Chapter XXXIV

by Susan Glaspell

　　Once again Katie was donning the dress which had the colors of the sea.She was wearing it this time, not because she must get the poor old thingworn out, but because she had been asked to wear it. "By Request" she wassaying to herself, with a warm smile, as she shook out its folds.

　　As Nora was fastening it for her she saw her own face in the mirror andtried to twist it about in some way. It seemed she would have to makesome explanation to Nora for looking like that.

　　It had been a day of golden October sunshine without, and within Katie'sheart a day of such sunshine as all her years of sunshine had neverbrought. She had not felt like playing golf, or like reading aboutevolution; body and mind were filled with a gladness all their own andshe had taken a long walk in and out among the wooded paths of herbeautiful Island and had been filled with thoughts of many beautiful andwonderful things. Of the past she had thought, and of the future, andmost of all of the living present: the night before, and that evening,when he was coming to see her again and would have things to tell her.

　　He had wanted to tell them then—some of the things about himself whichhe said she must know and which he gave fair warning would hurt her,"Then not to-night," she had said.

　　And now the happiness was too great, filled her too completely andradiantly for her to fear the pain of which she had been warned. She wasfortified against all pain.

　　Wayne's finding Ann seemed to throw the gate to happiness wide open toher, giving her, not only happiness, but the right to it. She smiled inthinking how, again, it was Ann who opened a door.

　　If Ann had never come she would not—in this way which had made it allpossible—have known her man who mended the boats. The experience withAnn was as a bridge upon which they met. It was because of Ann they couldwalk so far along that bridge.

　　The adventure, and what had come to seem the tragedy of the adventure,was over. It turned her back to those first days of play—the pretendingwhich had led to realizing, the fancies which had been paths torealities.

　　They would not go on in just that way; some other way would shape itself;she and Wayne would talk of it, make some plan for Ann. She could plan itbetter after the letter she would have from Wayne the next day telling offinding Ann.

　　It was a new adventure now. The great adventure. But it was because shehad ventured at all that the great adventure was offered her.

　　Her venturing had led her to the crowds. She was not forgetting thecrowds. She would go back to them. It could not be otherwise. There wasmuch she wanted to do, and so much she wanted to know. But she would goback to them happy, and because happy, wiser and stronger.

　　In myriad ways life had beckoned to her, promised her, as with buoyantstep and singing heart she walked sunny paths that golden Octoberafternoon.

　　Later she had stopped to see Mrs. Prescott, and she, as she so often did,talked of Katie's mother. Katie was glad to be talking of her mother,and, as they also did, of her father. It brought them very near, so closeit was as if they could know of the beautiful happiness in their child'sheart. They talked of things which had happened when Katie was a littlegirl, making herself as the little girl so real, visualizing her wholelife, making real and dear those things in which her life had been lived.

　　As she thought of it again that night, after she was dressed and waswaiting, hurt did come in the thought of his feeling for the army. Shemust talk to him again about the army, make him see that thing in itwhich was dear to her.

　　Though could she? She did not seem able to tell even herself just whatthere was in her feeling for the army.

　　Instead of arguments, came pictures—pictures and sounds known frombabyhood: Men in uniform—her father in uniform, upon his horse—dressparade—the flag—the band—from reveille to taps things familiar anddear swept before her.

　　It would seem to be the picturesque in it which wove the spell; but wouldher throat have tightened, those tears be springing to her eyes at athing no deeper than the picturesque? No, in what seemed that fantasticsetting were things genuine and fine: simplicity, hospitality,friendship, comradeship, loyalty, courage in danger and good humor inpetty annoyances.

　　Those things—oh yes, together with things less admirable—she knewto be there.

　　She got out her pictures of her father and mother; her father inuniform—that gentle little smile on her mother's face. She thought ofwhat her mother had endured, of what hosts of army women had endured,going to outlandish spots of the earth, braving danger and doing withoutcooks! She was proud of them, proud to be of them.

　　She lingered over her father's picture. A soldier. Perhaps he was of avanishing order, but she hoped it would be long—very long—before thethings to be read in his face vanished from the earth.

　　Through memories of her father there many times sounded the notes of thebugle—now this call, now that, piercing, compelling, sounding as motifof his life, thing before which all other things must fall away. Sheseemed to hear now the notes of retreat—to see the motionlessregiment—then the evening gun and the band playing the Star SpangledBanner and the flag—never touching the ground—coming down for thenight. She answered it in the things it woke in her heart: those idealsof service, courage, fidelity which it had left her.

　　She would talk to him—to Alan (absurd she should think it sotimidly—so close in the big things—so strange in some of the littleones)—about her father and mother. To make them real to him would makehim see the army differently. It hurt her to think of his seeing it as hedid, hurt her because she knew how it would have hurt them. To them, ithad been the whole of their lives. They had not questioned; they hadserved. They had given it all they had.

　　And that other thing there was to tell her—? Was that, too, somethingthat would have hurt them? She hoped not. It seemed she could bear theactual hurt to herself better than thought of the hurt it would havebeen to them.

