Ethan Frome

by Edith Wharton

Styled by LimpidSoft

Contents

INTRODUCTION 1

I 35

II 56

2

III 79

IV 94

V 125

VI 141

VII 154

VIII 186

IX 208

3

The present document was de-rived from text provided by ProjectGutenberg (document 4517) whichwas made available free of charge.This document is also free ofcharge.

4

INTRODUCTION

I had the story, bit by bit, from various peo-ple, and, as generally happens in such cases,

each time it was a different story.If you know Starkfield, Massachusetts, you

know the post-office. If you know the post-office you must have seen Ethan Frome driveup to it, drop the reins on his hollow-backed

1

INTRODUCTION

bay and drag himself across the brick pave-ment to the white colonnade: and you musthave asked who he was.

It was there that, several years ago, I saw himfor the first time; and the sight pulled me upsharp. Even then he was the most striking fig-ure in Starkfield, though he was but the ruinof a man. It was not so much his great heightthat marked him, for the “natives” were eas-ily singled out by their lank longitude from thestockier foreign breed: it was the careless pow-erful look he had, in spite of a lameness check-ing each step like the jerk of a chain. Therewas something bleak and unapproachable inhis face, and he was so stiffened and grizzledthat I took him for an old man and was sur-prised to hear that he was not more than fifty-two. I had this from Harmon Gow, who had

2

INTRODUCTION

driven the stage from Bettsbridge to Starkfieldin pre-trolley days and knew the chronicle ofall the families on his line.

“He’s looked that way ever since he had hissmash-up; and that’s twenty-four years agocome next February,” Harmon threw out be-tween reminiscent pauses.

The “smash-up” it was–I gathered from thesame informant–which, besides drawing thered gash across Ethan Frome’s forehead, had soshortened and warped his right side that it costhim a visible effort to take the few steps fromhis buggy to the post-office window. He usedto drive in from his farm every day at aboutnoon, and as that was my own hour for fetch-ing my mail I often passed him in the porch orstood beside him while we waited on the mo-tions of the distributing hand behind the grat-

3

INTRODUCTION

ing. I noticed that, though he came so punc-tually, he seldom received anything but a copyof the Bettsbridge Eagle, which he put withouta glance into his sagging pocket. At intervals,however, the post-master would hand him anenvelope addressed to Mrs. Zenobia–or Mrs.Zeena-Frome, and usually bearing conspicu-ously in the upper left-hand corner the addressof some manufacturer of patent medicine andthe name of his specific. These documents myneighbour would also pocket without a glance,as if too much used to them to wonder at theirnumber and variety, and would then turn awaywith a silent nod to the post-master.

Every one in Starkfield knew him and gavehim a greeting tempered to his own gravemien; but his taciturnity was respected andit was only on rare occasions that one of the

4

INTRODUCTION

older men of the place detained him for a word.When this happened he would listen quietly,his blue eyes on the speaker’s face, and answerin so low a tone that his words never reachedme; then he would climb stiffly into his buggy,gather up the reins in his left hand and driveslowly away in the direction of his farm.

“It was a pretty bad smash-up?” I ques-tioned Harmon, looking after Frome’s retreat-ing figure, and thinking how gallantly his leanbrown head, with its shock of light hair, musthave sat on his strong shoulders before theywere bent out of shape.

“Wust kind,” my informant assented.“More’n enough to kill most men. But theFromes are tough. Ethan’ll likely touch ahundred.”

“Good God!” I exclaimed. At the moment

5

INTRODUCTION

Ethan Frome, after climbing to his seat, hadleaned over to assure himself of the securityof a wooden box–also with a druggist’s labelon it–which he had placed in the back of thebuggy, and I saw his face as it probably lookedwhen he thought himself alone. “That mantouch a hundred? He looks as if he was deadand in hell now!”

Harmon drew a slab of tobacco from hispocket, cut off a wedge and pressed it into theleather pouch of his cheek. “Guess he’s been inStarkfield too many winters. Most of the smartones get away.”

“Why didn’t he?”“Somebody had to stay and care for the

folks. There warn’t ever anybody but Ethan.Fust his father–then his mother–then his wife.”

“And then the smash-up?”

6

INTRODUCTION

Harmon chuckled sardonically. “That’s so.He had to stay then.”

“I see. And since then they’ve had to care forhim?”

Harmon thoughtfully passed his tobacco tothe other cheek. “Oh, as to that: I guess it’salways Ethan done the caring.”

Though Harmon Gow developed the tale asfar as his mental and moral reach permittedthere were perceptible gaps between his facts,and I had the sense that the deeper meaningof the story was in the gaps. But one phrasestuck in my memory and served as the nucleusabout which I grouped my subsequent infer-ences: “Guess he’s been in Starkfield too manywinters.”

Before my own time there was up I hadlearned to know what that meant. Yet I had

7

INTRODUCTION

come in the degenerate day of trolley, bicycleand rural delivery, when communication waseasy between the scattered mountain villages,and the bigger towns in the valleys, such asBettsbridge and Shadd’s Falls, had libraries,theatres and Y. M. C. A. halls to which theyouth of the hills could descend for recreation.But when winter shut down on Starkfield andthe village lay under a sheet of snow perpet-ually renewed from the pale skies, I began tosee what life there–or rather its negation–musthave been in Ethan Frome’s young manhood.

