Chapter XX

by Susan Glaspell

　　Mrs. Prescott made vivid and compelling those days, those things, whichKatie had a little while before had the fancy of so easily slipping awayfrom. She made them things which wove themselves around one, or rather,things of which one seemed an organic part, from which one could no morepull away than the tree's branch could pull away from the tree's trunk.

　　In her presence Katie was claimed by those things out of which she hadgrown, claimed so subtly that it seemed a thing outside volition. Mrs.Prescott did not, in any form, say things were as they were; it was onlythat she breathed it.

　　How could one combat with words, or in action, that rooted so much deeperthan mere words or action?

　　She was a slight and simple looking lady to be doing anything so large asstemming the tide of a revolutionary impulse. She had never lost thegirlishness of her figure—or of her hands. So much had youth left her.Her face was thin and pale, and of the contour vaguely calledaristocratic. It was perhaps the iron gray hair rolling back from thepale face held the suggestion of austerity. But that which best expressedher was the poise of her head. She carried it as if she had a right tocarry it that way.

　　It was of small things she talked: the people she had met, people theyknew whom Katie knew. It was that net-work of small things she wovearound Katie. One might meet a large thing in a large way. But thatsubtle tissue of the little things!

　　They talked of Katie's mother, and as they talked it came to Katie thatperhaps the most live things of all might be the dead things. Katie'smother had not been unlike Mrs. Prescott, save that to Katie, at least,she seemed softer and sweeter. They had been girls together inCharleston. They had lived on the same street, gone to the same school,come out at the same party, and Katie's mother had met Katie's fatherwhen he came to be best man at Mrs. Prescott's wedding. Then they hadbeen stationed together at a frontier post in a time of danger. Wayne hadbeen born at that post. They had been together in times of birth andtimes of death.

　　Mrs. Prescott spoke of Worth, and of how happy she knew Katie was to havehim with her. She talked of the responsibility it brought Katie, and asthey talked it did seem responsibility, and responsibility was anotherthing which stole subtly up around her, chaining her with intangible—andbecause intangible, unbreakable—chains.

　　Mrs. Prescott wanted to know about Wayne. Was he happy, or had theunhappiness of his marriage gone too deep? "Your dear mother grieved soabout it, Katie," she said. "She saw how it was going. It hurt her."

　　"Yes," said Katie, "I know. It made mother very sad."

　　"I am glad that her death came before the separation."

　　"Oh, I don't know," said Katie; "I think mother would have been glad."

　　"She did not believe in divorce; your mother and I, Katie, were theold-fashioned kind of churchwomen."

　　"Neither did mother believe in unhappiness," said Katie, and drew alonger breath for saying it, for it was as if the things claiming her hadcrowded up around her throat.

　　Mrs. Prescott sighed. "We cannot understand those things. It is a strangeage in which we are living, Katie. I sometimes think that our only hopeis to trust God a little more."

　　"Or help man a little more," said Katie.

　　"Perhaps," said Mrs. Prescott gently, "that giving more trust to Godwould be giving more help to man."

　　"I'm not sure I get the connecting link," said Katie, more sure ofherself now that it had become articulate.

　　Mrs. Prescott put one of her fine hands over upon Katie's. "Why, child,you can't mean that. That would have hurt your mother."

　　For the moment Katie did not speak. "If mother had understood just what Imeant—understood all about it—I don't believe it would." A second timeshe was silent, as it struggled. "And if it had"—she spoke it as a thingnot to be lightly spoken—"I should be very deeply sorry, but I wouldnot be able to help it."

　　"Why, child!" murmured her mother's friend. "You're talking strangely.You—the devoted daughter you always were—not able to 'help' hurtingyour mother?"

　　Katie's eyes filled. It had become so real: the things stealing aroundher, the thing in her which must push them back, that it was as if shewere hurting her mother, and suffering in the consciousness of bringingsuffering. Memory, the tenderest of memories, was another thing weavingitself around her, clinging to her heart, claiming her.

　　But suddenly she leaned forward. "Would I be able to help beingmyself?" she asked passionately.

