Chapter XIV

by Susan Glaspell

　　It was astonishing how Ann seemed to find herself in just that thing ofbeing able to learn to play golf.

　　They were gay at dinner that night, and Ann was as gay as any one. Shecontinued to talk about her game, which they jestingly permitted her todo, and the men told some good golf stories which she entered intomerrily. It was Katie who was rather quiet. While they still lingeredaround the table Fred Wayneworth joined them, and Katie, eager to talkwith him of his people and his work, left Ann alone with Wayne andCaptain Prescott, something which up to that time she had been reluctantto do. But to-night she did not feel Ann clinging to her, calling out toher, as she had felt her before. She seemed on surer ground; it was as ifgolf had given her a passport. From her place in the garden with hercousin, Ann's laugh came down to them from time to time—just a girl'shappy laugh.

　　"Who is your stunning friend, Katie?" Fred asked. "No, stunning doesn'tfit her, but lovely. She is lovely, isn't she?"

　　"Ann's very pretty," said Kate shortly.

　　"Oh—pretty," he laughed, "that won't do at all. So many girls arepretty, and I never saw any girl just like her."

　　Again she was vaguely uneasy, and the uneasiness irritated her, and thenshe was ashamed of the irritation. Didn't she want poor Ann to have agood time—and feel at home—and be admired? Did she care for her whenshe was somber and shy, and resent her when happy and confident? She toldherself she was glad to hear Ann laughing; and yet each time the happylittle laugh stirred that elusive foreboding in the not usuallyapprehensive soul of Katie Jones.

　　"I want to tell you about my girl, Katie," her cousin was saying. "I'vegot the only girl."

　　He was off into the story of Helen: Helen, who was a clerk in the forestservice and "put it all over" any girl he had ever known before, who wasworth the whole bunch of girls he had known in the East—girls who hadbeen brought up like doll-babies and had doll-baby brains. Didn't Katieagree that a girl who could make her own way distanced the girls whocould do nothing but spend their fathers' money?

　　In her heart, Katie did; had she been defending Fred to his father, theBishop, or to his Bostonian mother, she would have grown eloquent forHelen. But listening to Fred, it seemed something was being attacked, andshe, unreasonably enough, instead of throwing herself with the aggressorwas in the stormed citadel with her aunt and uncle and the girls with thedoll-baby brains.

　　And she had been within the citadel that afternoon when Wayne wasattacking the army. She gloried in attacks of her own, but let some oneelse begin one and she found herself running for cover—and to defense.She wondered if that were anything more meaningful than just naturalperversity.

　　The Bishop had wanted his son for the church; but Fred not takingamicably to the cloth, he had urged the navy. Fred had settled that byfailing to pass the examinations for Annapolis. Failing purposely, hisfather stormily held; a theory supported by the good work he didsubsequently at Yale. There he became interested in forestry, again tothe disapproval of his parents, who looked upon forestry as an upstartinstitution, not hallowed by the mellowing traditions of church or navy.Now they would hold that Helen proved it.

　　And Helen did prove something. Certain it was that from neither churchnor navy would Fred have seen his Helen in just this way.

　　Perhaps it was that democracy Wayne had been talking about. Perhapsthis democracy was a thing not contented with any one section of aman's life. Perhaps once it had him—it had its way with him. Katiethought of the last thirty days—of paths leading out from other paths.Once one started—

　　Fred's father had never started. Bishop Wayneworth was only democraticwhen delivering addresses on the signers of the Declaration ofIndependence. The democracy of the past was sanctified; the democracy ofthe present, pernicious and uncouth. Thought of her uncle put Katie onthe outside, eyes dancing with the fun of the attack.

　　"Who are her people, Fred?"

　　"Oh, Western people—ranchers; best sort of people. They raised the bestcrop of potatoes in the valley this year."

　　Katie yearned to commend the family of her daughter-in-law to her AuntElizabeth with the boast that they raised the best crop of potatoes inthe valley!

　　"They had hard sledding for a long time; but they're making a go of itnow. They've worked—let me tell you. Helen wouldn't have to worknow—but don't you say that to Helen! What do you think, Katie? She evenwants to keep on working after we're married!"

　　That planted Katie firmly within. "Oh, she can't do that, Fred."

　　"Well, I wish you'd tell her she can't. That's where we are now. We stickon that point. I try to assert my manly authority, but manly authoritydoesn't faze Helen much. She has some kind of theory about the economicindependence of woman. You know anything about it, Katie?"

　　"You forget that I'm one of the doll-baby girls," she replied in a lightvoice which trailed a little bitterness on behind.