I had been sent up by my employers on ajob connected with the big power-house at Cor-bury Junction, and a long-drawn carpenters’strike had so delayed the work that I foundmyself anchored at Starkfield–the nearest hab-itable spot–for the best part of the winter. I

8

INTRODUCTION

chafed at first, and then, under the hypnotis-ing effect of routine, gradually began to find agrim satisfaction in the life. During the earlypart of my stay I had been struck by the con-trast between the vitality of the climate andthe deadness of the community. Day by day,after the December snows were over, a blaz-ing blue sky poured down torrents of lightand air on the white landscape, which gavethem back in an intenser glitter. One wouldhave supposed that such an atmosphere mustquicken the emotions as well as the blood;but it seemed to produce no change exceptthat of retarding still more the sluggish pulseof Starkfield. When I had been there a lit-tle longer, and had seen this phase of crystalclearness followed by long stretches of sunlesscold; when the storms of February had pitchedtheir white tents about the devoted village and

9

INTRODUCTION

the wild cavalry of March winds had chargeddown to their support; I began to understandwhy Starkfield emerged from its six months’siege like a starved garrison capitulating with-out quarter. Twenty years earlier the means ofresistance must have been far fewer, and theenemy in command of almost all the lines ofaccess between the beleaguered villages; and,considering these things, I felt the sinister forceof Harmon’s phrase: “Most of the smart onesget away.” But if that were the case, how couldany combination of obstacles have hinderedthe flight of a man like Ethan Frome?

During my stay at Starkfield I lodged witha middle-aged widow colloquially known asMrs. Ned Hale. Mrs. Hale’s father had beenthe village lawyer of the previous generation,and “lawyer Varnum’s house,” where my land-

10

INTRODUCTION

lady still lived with her mother, was the mostconsiderable mansion in the village. It stoodat one end of the main street, its classic por-tico and small-paned windows looking downa flagged path between Norway spruces tothe slim white steeple of the Congregationalchurch. It was clear that the Varnum fortuneswere at the ebb, but the two women did whatthey could to preserve a decent dignity; andMrs. Hale, in particular, had a certain wan re-finement not out of keeping with her pale old-fashioned house.

In the “best parlour,” with its black horse-hair and mahogany weakly illuminated by agurgling Carcel lamp, I listened every eveningto another and more delicately shaded versionof the Starkfield chronicle. It was not that Mrs.Ned Hale felt, or affected, any social superi-

11

INTRODUCTION

ority to the people about her; it was only thatthe accident of a finer sensibility and a littlemore education had put just enough distancebetween herself and her neighbours to enableher to judge them with detachment. She wasnot unwilling to exercise this faculty, and I hadgreat hopes of getting from her the missingfacts of Ethan Frome’s story, or rather such akey to his character as should co-ordinate thefacts I knew. Her mind was a store-house of in-nocuous anecdote and any question about heracquaintances brought forth a volume of de-tail; but on the subject of Ethan Frome I foundher unexpectedly reticent. There was no hint ofdisapproval in her reserve; I merely felt in heran insurmountable reluctance to speak of himor his affairs, a low “Yes, I knew them both... itwas awful...” seeming to be the utmost conces-sion that her distress could make to my curios-

12

INTRODUCTION

ity.So marked was the change in her manner,

such depths of sad initiation did it imply, that,with some doubts as to my delicacy, I put thecase anew to my village oracle, Harmon Gow;but got for my pains only an uncomprehendinggrunt.

“Ruth Varnum was always as nervous as arat; and, come to think of it, she was the firstone to see ‘em after they was picked up. It hap-pened right below lawyer Varnum’s, down atthe bend of the Corbury road, just round aboutthe time that Ruth got engaged to Ned Hale.The young folks was all friends, and I guessshe just can’t bear to talk about it. She’s hadtroubles enough of her own.”

All the dwellers in Starkfield, as in more no-table communities, had had troubles enough of

13

INTRODUCTION

their own to make them comparatively indif-ferent to those of their neighbours; and thoughall conceded that Ethan Frome’s had been be-yond the common measure, no one gave mean explanation of the look in his face which,as I persisted in thinking, neither poverty norphysical suffering could have put there. Never-theless, I might have contented myself with thestory pieced together from these hints had itnot been for the provocation of Mrs. Hale’s si-lence, and–a little later–for the accident of per-sonal contact with the man.

On my arrival at Starkfield, Denis Eady, therich Irish grocer, who was the proprietor ofStarkfield’s nearest approach to a livery stable,had entered into an agreement to send me overdaily to Corbury Flats, where I had to pick upmy train for the Junction. But about the mid-

14

INTRODUCTION

dle of the winter Eady’s horses fell ill of a localepidemic. The illness spread to the other Stark-field stables and for a day or two I was putto it to find a means of transport. Then Har-mon Gow suggested that Ethan Frome’s baywas still on his legs and that his owner mightbe glad to drive me over.

I stared at the suggestion. “Ethan Frome?But I’ve never even spoken to him. Why onearth should he put himself out for me?”

Harmon’s answer surprised me still more.“I don’t know as he would; but I know hewouldn’t be sorry to earn a dollar.”

I had been told that Frome was poor, andthat the saw-mill and the arid acres of his farmyielded scarcely enough to keep his householdthrough the winter; but I had not supposedhim to be in such want as Harmon’s words im-

15

INTRODUCTION

plied, and I expressed my wonder.