　　Mrs. Prescott seemed startled. "I fear," she said, perplexed by the tearsin Katie's eyes and the stern line of her mouth, "that we are speaking ofthings I do not understand."

　　Katie was silent, agreeing with her.

　　Mrs. Prescott broke the silence. "The world is changing."

　　And again agreeing, Katie saw that in those changes friends boundtogether by dear ties might be driven far apart.

　　"Katie," she asked after a moment, "tell me of my boy and your friend."There was a wistful, almost tremulous note in her voice. "You havesympathy and intelligence, Katie. You must know what a time like thismeans to a mother."

　　Katie could not speak. It seemed she could bear little more that night.And she longed for time to think it out, know where she stood, come tosome terms with herself.

　　But forced to face it, she tried to do so lightly. She thought it justa fancy of Harry's. Wasn't he quite given to falling in love withpretty girls?

　　His mother shook her head. "He cares for her. I know. And do you not see,

　　Katie, that that makes her about the biggest thing in life to me?"

　　Katie's heart almost stood still. She was staggered. Through herwretchedness surged a momentary yearning to be one of those people—oh,one of those safe people—who never found the peep-holes in theirenclosure!

　　"Tell me of her, Katie," urged her mother's friend. "Harry seems to thinkshe means much to you. Just what is it she means to you?"

　　For the moment she was desperate in her wondering how to tell it. Andthen it happened that from her frenzied wondering what to say of it shesank into the deeper wondering what it was. What it was—what in truthit had been all the time—Ann meant to her.

　　Why had she done it? What was that thing less fleeting than fancy, moreimperative than sympathy, made Ann mean more than things which had allher life meant most?

　　Watching Katie, Mrs. Prescott wavered between gratification andapprehension: pleased that that light in Katie's eyes, a finer light thanshe had ever known there before, should come through thought of thisgirl for whom Harry cared; troubled by the strangeness and the sternnessof Katie's face.

　　It was Katie herself Mrs. Prescott wanted—had always wanted. She hadalways hoped it would be that way, not only because she loved Katie, butbecause it seemed so as it should be. She believed that summer would havebrought it about had it not been for this other girl—this stranger.

　　Katie's embarrassment had fallen from her, pushed away by feeling. Shewas scarcely conscious of Mrs. Prescott.

　　She was thinking of those paths of wondering, every path leading intoother paths—intricate, limitless. She had been asleep. Now she wasawake. It was through Ann it had come. Perhaps more had come through Annthan was in Ann, but beneath all else, deeper even than that warmtenderness flowering from Ann's need of her, was that tenderness of theawakened spirit—a grateful song coming through an opening door.

　　It had so claimed her that she was startled at sound of Mrs. Prescott'svoice as she said, with a nervous little laugh: "Why, Katie, you alarmme. You make me feel she must be strange."

　　"She is strange," said Katie.

　　"Would you say, Katie," she asked anxiously, "that she is the sort ofgirl to make my boy a good wife?"

　　Suddenly the idea of Ann's making Harry Prescott any kind of wifecame upon Katie as preposterous. Not because she would be bringinghim a "past," but because she would bring gifts he would not knowwhat to do with.

　　"I don't think of Ann as the making some man a good wife type. I think ofAnn," she tried to formulate it, "as having gone upon a quest, as beingever upon a quest."

　　"A—quest?" faltered Mrs. Prescott. "For what?"

　　"Life," said Katie, peering off into the darkness.

　　Mrs. Prescott was manifestly disturbed at the prospect of adaughter-in-law upon a quest. "She sounds—temperamental," she saidcritically.

　　"Yes," said Katie, laughing a little grimly, "she's temperamentalall right."

　　They could not say more, as Ann and Wayne were coming toward them acrossthe grass.

　　And almost immediately afterward the Osborne car again stopped before thehouse. It was Mr. Osborne himself this time, bringing the Leonards, whohad been dining with him. They had stopped to see Mrs. Prescott.

　　Katie was not sorry, for it turned Mrs. Prescott from Ann. Like thefootball player who has lost his wind, she wanted a little timecounted out.