　　"Not you! Just before I left I said to Helen: 'Well there's at least onerelative of mine who will have sense enough to appreciate you, and that'smy corking cousin Katie Jones!'"

　　That lured feminine Kate outside again. "Fred," she asked, moved by hernever slumbering impulse to find out about things, "just what is it youcare for in Helen? Is she pretty? Funny? Sympathetic? Clever? What?"

　　She watched his face as he tried to frame it. And watching, she decidedthat whatever kind of girl Helen was, she was a girl to be envied. Yes,and to be admired.

　　"Well I fear it doesn't sound sufficiently romantic," he laughed, "butHelen's such a sturdy little wretch. The first things I ever noticedabout her was her horse sense. She's good on her job, too. She seems tome like the West. Though that's rather amusing, for she's such a littlebit of a thing. She's afraid she'll get fat. But she won't. She's notthat kind."

　　"Why of course not," said Katie stoutly, and they laughed and seemed verynear to Helen in thus scorning her fear of getting fat.

　　He continued his confidences, laughter from the porch coming down to themall the while. Helen was so real—she was so square—so independent—sodauntless—and yet she had such dear little ways. He couldn't make hersound as nice as she was; Katie would have to come and see her. In factthey were counting on Katie's coming. She was to come and stay a longtime with them and really get acquainted with the West. "I'll tell youwhat Helen's like," he summed it up. "She's very much what you would havebeen if you'd lived out there and had the advantages she has."

　　Katie stared. No, he was not trying to be funny.

　　They started toward the house. "Katie," he broke out, "if you haveany cousinly love in your heart, and know anything about Walt Whitman,tell me something, so I can go back and spring it on Helen. She's madover him."

　　"He was one of the 'advantages' I didn't have," said Katie. "He didn'tplay a heavy part in the thing I had that passed for an education."

　　"Isn't it the limit the way they 'do you' at those girls' schools?"agreed Fred sympathetically. "Helen says that in religion and educationthe more you pay the less you get."

　　"I should like her," laughed Katie.

　　But what would her Aunt Elizabeth think of a "sturdy little wretch,"believing in the economic independence of woman—whatever that mightbe—with lots of horse sense, and good on her job!

　　Katie was on the outside now, and for good. If nothing else, the fun wasout there. And there was something else. That light on Fred's face whenhe was trying to tell about Helen.

　　Captain Prescott had come down the steps to meet them. "I was just comingfor you. Don't you think, Katie, it would be fun to look in on the danceup here at the club house?"

　　On the alert for shielding Ann, Katie demurred. It was late, and Ann wastired from her golf.

　　There was an eager little flutter, and Ann had stepped forward. "Oh, I'mnot at all tired, Katie," she said.

　　"Does she look tired?" scoffed Wayne. "She's only tired of being madeto play the invalid. Hurry along, Katie. If you girls aren'tsufficiently befrocked, frock up at once."

　　Katie hesitated, annoyed. She felt shorn of the function of her office.And she was dubious. The party was one which the younger set over theriver were giving—at the golf club-house on the Island—for the returnedcollege boys. She did not know who might be there—she was always meetingfriends of her friends. She felt a trifle injured in thinking that justfor the sake of Ann she had avoided the social life those people offeredher, and now—

　　Ann was speaking again, her voice stripped of the happy eagerness. "Justas you say, Katie. It is late, and perhaps I am—too tired."

　　That moved Katie. That a girl should not be privileged to be insistentabout going to a dance—it seemed depriving her of her birthright. Andmore cruel than taking away a birthright was bringing the consciousnessof having no birthright.

　　Katie entered gayly into the plans. They decided that Ann was to wear therose-colored muslin—the same gown she had worn that first night. As shewas fastening it for her Katie saw that Ann was smiling at herself in themirror, giving herself little pats of approval here and there.

　　She had not done that the first time Katie helped her into that dress.

　　But it was the Ann of the first days who turned strained face to her inthe dressing-room at the club-house. All the girlish radiance—girlishvanity—was gone. "Katie," she whispered, "I think I'd better go home.I—I didn't know it would be like this. So many people—so manylights—and things."

　　Gently Katie reassured her. Ann needing her was the Ann she knew how tocare for, and would care for in the face of all the people—all the"lights—and things." "You needn't dance if you don't want to," shetold her. "I'll tell Wayne to look out for you, that you're really notable to meet people. If I put him on guard he'll go through fire andwater for you."

　　"Yes—I know that," said Ann, and seemed to take heart.

　　And for some time she did not dance. From the floor Katie Would getglimpses of Ann and Wayne sauntering on the veranda on which theball-room opened. More than once she found Ann's eyes following her—Annout in the shadow, looking in at the gay people in the light.