“Well, matters ain’t gone any too well withhim,” Harmon said. “When a man’s been set-ting round like a hulk for twenty years or more,seeing things that want doing, it eats inter him,and he loses his grit. That Frome farm wasalways ‘bout as bare’s a milkpan when thecat’s been round; and you know what one ofthem old water-mills is wuth nowadays. WhenEthan could sweat over ‘em both from sunupto dark he kinder choked a living out of ‘em;but his folks ate up most everything, even then,and I don’t see how he makes out now. Fust hisfather got a kick, out haying, and went soft inthe brain, and gave away money like Bible textsafore he died. Then his mother got queer anddragged along for years as weak as a baby; andhis wife Zeena, she’s always been the greatest

16

INTRODUCTION

hand at doctoring in the county. Sickness andtrouble: that’s what Ethan’s had his plate fullup with, ever since the very first helping.”

The next morning, when I looked out, I sawthe hollow-backed bay between the Varnumspruces, and Ethan Frome, throwing back hisworn bearskin, made room for me in the sleighat his side. After that, for a week, he droveme over every morning to Corbury Flats, andon my return in the afternoon met me againand carried me back through the icy night toStarkfield. The distance each way was barelythree miles, but the old bay’s pace was slow,and even with firm snow under the runners wewere nearly an hour on the way. Ethan Fromedrove in silence, the reins loosely held in hisleft hand, his brown seamed profile, under thehelmet-like peak of the cap, relieved against

17

INTRODUCTION

the banks of snow like the bronze image of ahero. He never turned his face to mine, or an-swered, except in monosyllables, the questionsI put, or such slight pleasantries as I ventured.He seemed a part of the mute melancholy land-scape, an incarnation of its frozen woe, with allthat was warm and sentient in him fast boundbelow the surface; but there was nothing un-friendly in his silence. I simply felt that he livedin a depth of moral isolation too remote for ca-sual access, and I had the sense that his loneli-ness was not merely the result of his personalplight, tragic as I guessed that to be, but had init, as Harmon Gow had hinted, the profoundaccumulated cold of many Starkfield winters.

Only once or twice was the distance betweenus bridged for a moment; and the glimpsesthus gained confirmed my desire to know

18

INTRODUCTION

more. Once I happened to speak of an engi-neering job I had been on the previous year inFlorida, and of the contrast between the win-ter landscape about us and that in which I hadfound myself the year before; and to my sur-prise Frome said suddenly: “Yes: I was downthere once, and for a good while afterward Icould call up the sight of it in winter. But nowit’s all snowed under.”

He said no more, and I had to guess the restfrom the inflection of his voice and his sharprelapse into silence.

Another day, on getting into my train at theFlats, I missed a volume of popular science–Ithink it was on some recent discoveries in bio-chemistry–which I had carried with me to readon the way. I thought no more about it till I gotinto the sleigh again that evening, and saw the

19

INTRODUCTION

book in Frome’s hand.

“I found it after you were gone,” he said.

I put the volume into my pocket and wedropped back into our usual silence; but as webegan to crawl up the long hill from CorburyFlats to the Starkfield ridge I became aware inthe dusk that he had turned his face to mine.

“There are things in that book that I didn’tknow the first word about,” he said.

I wondered less at his words than at thequeer note of resentment in his voice. He wasevidently surprised and slightly aggrieved athis own ignorance.

“Does that sort of thing interest you?” Iasked.

“It used to.”

20

INTRODUCTION

“There are one or two rather new things inthe book: there have been some big strideslately in that particular line of research.” Iwaited a moment for an answer that did notcome; then I said: “If you’d like to look thebook through I’d be glad to leave it with you.”

He hesitated, and I had the impression thathe felt himself about to yield to a stealing tideof inertia; then, “Thank you–I’ll take it,” he an-swered shortly.

I hoped that this incident might set up somemore direct communication between us. Fromewas so simple and straightforward that I wassure his curiosity about the book was based ona genuine interest in its subject. Such tastes andacquirements in a man of his condition madethe contrast more poignant between his outersituation and his inner needs, and I hoped that

21

INTRODUCTION

the chance of giving expression to the lattermight at least unseal his lips. But somethingin his past history, or in his present way of liv-ing, had apparently driven him too deeply intohimself for any casual impulse to draw himback to his kind. At our next meeting he madeno allusion to the book, and our intercourseseemed fated to remain as negative and one-sided as if there had been no break in his re-serve.

Frome had been driving me over to the Flatsfor about a week when one morning I lookedout of my window into a thick snow-fall. Theheight of the white waves massed against thegarden-fence and along the wall of the churchshowed that the storm must have been goingon all night, and that the drifts were likely tobe heavy in the open. I thought it probable

22

INTRODUCTION

that my train would be delayed; but I had tobe at the power-house for an hour or two thatafternoon, and I decided, if Frome turned up,to push through to the Flats and wait there tillmy train came in. I don’t know why I put it inthe conditional, however, for I never doubtedthat Frome would appear. He was not thekind of man to be turned from his business byany commotion of the elements; and at the ap-pointed hour his sleigh glided up through thesnow like a stage-apparition behind thickeningveils of gauze.

I was getting to know him too well to expresseither wonder or gratitude at his keeping hisappointment; but I exclaimed in surprise as Isaw him turn his horse in a direction oppositeto that of the Corbury road.