　　But she soon found that she was not playing anything so kindly as a gameof hard and fast rules.

　　It seemed at first that Ann's ride had done her good. She seemed to haverelaxed and did not give Katie that sense of something smoldering withinher. Katie sat beside her, an arm thrown lightly about Ann'sshoulders—lightly but guardingly.

　　Neither of them talked much. Mrs. Prescott and Mrs. Leonard were"visiting"; the men talking of some affairs of Mr. Osborne's. He wascommending the army for minding its own business—not "butting in" andtrying to ruin business the way some other departments of the Governmentdid. The army seemed in high favor with Mr. Osborne.

　　Suddenly Mrs. Leonard turned to Katie. She was a large woman, poised bythe shallow serenity of self-approval.

　　"I do feel so sorry for Miss Osborne," she said. "Such a shocking thinghas occurred. One of the girls at the candy factory—you know she'strying so hard to help them—has committed suicide!"

　　Mrs. Prescott uttered an exclamation of horror. Katie patted the shoulderbeside her soothingly, understandingly, and as if begging for calm. Evenunder her light touch she seemed to feel the nerves leap up.

　　Mr. Osborne turned to them. "Poor Cal, she'd better let things alone.

　　What's the use? She can't do anything with people like that."

　　"It's the cause of the suicide that's the disgusting thing," said

　　Colonel Leonard.

　　"Or rather," amended his wife, "the lack of cause."

　　"But surely," protested Mrs. Prescott, "no girl would take her lifewithout—what she thought was cause. Surely all human beings hold lifeand death too sacred for that."

　　"Oh, do they?" scoffed Mrs. Leonard. "Not that class. I scarcely expectyou to believe me—I had a hard time believing it myself—but she saysshe committed suicide—she left a note for her room-mate—because shewas 'tired of not having any fun!'"

　　The hand upon Ann's shoulder grew fairly eloquent. And Ann seemed trying.

　　Her hands were tightly clasped in her lap.

　　"Why, I don't know," said Wayne, "I think that's about one of the bestreasons I can think of."

　　"This is not a jesting matter, Captain Jones," said Mrs. Leonardseverely.

　　"Far from it," said Wayne.

　　"Think what it means to a girl like Caroline Osborne! A girl who istrying to do something for humanity—to find the people she wants touplift so trivial—so without souls!"

　　"It is hard on Cal," agreed Cal's father.

　　"Though perhaps just a trifle harder," ventured Wayne, "on thegirl who did."

　　"Well, what did she do it for?" he demanded. "Come now, Captain, youcan't make out much of a case for her. Mrs. Leonard's word is justright—trivial. She said she was tired of things. Tired—tired—tired ofthings, she put it. Tired of walking down the same street. Tired ofhanging her hat on the same kind of a peg! Now, Captain—if you can putup any defense for a girl who kills herself because she's tired ofhanging her hat on a certain kind of peg! Well," he laughed, "if you can,all I've got to say is that you'd better leave the army and go in forcriminal law."

　　"Why didn't she walk down some other street," he resumed, as no onebroke the pause. "If it's a matter of life and death—a person might walkdown some other street!"

　　"And I've no doubt," said Captain Prescott, "that if it were known herlife, as well as her hat, hung upon it—she might have had a differentkind of peg."

　　They laughed.

　　"Oh, of course, the secret of it is," pronounced the Colonel, "she was aneurotic."

　　For the first time Katie spoke. "I think it's such a fine thing we gothold of that word. Since we've known about neurotics we can just throwall the emotion and suffering and tragedy of the world in the one heapand leave it to the scientists. It lets us out so beautifully,doesn't it?"

　　"Oh, but Katie!" admonished Mrs. Prescott. "Think of it! What is theworld coming to? Going forth to meet one's God because one doesn't likethe peg for one's hat!"

　　Katie had a feeling of every nerve in Ann's body leaping up in frenzy."God?" she laughed wildly. "Don't drag Him into it! Do you think Hecares"—turning upon Mrs. Prescott as if she would spring at her—"do youthink for a minute He cares—what kind of pegs our hats are on!"