Chapter V

by Susan Glaspell

　　"Nora," said Katie next morning, "Miss Forrest has had a greatmisfortune."

　　Nora paused in her dusting, all ready with the emotion which Katie'stone invited.

　　"She has lost all of her luggage!"

　　"The poor young lady!" cried good Nora.

　　"Yes, it is really terrible, isn't it? Everything lost; through thecarelessness of the railroads, you know. And such beautiful gowns as theywere. So—so unusual. Poor Miss Ann was forced to arrive in a dress mostunsuited to traveling, and is now quite—oh quite—destitute."

　　Nora held her head with both hands, speechless.

　　"Didn't you tell me, Nora, that your cousin's wife was very clever atsewing—at fixing things over?"

　　"Yes, yes, Miss Kate—yes'm."

　　"I wonder, Nora, would she come and help us?"

　　"She would be that glad, Miss Kate. She—"

　　"You see, Miss Ann is not very well. She—poor Miss Ann, I hope you willbe very kind to her. She is an orphan, like you, Nora."

　　Nora wiped both eyes.

　　"And just now it would be too dreadful for her to have to see about a lotof things. So I think, temporarily, we could arrange some of my things;let them down a little, and perhaps take them in—Miss Ann is a littletaller and a little slimmer than I. Could you send for your cousin's wifeto help us, Nora?"

　　Profusely, o'erflowingly, Nora affirmed that this would be possible.

　　When Captain Jones came in from the shops for luncheon it was to findhis sister installed in the hall, one of those roomy halls adapted toall purposes of living, some white and pink and blue things strewnaround her, doing something with a scissors. Just what she was doingseemed to concern him very little, for he sat down at a table near her,pulled out some blue prints, and began studying them. "Thank heaven forthe saving qualities of firearms," mused Katherine, industriouslyletting out a tuck.

　　But luncheon seemed to suggest the social side of life, for after theywere seated he asked: "Oh yes, by the way, where's Miss—"

　　"Ann is still sleeping," replied Kate easily.

　　"She must be a good sleeper," ventured Wayne.

　　"Ann is tired, Wayne," she said with reproving dignity, "and as I havealready told you several times without seeming to reach through thebullets on your brain, not well. She is here for a rest. She may not comedown for several days."

　　"Not what one would call a hilarious guest," he commented.

　　"No, less hilarious than Zelda Fraser." Katie spitefully mentioned aformer guest whom Wayne had particularly detested.

　　He laughed. "Well, who is she? What did you say her name was?"

　　"Oh Wayne," she sighed long-sufferingly, "again—once again—let me tellyou that her name is Forrest."

　　"What Forrest?"

　　"'Um, I don't believe you know Ann's people."

　　"Not the Major Forrest family?"

　　"No, not that family; not army people at all."

　　"Well, what people? I can't seem to place her."

　　"Ann is of—artistic people. Her father was a great artist. That is, hewould have been a great artist had he not died when he was very young."

　　"Rather an assumption, isn't it, that a man would have—"

　　"Why not at all, if he has done enough during his brief lifetime towarrant the assumption."

　　"Is her mother living?"

　　"Oh no," said Katie irritably, "certainly not. Her mother has beendead—five years." Then, looking into the dreamy distance and drawing itout as though she loved it: "Her mother was a great musician."

　　"I shan't like her," announced Wayne decisively; "she is probably exoticand self-conscious and supercilious, and not at all a comfortable personto have about. It's bad enough for her father to have been a greatartist—without her mother needs having been a great musician."

　　"She is simple and sweet and very shy," reproved Kate. "So shy that shewill doubtless be painfully embarrassed at meeting you, and seem—well,really ill at ease."

　　"That will be an odd spectacle—a young woman of to-day 'painfullyembarrassed' at meeting a man. I never saw any of them very ill at ease,save when there were no men about."

　　"Ann's experiences have not all been happy ones, Wayne," said Katie inthe manner of the deeply understanding to one of lesser comprehension.

　　"I hope she'll go on sleeping. A young woman of artisticpeople—painfully embarrassed—unhappy experiences—it doesn't sound atall comfortable to me."

　　But a little later he said: "Prescott seems to think thatDaisey-Maisey company not bad. If you girls would like to go we'lltelephone for seats."

　　Katie paused in the eating of a peach. "Thank you, Wayne, but I havean idea—just a vague sort of idea—that Ann would not care especiallyfor that."

　　"She's probably right," said Wayne, returning with relief to theblue prints.

　　Katie's sporting blood was up. Ann was to be Ann. Never in her life hadshe been so fascinated with anything as with this creation of an Ann.