“The railroad’s blocked by a freight-train

23

INTRODUCTION

that got stuck in a drift below the Flats,” heexplained, as we jogged off into the stingingwhiteness.

“But look here–where are you taking me,then?”

“Straight to the Junction, by the shortestway,” he answered, pointing up School HouseHill with his whip.

“To the Junction–in this storm? Why, it’s agood ten miles!”

“The bay’ll do it if you give him time. Yousaid you had some business there this after-noon. I’ll see you get there.”

He said it so quietly that I could only answer:“You’re doing me the biggest kind of a favour.”

“That’s all right,” he rejoined.

24

INTRODUCTION

Abreast of the schoolhouse the road forked,and we dipped down a lane to the left, betweenhemlock boughs bent inward to their trunks bythe weight of the snow. I had often walked thatway on Sundays, and knew that the solitaryroof showing through bare branches near thebottom of the hill was that of Frome’s saw-mill.It looked exanimate enough, with its idle wheellooming above the black stream dashed withyellow-white spume, and its cluster of shedssagging under their white load. Frome did noteven turn his head as we drove by, and stillin silence we began to mount the next slope.About a mile farther, on a road I had nevertravelled, we came to an orchard of starvedapple-trees writhing over a hillside among out-croppings of slate that nuzzled up through thesnow like animals pushing out their noses tobreathe. Beyond the orchard lay a field or two,

25

INTRODUCTION

their boundaries lost under drifts; and abovethe fields, huddled against the white immensi-ties of land and sky, one of those lonely NewEngland farm-houses that make the landscapelonelier.

“That’s my place,” said Frome, with a side-way jerk of his lame elbow; and in the distressand oppression of the scene I did not knowwhat to answer. The snow had ceased, anda flash of watery sunlight exposed the houseon the slope above us in all its plaintive ugli-ness. The black wraith of a deciduous creeperflapped from the porch, and the thin woodenwalls, under their worn coat of paint, seemedto shiver in the wind that had risen with theceasing of the snow.

“The house was bigger in my father’s time: Ihad to take down the ‘L,’ a while back,” Frome

26

INTRODUCTION

continued, checking with a twitch of the leftrein the bay’s evident intention of turning inthrough the broken-down gate.

I saw then that the unusually forlorn andstunted look of the house was partly due tothe loss of what is known in New Englandas the “L”: that long deep-roofed adjunct usu-ally built at right angles to the main house,and connecting it, by way of storerooms andtool-house, with the wood-shed and cow-barn.Whether because of its symbolic sense, the im-age it presents of a life linked with the soil, andenclosing in itself the chief sources of warmthand nourishment, or whether merely becauseof the consolatory thought that it enables thedwellers in that harsh climate to get to theirmorning’s work without facing the weather, itis certain that the “L” rather than the house it-

27

INTRODUCTION

self seems to be the centre, the actual hearth-stone of the New England farm. Perhaps thisconnection of ideas, which had often occurredto me in my rambles about Starkfield, causedme to hear a wistful note in Frome’s words, andto see in the diminished dwelling the image ofhis own shrunken body.

“We’re kinder side-tracked here now,” headded, “but there was considerable passing be-fore the railroad was carried through to theFlats.” He roused the lagging bay with an-other twitch; then, as if the mere sight of thehouse had let me too deeply into his confidencefor any farther pretence of reserve, he wenton slowly: “I’ve always set down the worstof mother’s trouble to that. When she got therheumatism so bad she couldn’t move aroundshe used to sit up there and watch the road

28

INTRODUCTION

by the hour; and one year, when they was sixmonths mending the Bettsbridge pike after thefloods, and Harmon Gow had to bring his stageround this way, she picked up so that she usedto get down to the gate most days to see him.But after the trains begun running nobody evercome by here to speak of, and mother nevercould get it through her head what had hap-pened, and it preyed on her right along till shedied.”

As we turned into the Corbury road thesnow began to fall again, cutting off our lastglimpse of the house; and Frome’s silence fellwith it, letting down between us the old veilof reticence. This time the wind did not ceasewith the return of the snow. Instead, it sprangup to a gale which now and then, from a tat-tered sky, flung pale sweeps of sunlight over a

29

INTRODUCTION

landscape chaotically tossed. But the bay wasas good as Frome’s word, and we pushed on tothe Junction through the wild white scene.

In the afternoon the storm held off, and theclearness in the west seemed to my inexperi-enced eye the pledge of a fair evening. I fin-ished my business as quickly as possible, andwe set out for Starkfield with a good chanceof getting there for supper. But at sunsetthe clouds gathered again, bringing an earliernight, and the snow began to fall straight andsteadily from a sky without wind, in a soft uni-versal diffusion more confusing than the gustsand eddies of the morning. It seemed to be apart of the thickening darkness, to be the win-ter night itself descending on us layer by layer.

The small ray of Frome’s lantern was soonlost in this smothering medium, in which even

30

INTRODUCTION

his sense of direction, and the bay’s hominginstinct, finally ceased to serve us. Two orthree times some ghostly landmark sprang upto warn us that we were astray, and then wassucked back into the mist; and when we finallyregained our road the old horse began to showsigns of exhaustion. I felt myself to blame forhaving accepted Frome’s offer, and after a shortdiscussion I persuaded him to let me get outof the sleigh and walk along through the snowat the bay’s side. In this way we struggled onfor another mile or two, and at last reached apoint where Frome, peering into what seemedto me formless night, said: “That’s my gatedown yonder.”