　　But when the bell rang and she heard his voice asking for her a tumult ofhappiness crowded all else out.

　　She was shyly radiant as she came to him. As he looked at her, it seemedto pass belief.

　　But when he dared, and was newly convinced, as, his arms about her helooked down into her kindling face, his own grew purposeful as well ashappy, more resolute than radiant. "We will make a life together," hesaid, as if answering something that had been in his thoughts. "We willbeat it all down."

　　An hour went by and he had not told the story of his life, life itselftoo mysterious, too luring, too beautiful. Whenever they came near toit they seemed to hold back, as if they would remain as they werethen. Instead, they told each other little things about themselves,absurd little things, drawing near to each other by all those tenderlittle paths of suddenly remembered things. And they lingered so, asif loving it so.

　　It was when Katie spoke of her brother that he was swept again into thelarger seriousness. Looking into her tender face, his own grew grave."You know, Katie—what I told you—what I must tell you—"

　　"Oh yes," said Katie, "there was something, wasn't there?" But she putout her hand as if to show there was nothing that could matter. He tookthe hand and held it; but he did not grow less grave.

　　"Katie," he asked, "how much do you really care for the army?"

　　It startled her, stirring a vague fear in her happy heart.

　　"Why—I don't know; more than I realize, I presume." She was silent, thenasked: "Why?"

　　He did not reply; his face had become sober.

　　"You are thinking," she ventured, "that your feeling for it is going tobe—hard for me?"

　　He nodded; he was still holding her hand tightly, as if to make sure ofkeeping it.

　　"You see, Katie," he went on, with difficulty, "I have reason forthat feeling."

　　"What do you mean?" she asked sharply.

　　"I have tried not to show you that I knew anything—in a personalway—about the army."

　　Her breath was coming quickly; her face was strained. But after a momentshe exclaimed: "Why—to be sure—you were in the Spanish War!"

　　"No," said he with a hard laugh, "I am nothing so glorious as aveteran."

　　He felt the hand in his grow cold. She drew it away and rose; turned awayand was picking the leaves from a plant.

　　But she found another thing to reach out to. "Well I suppose"—this sheventured tremulously, imploringly—"you went to West Point—and were—didn't finish?"

　　"No, Katie," he said, "I never went to West Point."

　　"Well then what did you do?" she demanded sharply.

　　He laughed harshly. "Oh I was just one of those fools roped in by arecruiting officer in a gallant-looking white suit!"

　　"You were—?" she faltered.

　　"In the ranks. One of the men." The fact that she should be looking likethat drove him to add bitterly: "Like Watts, you know."

　　She stood there in silence, held. The radiance had all fallen from her.She was looking at him with something of the woe and reproach of a childfor a cherished thing hurt.

　　"Why, Katie," he cried, "does it matter so? I thought it was only whenwe were in that we were so—impossible."

　　But she did not take the hands he stretched out. She was held.

　　It drove him desperate. "Well if that's so—if to have been in the armyat all is a thing to make you look like that—Heaven knows," he threwin, "I don't blame you for despising us for fools!—But I don't know whatyou'll say when I tell you—"

　　"When you tell me—what?" she whispered.

　　"That I have no honorable discharge to lay at your feet. That I left yourprecious army through the noble gates of a military prison!"

　　She took a step backward, swaying. The anguish which mingled withthe horror in her face made him cry: "Katie, let me tell you! Let meshow you—"

　　But Katie, white-faced, was standing erect, braced for facing it. "Whatfor? What did you do?"

　　Her voice was quick, sharp; tenseness made her seem arrogant. It rousedsomething ugly in him. "I knocked down a cur of a lieutenant," he said,and laughed defiantly.

　　"You struck—an officer?"

　　"I knocked down a man who ought to have been knocked down!"

　　"Struck—your superior officer?"

　　"Katie," he cried, "that's your way of looking at it! But let me tellyou—let me show you—"

　　But she had turned from him, covered her face; and before Katie thereswept again those pictures, sounds: her father's voice ringing out overparade ground—silent, motionless regiment; the notes of retreat—thosebugle notes, piercing, compelling, thing before which all other thingsmust fall away—evening gun and lowered flag—

　　She lifted colorless face, shaking her head.

　　"Katie!" he cried. "Our life—our love—our life—"

　　She raised her hand for silence, still shaking her head.

　　"Won't you—fight for it?" he whispered. "Try?"

　　She kept shaking her head. "Anything else," she managed to articulate.

　　"Anything else. Not this. You don't understand. Can't. Never would."

　　Suddenly she cried: "Oh—go away!"

　　For a moment he stood there. But her face was locked against appeal.

　　Colorless, unsteady, he turned and left her.

　　Katie put out her hand. Her father—her father in uniform, it had been soreal, it seemed he must be there. But he was not there. Nothing wasthere. Nothing at all. As the front door closed she started forward, butthere sounded for her again the notes of the bugle—piercing, compelling,thing before which all other things must fall away. "Taps," this time, asblown over her father's grave, soldiers' heads bowed and tears fallingfor a fine soldier who would respond to bugle calls no more.