thought ofthe love he would give her.

　　That same night he had her taken to a hospital. It was the only way hecould think of for caring for her, and she was far enough from well topermit it. He left her there, again asleep, and cared for. Then returnedto his hotel and telephoned Katie. It was past daylight before sleepcame to him.