The last stretch had been the hardest part ofthe way. The bitter cold and the heavy goinghad nearly knocked the wind out of me, and I

31

INTRODUCTION

could feel the horse’s side ticking like a clockunder my hand.

“Look here, Frome,” I began, “there’s noearthly use in your going any farther–” but heinterrupted me: “Nor you neither. There’s beenabout enough of this for anybody.”

I understood that he was offering me anight’s shelter at the farm, and without answer-ing I turned into the gate at his side, and fol-lowed him to the barn, where I helped himto unharness and bed down the tired horse.When this was done he unhooked the lanternfrom the sleigh, stepped out again into thenight, and called to me over his shoulder: “Thisway.”

Far off above us a square of light trembledthrough the screen of snow. Staggering alongin Frome’s wake I floundered toward it, and in

32

INTRODUCTION

the darkness almost fell into one of the deepdrifts against the front of the house. Fromescrambled up the slippery steps of the porch,digging a way through the snow with his heav-ily booted foot. Then he lifted his lantern,found the latch, and led the way into the house.I went after him into a low unlit passage, at theback of which a ladder-like staircase rose intoobscurity. On our right a line of light markedthe door of the room which had sent its rayacross the night; and behind the door I hearda woman’s voice droning querulously.

Frome stamped on the worn oil-cloth toshake the snow from his boots, and set downhis lantern on a kitchen chair which was theonly piece of furniture in the hall. Then heopened the door.

“Come in,” he said; and as he spoke the

33

INTRODUCTION

droning voice grew still...It was that night that I found the clue to

Ethan Frome, and began to put together this vi-sion of his story.

34

I

THE village lay under two feet of snow, withdrifts at the windy corners. In a sky of

iron the points of the Dipper hung like iciclesand Orion flashed his cold fires. The moon hadset, but the night was so transparent that thewhite house-fronts between the elms lookedgray against the snow, clumps of bushes made

35

I

black stains on it, and the basement windowsof the church sent shafts of yellow light faracross the endless undulations.

Young Ethan Frome walked at a quick pacealong the deserted street, past the bank andMichael Eady’s new brick store and LawyerVarnum’s house with the two black Norwayspruces at the gate. Opposite the Varnum gate,where the road fell away toward the Corburyvalley, the church reared its slim white steepleand narrow peristyle. As the young manwalked toward it the upper windows drew ablack arcade along the side wall of the build-ing, but from the lower openings, on the sidewhere the ground sloped steeply down to theCorbury road, the light shot its long bars, illu-minating many fresh furrows in the track lead-ing to the basement door, and showing, under

36

I

an adjoining shed, a line of sleighs with heavilyblanketed horses.

The night was perfectly still, and the air sodry and pure that it gave little sensation of cold.The effect produced on Frome was rather ofa complete absence of atmosphere, as thoughnothing less tenuous than ether intervened be-tween the white earth under his feet and themetallic dome overhead. “It’s like being in anexhausted receiver,” he thought. Four or fiveyears earlier he had taken a year’s course ata technological college at Worcester, and dab-bled in the laboratory with a friendly profes-sor of physics; and the images supplied bythat experience still cropped up, at unexpectedmoments, through the totally different associ-ations of thought in which he had since beenliving. His father’s death, and the misfor-

37

I

tunes following it, had put a premature endto Ethan’s studies; but though they had notgone far enough to be of much practical usethey had fed his fancy and made him aware ofhuge cloudy meanings behind the daily face ofthings.

As he strode along through the snow thesense of such meanings glowed in his brainand mingled with the bodily flush producedby his sharp tramp. At the end of the vil-lage he paused before the darkened front of thechurch. He stood there a moment, breathingquickly, and looking up and down the street,in which not another figure moved. The pitchof the Corbury road, below lawyer Varnum’sspruces, was the favourite coasting-ground ofStarkfield, and on clear evenings the churchcorner rang till late with the shouts of the coast-

38

I

ers; but to-night not a sled darkened the white-ness of the long declivity. The hush of mid-night lay on the village, and all its wakinglife was gathered behind the church windows,from which strains of dance-music flowed withthe broad bands of yellow light.

The young man, skirting the side of thebuilding, went down the slope toward thebasement door. To keep out of range of therevealing rays from within he made a circuitthrough the untrodden snow and graduallyapproached the farther angle of the basementwall. Thence, still hugging the shadow, heedged his way cautiously forward to the near-est window, holding back his straight sparebody and craning his neck till he got a glimpseof the room.

Seen thus, from the pure and frosty darkness

39

I

in which he stood, it seemed to be seethingin a mist of heat. The metal reflectors of thegas-jets sent crude waves of light against thewhitewashed walls, and the iron flanks of thestove at the end of the hall looked as thoughthey were heaving with volcanic fires. Thefloor was thronged with girls and young men.Down the side wall facing the window stooda row of kitchen chairs from which the olderwomen had just risen. By this time the musichad stopped, and the musicians–a fiddler, andthe young lady who played the harmonium onSundays–were hastily refreshing themselves atone corner of the supper-table which alignedits devastated pie-dishes and ice-cream saucerson the platform at the end of the hall. Theguests were preparing to leave, and the tidehad already set toward the passage where coatsand wraps were hung, when a young man with

40

I

a sprightly foot and a shock of black hair shotinto the middle of the floor and clapped hishands. The signal took instant effect. The musi-cians hurried to their instruments, the dancers–some already half-muffled for departure–fellinto line down each side of the room, the olderspectators slipped back to their chairs, and thelively young man, after diving about here andthere in the throng, drew forth a girl who hadalready wound a cherry-coloured “fascinator”about her head, and, leading her up to the endof the floor, whirled her down its length to thebounding tune of a Virginia reel.