　　But with the opening of a lively two-step Captain Prescott insisted Anndance with him. "Oh come now," he urged. "Life's too short to sit on theside lines. This is a ripping two-step."

　　The music, too, was urgent—and persuasive. As if without volition shefell into gliding little steps, moving toward the dancing floor.

　　It was Katie who watched that time. She wanted to see Ann dancing. Atfirst it puzzled her; she was too graceful not to dance well, but shedanced as if differently trained, as if unaccustomed to their way ofdancing. But as the two-step progressed she fell into the swing of itand seemed no different from the rest of the pretty, happy girls allabout her.

　　She was radiant when she came back to them. Like the golf, the dancingseemed to have given her confidence—and confidence, happiness.

　　Though she still shrank from meeting people. Katie fell in with a wholetroop of college boys who hovered around her, as both college boys andtheir elders were wont to hover around Katie. She wanted to bring some ofthem to Ann, but Ann demurred. "Oh no, Katie. I don't want to dance withany strange men, please. Just our own."

　　Why, Katie wondered, should one not wish to dance with "strange men." Itseemed so curious a thing to shrink from. Katie herself had never felt atall strange with "strange men." Nice fellows were nice fellows the worldover, and she never felt farther from strange than when dancing with anice man—strange or otherwise. Even in the swing of her gayety Katiewondered what it was could make one feel like that. And she wondered whatWayne must think of that plaintive little "Just our own" which she wassure he had overheard.

　　Katie had come out at last to say she thought they should go. Ann mustnot get too tired.

　　But just then the orchestra began dreaming out a waltz, one of thosewaltzes lovers love to remember having danced together. "Now there," saidWayne, "is a nice peaceful waltz. You'll have to wait, Katie," and hisarm was about Ann and they had glided away together.

　　Katie told her cousin she would rather not dance. "Let's stand here andwatch," she said.

　　Couple after couple passed by, not the crowd of the gay two-step of a fewmoments before. Few were talking; some were gently humming, manydreaming—with a veiled smile for the dream. It was one of those waltzesto find its way back to cherished moments, flood with lovely color thedear things held apart. Fred was saying he wished Helen were there. Katieturned from the vivid picture out to the subtle night—warm summer'snight. The dreaming music carried her back to vanished things—otherwaltzes, other warm summer's nights, to the times when she had been, inher light-hearted fashion, in love, to those various flirtations forwhich she had more tenderness than regret just for the glimpses theybrought. And suddenly the heart of things gone seemed to flow into agreat longing for that never known tenderness and wildness of feelingthat sobbed in the music. She was being borne out to the heart of thenight, and at the heart of the night some one waited for her with armsheld out. But as she was swept nearer the some one was the man who mendedthe boats! With a little catch of her breath for that sorry twist of herconsciousness that must make lovely moments ludicrous ones, she turnedback to the bright room—crowded, colorful, moving room which seemed setin the vast, soft night.

　　Her brother was just passing—her brother and her friend Ann Forrest.They did not look out at her. They did not seem to know that Katie wasnear. She had never seen Ann's face so beautiful. It had that beautyshe had all the while seen as possible for it, only more intense, moreexalted than she had been able to foresee it. The music stopped on asob. Every one was still for an instant—then they were applauding formore. Ann was not clapping. Katie had never seen anything as beautifulas that look of rapt loveliness on Ann's face as she stood therewaiting. She might have been the very spirit of love waiting in themists at the heart of the night. As softly the music began again andWayne once more guided her in and out among those boys and girls—boysand girls for whom life had meant little more than laughing anddancing—Katie had a piercing vision of the girl with her hands over herface stumbling on toward the river.

　　They were all very quiet on the way home.

　　That night just as she was falling asleep Katie was startled. It seemedat first she was being awakened by a sharp dart, one of those darts ofapprehension seemed shot into her approaching slumber. But it was nothingmore than Wayne whistling out on the porch, whistling the dreaming waltzwhich would bear one to the love waiting at the heart of the night.

　　But Katie was sleepy now. How did Wayne expect any one to go to sleep,she thought crossly, whistling at that time of night.

　　But across the hall was another girl who listened. She had not beenasleep. She had been lying there looking out into the night, very wideawake. And when she heard the whistling she too sat up in bed, swayingever so gently to the rhythm of it, inarticulately following it under herbreath and smiling a hushed, tender little smile. Something lovely seemedstealing over her. But in the wake of it was something else—somethingcold, blighting. Before he had finished she had covered her ears with herhands, and was sobbing.