Chapter IV

by Susan Glaspell

　　She stepped out on the porch for a moment as Captain Prescott was sayinggood-night. The moonlight was falling weirdly through the big trees,stretching itself over the grass in shapes that seemed to spell unearthlythings. And there were mystical lights on the water down there, flittingabout with the movement of the stream as ghosts might flit. Because itlooked so other-world-like she wondered if it knew what it had justmissed. She had never thought anything about water save as something tolook beautiful and have a good time on. It seemed now that perhaps itknew a great deal about things of which she knew nothing at all.

　　"Oh, I say, jolly night, isn't it?" he exclaimed as they stood at thehead of the steps.

　　"Yes," said Kate grimly, "pleasant weather, isn't it?" and laughed oddly.

　　"It's great about your friend coming; Miss—?"

　　"Forrest." She spoke it decisively.

　　"She arrived this afternoon?"

　　"Yes, unexpectedly. I was never more surprised in my life than when Ilooked up and saw Ann standing there." Katie was not too impressed toresist toying a little with the situation.

　　"Oh, is that so? I thought—" But he was too well-bred to press it.

　　"Of course," she hastened to patch together her thread, "of course, as Itold Wayne, I knew that Ann was coming. But I didn't really expect heruntil day after to-morrow. You see, there have been complications."

　　"Oh, I see. Well, at any rate it's great that she's here. She will bewith you for the summer?"

　　"Ann's plans are a little uncertain," Kate informed him.

　　"I hope she'll not find it dull. Does she care for golf?"

　　"U—m, I—Ann has never played much, I believe. You see she has lived somuch in Europe—on the Continent—places where they don't play golf! Andthen Ann is not very strong."

　　"Then this is just the place for her. Great place for loafing, you know.

　　I hope she is fond of the water?"

　　Kate was leaning against one of the pillars, still looking down towardthe river. It might have been the moonlight made her look so strange asshe said, with a smile of the same quality as those shadows on the grass:"Why yes; in fact, Ann's fondness for the water was the first thing Iever noticed about her. I think I might even say it was the water drew ustogether."

　　"Oh, well then, that is great. We can take the boat and do all sorts ofjolly things. Now I wonder—about a horse for her. She rides?"

　　"Perhaps you had better make no plans for Ann," she suddenly advised. "Itreally would not surprise me at all if she went away to-morrow. There isa great deal of uncertainty about the whole thing. In fact, Ann has had agreat deal of trouble."

　　"I'm sorry," he said with a simplicity she liked in him.

　　"Yes, a great deal of trouble. Last year both her father and mother died,which was a great blow to her."

　　"Well, rather!"

　　"And now there are all sorts of business things to straighten out. It'sreally very hard for Ann."

　　"Perhaps we can help her," he suggested.

　　"Perhaps we can," agreed Kate. Her eyes left him to wander across theshadows down to the river again. But she came back to him to say, andthis with the oddest smile of all, "Wouldn't it be a queer sensation forus? That thing of really 'helping' some one?"

　　She could not go to sleep that night. For a long time she sat in her roomin the same big chair in which Ann had sat that afternoon. Poor Ann, whohad sat there before she knew she was Ann, who was sleeping now withoutknowing she was Ann. For Ann was indeed sleeping. From her door as Katecarefully opened it had come the deep breathing as of an exhausted child.

　　Who was Ann? Where had she come from? How did she get there? What hadhappened? Why had she wanted to kill herself?

　　She wanted to know. In truth, she was madly curious to know. Andprobably she never would know.

　　And what would happen now? It suddenly occurred to her that Wayne mightbe rather annoyed at having Ann commit suicide. But there was a littlecatch in her laugh at the thought of Wayne's consternation.

　　A long time she sat there wondering. Where had Ann come from? She hadjust seemed whirled out of the nowhere into the there, as an unannouncedcomet in well-ordered heavens Ann had come. From what other world?—andwhy? Did she belong to anybody? Another pleasant prospect for poorWayne! Was some one looking for Ann? Would there be things in the paperabout her?

　　Surely a girl could not step out of her life and leave no trail behind.Things could not close up like that, even about Ann. Every one had aplace. Then how could one step from that place without leaving aconspicuous looking vacancy?

　　Why had Ann been dressed that way? It seemed a strange costume in whichto kill one's self. It seemed to Katie that one would prefer to meet theunknown in a smaller hat.

　　She went to the closet and took out the organdie dress and satinslippers. From whence? and why thither? They opened long paths ofwondering. The dress was bedraggled about the bottom, as though trailedthrough fields and over roads. And so strangely crumpled, and so strangethe scent—a scent hauntingly familiar, yet baffling in its relation togowns. A poorly made gown, Katie noted, but effective. She tried to readthe story, but could not read beyond the fact that there was a story. Thepink satin slippers had broken heels and were stained and soaked. Theyhad traveled ground never meant for them. Something about Ann made onefeel she was not the girl to be walking about in satin slippers.Something had happened. She had been dressed for one thing and then haddone another thing. Could it be that ever since the night before she hadbeen out of her place in the scheme of things?—loosened from the greathuman unit?—seeking destruction, perhaps, because she could not regainher place therein? "Where have you been?" Katie murmured to the ruinedslippers. "What did it? What do you know? What did you want?"

　　Many a pair of just such slippers she had danced to the verge ofshabbiness. To her they were associated with hops, the gayest of musicand lightest of laughter, brilliant crowds in flower-scented rooms,dancing and flirtation—the froth and bubble of life. But somethingsterner than waxed floors had wrought the havoc here. How much of life'sground all unknown to her had these poor little slippers trodden? Was itoften like that?—that the things created for the fun and the joy foundthe paths of tragedy?

　　She had put them away and was at last going to bed when she idly pickedup the evening paper. What she saw was that the Daisey-Maisey OperaCompany was playing at the city across the river. Something made herstand there very still. Could it be—? Might it not be—?

　　She did not know. Would she ever know?

　　It drew her back to the girl's room. She was sleeping serenely. Withshaded candle Katie stood at the door watching her. Surely the hour waspast! Sleep such as that must draw one back to life.

　　Lying there in the sweet dignity of her braided hair, in that simplelovely gown, she might have been Ann indeed.

　　There was tenderness just then in the heart of Katherine WayneworthJones. She was glad that this girl who was sleeping as though sleep hadbeen a treasure long withheld, was knowing to-night the balm of a goodbed, glad that she could sink so unquestioningly into the lap ofprotection. Protection!—it was that which one had in a place like this.Why was it given the Anns—and not the Vernas? The sleeping girl seemedto feel that all was well in the house which sheltered her that night.Suddenly Katie knew what it was had gone. Fear. It was terror had slippedback, leaving the weariness which can give itself over to sleep. Katiewas thinking, striking deeper things than were wont to invade Katie'smeditations. The protection of a Wayne, the chivalrous comradeship of aCaptain Prescott—how different the life of an Ann from the life thisgirl might have had! She stood at the door for a long moment, looking ather with a searching tenderness. What had she been through? What wasthere left for her?

　　Once, as a child, she had taken a turtle from its native mud and broughtit home. Soon after that they moved into an apartment and her fathersaid that she must give the turtle up. "But, father," she had cried, "youdon't understand! I took it! Now how can I throw it away?"

　　"You are right, Katherine," he had replied gravely—her dear, honorable,understanding father; "it is rather inconvenient to have a turtle in anapartment, but, as you say, responsibilities are greater thanconveniences."

　　She was thinking of that story as she finally went to bed.