Frome’s heart was beating fast. He had beenstraining for a glimpse of the dark head underthe cherry-coloured scarf and it vexed him thatanother eye should have been quicker than his.The leader of the reel, who looked as if he had

41

I

Irish blood in his veins, danced well, and hispartner caught his fire. As she passed downthe line, her light figure swinging from handto hand in circles of increasing swiftness, thescarf flew off her head and stood out behindher shoulders, and Frome, at each turn, caughtsight of her laughing panting lips, the cloud ofdark hair about her forehead, and the dark eyeswhich seemed the only fixed points in a mazeof flying lines.

The dancers were going faster and faster,and the musicians, to keep up with them, be-laboured their instruments like jockeys lash-ing their mounts on the home-stretch; yet itseemed to the young man at the window thatthe reel would never end. Now and then heturned his eyes from the girl’s face to that ofher partner, which, in the exhilaration of the

42

I

dance, had taken on a look of almost impudentownership. Denis Eady was the son of MichaelEady, the ambitious Irish grocer, whose sup-pleness and effrontery had given Starkfield itsfirst notion of “smart” business methods, andwhose new brick store testified to the successof the attempt. His son seemed likely to fol-low in his steps, and was meanwhile applyingthe same arts to the conquest of the Starkfieldmaidenhood. Hitherto Ethan Frome had beencontent to think him a mean fellow; but nowhe positively invited a horse-whipping. It wasstrange that the girl did not seem aware of it:that she could lift her rapt face to her dancer’s,and drop her hands into his, without appearingto feel the offence of his look and touch.

Frome was in the habit of walking into Stark-field to fetch home his wife’s cousin, Mattie Sil-

43

I

ver, on the rare evenings when some chanceof amusement drew her to the village. It washis wife who had suggested, when the girlcame to live with them, that such opportuni-ties should be put in her way. Mattie Silvercame from Stamford, and when she entered theFromes’ household to act as her cousin Zeena’said it was thought best, as she came withoutpay, not to let her feel too sharp a contrast be-tween the life she had left and the isolation ofa Starkfield farm. But for this–as Frome sar-donically reflected–it would hardly have oc-curred to Zeena to take any thought for thegirl’s amusement.

When his wife first proposed that theyshould give Mattie an occasional evening outhe had inwardly demurred at having to do theextra two miles to the village and back after his

44

I

hard day on the farm; but not long afterwardhe had reached the point of wishing that Stark-field might give all its nights to revelry.

Mattie Silver had lived under his roof for ayear, and from early morning till they met atsupper he had frequent chances of seeing her;but no moments in her company were compa-rable to those when, her arm in his, and herlight step flying to keep time with his longstride, they walked back through the night tothe farm. He had taken to the girl from thefirst day, when he had driven over to the Flatsto meet her, and she had smiled and waved tohim from the train, crying out, “You must beEthan!” as she jumped down with her bun-dles, while he reflected, looking over her slightperson: “She don’t look much on housework,but she ain’t a fretter, anyhow.” But it was not

45

I

only that the coming to his house of a bit ofhopeful young life was like the lighting of a fireon a cold hearth. The girl was more than thebright serviceable creature he had thought her.She had an eye to see and an ear to hear: hecould show her things and tell her things, andtaste the bliss of feeling that all he imparted leftlong reverberations and echoes he could wakeat will.

It was during their night walks back to thefarm that he felt most intensely the sweetnessof this communion. He had always been moresensitive than the people about him to the ap-peal of natural beauty. His unfinished studieshad given form to this sensibility and even inhis unhappiest moments field and sky spoke tohim with a deep and powerful persuasion. Buthitherto the emotion had remained in him as a

46

I

silent ache, veiling with sadness the beauty thatevoked it. He did not even know whether anyone else in the world felt as he did, or whetherhe was the sole victim of this mournful priv-ilege. Then he learned that one other spirithad trembled with the same touch of wonder:that at his side, living under his roof and eat-ing his bread, was a creature to whom he couldsay: “That’s Orion down yonder; the big fel-low to the right is Aldebaran, and the bunchof little ones–like bees swarming–they’re thePleiades...” or whom he could hold entrancedbefore a ledge of granite thrusting up throughthe fern while he unrolled the huge panoramaof the ice age, and the long dim stretches ofsucceeding time. The fact that admiration forhis learning mingled with Mattie’s wonder atwhat he taught was not the least part of hispleasure. And there were other sensations, less

47

I

definable but more exquisite, which drew themtogether with a shock of silent joy: the coldred of sunset behind winter hills, the flightof cloud-flocks over slopes of golden stubble,or the intensely blue shadows of hemlocks onsunlit snow. When she said to him once: “Itlooks just as if it was painted!” it seemed toEthan that the art of definition could go no far-ther, and that words had at last been found toutter his secret soul....