　　"I have prepared a place for her," she mused, over the untucking ofthe softest of rose pink muslins. "I have prepared for her a familyand a temperament and a sorrow and all that a young woman could mostdesire. From out the nothing a conscious something I have evoked. Itwould be most ungracious—ungrateful—of Ann to refuse to be what Imade her. I invented her. By all laws of decency, she must be Ann.Indeed, she is Ann."

　　And Katie was truly beginning to think so. Katie's imagination coquettedsuccessfully with conviction.

　　Ann, or more accurately the idea of Ann, fascinated her. Never beforehad she known any one all unencumbered, unbound, by facts. Most peoplewere rendered commonplace by the commonplace things one knew about them.But Ann was as interesting as one's brain could make her. Anything onechoose to think—or say—about Ann could just as well as not be true. Itswept one all unchained out into a virgin land of fancy.

　　There was but one question. Could Ann keep within hailing distance ofone's imagination? Did Ann have it in her to live up to the things onewished to believe about her? Was she capable of taking unto herself thepast and temperament with which one would graciously endow her? Katie'ssense of justice forced from her the admission that it was expecting agood deal of Ann. She could see that nothing would be more bootless thanthrusting traditions upon people who would not know what to do with them.But something about Ann encouraged one to believe she could fit into abackground prepared for her. And if she could—would—! The prospectlured—excited. It was as inexplicably intoxicating as a grimace at thepreacher—a wink at the professor. It seemed to be saucily tweaking theear of that insufferably solemn Things-as-They-Are goddess.

　　There was in her eyes the light of battle when Nora finally came to tellher that Miss Forrest was awake.

　　But it changed to another light at sight of the girl sitting up in bed sobewilderedly, turning upon her eyes which seemed to say—"And what areyou going to do with me now?"

　　Fighting down the lump in her throat Katie seized briskly upon thatlook of inquiry. "What she needs now," she decided, "is not tears, buta high hand."

　　"Next thing on the program," she began, buoyantly raising the shades andthrowing the windows wide, "is air. You're a good patient, for you do asyou're told. It's been a fine sleep, hasn't it? And now I mean to get youinto some clothes and take you out for a drive."

　　The girl shrank down in the pillows, pulling the covers clear to herchin, as if to shut herself in. She did not speak, but shook her head.

　　But Katie rode right over that look of pain and fear in her eyes,refusing to emphasize it by recognition.

　　She left the room and returned after a moment with a white flannel suitwhich she spread out on the bed. "This is not a bad looking suit, is it?Your dress is scarcely warm enough for driving, so I want you to wearthis. I told Nora that your luggage was lost. It may be just as well foryou to know, from time to time, what I'm telling about you. I have anidea this suit will be very becoming to you. It came from Paris. Ipresume I'm rather foolish about things from Paris, but they always seemto me to have brought a little life and gayety along. There's a dearlittle white hat and stunning automobile veil goes with this suit. I canscarcely wait to see how pretty you're going to look in it all."

　　For answer the girl turned to the wall, hid her face in the pillows,and sobbed.

　　Kate laid a hand upon her hair—soft, fine brown hair with temptinglittle waves and gleams in it. There came to her a hideous vision ofhow that hair might have looked by this time had she not—by themerest chance—

　　It gave her a feeling of proprietary tenderness for the girl. It seemedindeed that this life was in her hands—for was it not her hands had keptit a life?

　　"Please," she murmured gently, persuasively, as the sobs grew wilder.

　　Suddenly the girl raised her head and turned upon Katie passionately."What do you mean? What is this all about? I know well enough that peopleare not like this! This is not the way the world is!"

　　"Not like what?" Kate asked quietly.

　　"Doing things for people they don't have to do things for! Taking peopleinto their houses and giving them things—their best things!—treatingthem as if there was some reason for treating them like that! I neverheard of such a thing. What are you doing it for?"

　　Katie sat there smiling at her calmly. "Do you want to know thehonest truth?"

　　The girl nodded, looking at her with anticipatory defiance, but thatdefiance which could so easily crumble to despair.

　　"Very well then," she began lightly, "here goes. I don't knowthat it will sound very well, but it has the doubtful virtue ofbeing true. The first reason is that it interests me; perhaps Ishould even say—amuses me. I always did like new things—queerthings—surprises—things different. And the other reason is thatI've taken a sure enough liking to you."

　　She had drawn back at the first reason; but the bluntness of the firstmust have conveyed a sense of honesty in the second, for like the childwho has been told something nice, a smile was faintly suggested beneaththe tears.

　　"Would you like to hear my favorite quotation from Scripture?" Katewanted to know.

　　At thought of Katie's having a favorite quotation the smile grew a littlemore defined.

　　"My favorite quotation is this: 'Take no thought for the morrow.' Perhapsit ends in a way that spoils it; I would never read the rest of it,fearing it would ruin itself, but taking just so much and no more—and itcertainly is your privilege to do that if you wish—if all of a thing isgood for you, part of it must be somewhat good—it does make the mostcomfortable philosophy of life I know of. It's a great solace to me. Nowwhen I am seventy, I don't doubt I will have lost my teeth. Losing one'steeth is such a distressing thing that I could sit here and weep bitterlyfor mine were it not for the sustaining power of my favorite quotation.Why don't you adopt it for your favorite, too? And, taking no thought forthe morrow, is there any reason in the world why you shouldn't go out nowand have a beautiful drive? Going for a drive doesn't commit one to anyphilosophy of life, or line of action, does it? And whatever you do,don't ever refuse nice things because you can't see the reason forpeople's doing them. I shudder to think how much—or better, how littlefun I would have had in life had I first been compelled to satisfy myselfI was entitled to it. We're entitled to nothing—most of us; that's allthe more reason for taking all we can get. But come now! Here are somefresh things—yours seem a bit dusty."

　　In such wise she rambled on as a bewildered but unresisting girlsurrendered herself to her wiles and hands.

　　When Katie returned from a call to the telephone it was to find Annrubbing her hand over a pretty ankle adorned with the most silky ofsilken hose. "Likes them," Katie made of it, at sight of the down-turnedface; "always wanted them—maybe never had them. Moral—If you wantpeople to believe in you, give them something they don't need, but wouldlike to have."

　　She did her hair for her, chatting all the while about ways of doinghair, exclaiming about the beauty of Ann's and planning things she wasgoing to do with it. "Were I as proud of all my works as I am of this, Imight be a more self-respecting person," she said, finally passing Annthe hand mirror as if the girl's one concern in life was to see whethershe approved of the plaiting of those soft glossy braids.

　　And unmistakably she did approve. "It does look nice this way, doesn'tit?" she agreed, looking up at Katie with a shy eagerness.

　　When at last Ann had been made ready, when Katie had slipped on the longloosely fitted white coat, had adjusted the big veil with just the righttouch of sophisticated carelessness, as she surveyed the work of herhands her excitement could with difficulty contain itself. "She isAnn," she gloated. "Her father was a great artist. Her mother simplycouldn't be anything but a great musician. And she's lived all her lifein—Italy, I think it is. Oh—I know! She's from Florence. Why shecouldn't be any place but from Florence—and she doesn't know anythingabout bridge and scandal and pay and promotion—but she knows allabout dreaming dreams and seeing visions. She's lived a lifeapart—aloof—looking at great pictures and hearing great music. Ofcourse, she's a little shy with us—she doesn't understand our roisteringways—that's part of her being Ann."

　　But when she came back after getting her own things, Ann had gone. Thegirl in white was still sitting there in the chair, but she was not atall Ann. Things not from Florence, other things than dreams andvisions and great pictures and music had taken hold of her. Frightenedand disorganized again, she was huddled in the chair, and as Katiestood in the doorway she said not a word, but shook her head, and theeyes told all.

　　Katie bent over the chair. "It's all 'up to me,'" she said quietly."Don't you see that it is? You haven't a thing in the world to do butfollow my lead. Won't you trust me enough to know that you will not beasked to do anything that would be too hard? Believe in me enough to feelI will put through anything I begin? Isn't it rather—oh, unthrifty, tolet pasts and futures spoil presents? Some time soon we may want to talkof the future, but just now there's only the present. And not a veryterrifying present. Nothing more fearful than winding in and out of thewooded roads of this beautiful place—listening to birds and—butcome—" changing briskly to the practical and helping her rise as thoughdismissing the question—"I hear our horse."

　　"I see Miss Jones has got some of her swell friends visitin' her," asoldier who was cutting grass remarked to a comrade newer to the service."Great swell—they tell me Miss Jones is. They say she's it in Washingtonall right—way ahead of some that outranks her. Got outside money—theirown money. Handy, ain't it?" he laughed. "Though it ain't just the money,either. Her mother was—well, somebody big—don't just recollect thename. Friendly, Miss Jones is. Not like some, afraid you're going toforget your place the minute she has a civil word with you. That one withher is some swell from Washington or New York. You can tell that by thelooks of her, all right. Lord, don't they have it easy though?"