As he stood in the darkness outside thechurch these memories came back with thepoignancy of vanished things. Watching Mat-tie whirl down the floor from hand to handhe wondered how he could ever have thoughtthat his dull talk interested her. To him, whowas never gay but in her presence, her gaietyseemed plain proof of indifference. The face

48

I

she lifted to her dancers was the same which,when she saw him, always looked like a win-dow that has caught the sunset. He even no-ticed two or three gestures which, in his fatu-ity, he had thought she kept for him: a way ofthrowing her head back when she was amused,as if to taste her laugh before she let it out, and atrick of sinking her lids slowly when anythingcharmed or moved her.

The sight made him unhappy, and his un-happiness roused his latent fears. His wife hadnever shown any jealousy of Mattie, but of lateshe had grumbled increasingly over the house-work and found oblique ways of attracting at-tention to the girl’s inefficiency. Zeena had al-ways been what Starkfield called “sickly,” andFrome had to admit that, if she were as ail-ing as she believed, she needed the help of a

49

I

stronger arm than the one which lay so lightlyin his during the night walks to the farm. Mat-tie had no natural turn for housekeeping, andher training had done nothing to remedy thedefect. She was quick to learn, but forgetfuland dreamy, and not disposed to take the mat-ter seriously. Ethan had an idea that if she wereto marry a man she was fond of the dormantinstinct would wake, and her pies and biscuitsbecome the pride of the county; but domestic-ity in the abstract did not interest her. At firstshe was so awkward that he could not helplaughing at her; but she laughed with him andthat made them better friends. He did his bestto supplement her unskilled efforts, getting upearlier than usual to light the kitchen fire, car-rying in the wood overnight, and neglectingthe mill for the farm that he might help herabout the house during the day. He even crept

50

I

down on Saturday nights to scrub the kitchenfloor after the women had gone to bed; andZeena, one day, had surprised him at the churnand had turned away silently, with one of herqueer looks.

Of late there had been other signs of her dis-favour, as intangible but more disquieting. Onecold winter morning, as he dressed in the dark,his candle flickering in the draught of the ill-fitting window, he had heard her speak fromthe bed behind him.

“The doctor don’t want I should be left with-out anybody to do for me,” she said in her flatwhine.

He had supposed her to be asleep, and thesound of her voice had startled him, thoughshe was given to abrupt explosions of speechafter long intervals of secretive silence.

51

I

He turned and looked at her where shelay indistinctly outlined under the dark cal-ico quilt, her high-boned face taking a grayishtinge from the whiteness of the pillow.

“Nobody to do for you?” he repeated.“If you say you can’t afford a hired girl when

Mattie goes.”Frome turned away again, and taking up

his razor stooped to catch the reflection of hisstretched cheek in the blotched looking-glassabove the wash-stand.

“Why on earth should Mattie go?”“Well, when she gets married, I mean,” his

wife’s drawl came from behind him.“Oh, she’d never leave us as long as you

needed her,” he returned, scraping hard at hischin.

52

I

“I wouldn’t ever have it said that I stood inthe way of a poor girl like Mattie marrying asmart fellow like Denis Eady,” Zeena answeredin a tone of plaintive self-effacement.

Ethan, glaring at his face in the glass, threwhis head back to draw the razor from ear tochin. His hand was steady, but the attitude wasan excuse for not making an immediate reply.

“And the doctor don’t want I should beleft without anybody,” Zeena continued. “Hewanted I should speak to you about a girl he’sheard about, that might come–”

Ethan laid down the razor and straightenedhimself with a laugh.

“Denis Eady! If that’s all, I guess there’s nosuch hurry to look round for a girl.”

“Well, I’d like to talk to you about it,” saidZeena obstinately.

53

I

He was getting into his clothes in fumblinghaste. “All right. But I haven’t got the timenow; I’m late as it is,” he returned, holding hisold silver turnip-watch to the candle.

Zeena, apparently accepting this as final, laywatching him in silence while he pulled hissuspenders over his shoulders and jerked hisarms into his coat; but as he went towardthe door she said, suddenly and incisively: “Iguess you’re always late, now you shave everymorning.”

That thrust had frightened him more thanany vague insinuations about Denis Eady. Itwas a fact that since Mattie Silver’s cominghe had taken to shaving every day; but hiswife always seemed to be asleep when he lefther side in the winter darkness, and he hadstupidly assumed that she would not notice

54

I

any change in his appearance. Once or twicein the past he had been faintly disquieted byZenobia’s way of letting things happen with-out seeming to remark them, and then, weeksafterward, in a casual phrase, revealing that shehad all along taken her notes and drawn her in-ferences. Of late, however, there had been noroom in his thoughts for such vague apprehen-sions. Zeena herself, from an oppressive real-ity, had faded into an insubstantial shade. Allhis life was lived in the sight and sound of Mat-tie Silver, and he could no longer conceive of itsbeing otherwise. But now, as he stood outsidethe church, and saw Mattie spinning down thefloor with Denis Eady, a throng of disregardedhints and menaces wove their cloud about hisbrain....

55

II

AS the dancers poured out of the hallFrome, drawing back behind the project-

ing storm-door, watched the segregation of thegrotesquely muffled groups, in which a mov-ing lantern ray now and then lit up a faceflushed with food and dancing. The villagers,being afoot, were the first to climb the slope

56

II

to the main street, while the country neigh-bours packed themselves more slowly into thesleighs under the shed.

“Ain’t you riding, Mattie?” a woman’s voicecalled back from the throng about the shed,and Ethan’s heart gave a jump. From where hestood he could not see the persons coming outof the hall till they had advanced a few stepsbeyond the wooden sides of the storm-door;but through its cracks he heard a clear voice an-swer: “Mercy no! Not on such a night.”

She was there, then, close to him, only a thinboard between. In another moment she wouldstep forth into the night, and his eyes, accus-tomed to the obscurity, would discern her asclearly as though she stood in daylight. A waveof shyness pulled him back into the dark an-gle of the wall, and he stood there in silence

57

II

instead of making his presence known to her.It had been one of the wonders of their in-tercourse that from the first, she, the quicker,finer, more expressive, instead of crushing himby the contrast, had given him something ofher own ease and freedom; but now he felt asheavy and loutish as in his student days, whenhe had tried to “jolly” the Worcester girls at apicnic.

He hung back, and she came out alone andpaused within a few yards of him. She was al-most the last to leave the hall, and she stoodlooking uncertainly about her as if wonderingwhy he did not show himself. Then a man’sfigure approached, coming so close to her thatunder their formless wrappings they seemedmerged in one dim outline.

“Gentleman friend gone back on you? Say,

58

II

Matt, that’s tough! No, I wouldn’t be meanenough to tell the other girls. I ain’t as low-down as that.” (How Frome hated his cheapbanter!) “But look a here, ain’t it lucky I got theold man’s cutter down there waiting for us?”

Frome heard the girl’s voice, gaily incred-ulous: “What on earth’s your father’s cutterdoin’ down there?”

“Why, waiting for me to take a ride. I got theroan colt too. I kinder knew I’d want to takea ride to-night,” Eady, in his triumph, tried toput a sentimental note into his bragging voice.

The girl seemed to waver, and Frome sawher twirl the end of her scarf irresolutely abouther fingers. Not for the world would he havemade a sign to her, though it seemed to himthat his life hung on her next gesture.

“Hold on a minute while I unhitch the colt,”

59

II

Denis called to her, springing toward the shed.She stood perfectly still, looking after him,

in an attitude of tranquil expectancy torturingto the hidden watcher. Frome noticed that sheno longer turned her head from side to side,as though peering through the night for an-other figure. She let Denis Eady lead out thehorse, climb into the cutter and fling back thebearskin to make room for her at his side; then,with a swift motion of flight, she turned aboutand darted up the slope toward the front of thechurch.

“Good-bye! Hope you’ll have a lovely ride!”she called back to him over her shoulder.

Denis laughed, and gave the horse a cut thatbrought him quickly abreast of her retreatingfigure.

“Come along! Get in quick! It’s as slippery

60

II

as thunder on this turn,” he cried, leaning overto reach out a hand to her.

She laughed back at him: “Good-night! I’mnot getting in.”

By this time they had passed beyondFrome’s earshot and he could only follow theshadowy pantomime of their silhouettes asthey continued to move along the crest of theslope above him. He saw Eady, after a mo-ment, jump from the cutter and go toward thegirl with the reins over one arm. The other hetried to slip through hers; but she eluded himnimbly, and Frome’s heart, which had swungout over a black void, trembled back to safety.A moment later he heard the jingle of depart-ing sleigh bells and discerned a figure advanc-ing alone toward the empty expanse of snowbefore the church.

61

II

In the black shade of the Varnum spruces hecaught up with her and she turned with a quick“Oh!”

“Think I’d forgotten you, Matt?” he askedwith sheepish glee.

She answered seriously: “I thought maybeyou couldn’t come back for me.”

“Couldn’t? What on earth could stop me?”

“I knew Zeena wasn’t feeling any too goodto-day.”

“Oh, she’s in bed long ago.” He paused, aquestion struggling in him. “Then you meantto walk home all alone?”

“Oh, I ain’t afraid!” she laughed.

They stood together in the gloom of thespruces, an empty world glimmering about

62

II

them wide and grey under the stars. Hebrought his question out.

“If you thought I hadn’t come, why didn’tyou ride back with Denis Eady?”

“Why, where were you? How did youknow? I never saw you!”

Her wonder and his laughter ran togetherlike spring rills in a thaw. Ethan had the senseof having done something arch and ingenious.To prolong the effect he groped for a dazzlingphrase, and brought out, in a growl of rapture:“Come along.”

He slipped an arm through hers, as Eady haddone, and fancied it was faintly pressed againsther side, but neither of them moved. It wasso dark under the spruces that he could barelysee the shape of her head beside his shoulder.

63

II

He longed to stoop his cheek and rub it againsther scarf. He would have liked to stand therewith her all night in the blackness. She movedforward a step or two and then paused againabove the dip of the Corbury road. Its icy slope,scored by innumerable runners, looked like amirror scratched by travellers at an inn.

“There was a whole lot of them coasting be-fore the moon set,” she said.

“Would you like to come in and coast withthem some night?” he asked.

“Oh, would you, Ethan? It would be lovely!”

“We’ll come to-morrow if there’s a moon.”

She lingered, pressing closer to his side.“Ned Hale and Ruth Varnum came just as nearrunning into the big elm at the bottom. Wewere all sure they were killed.” Her shiver ran

64

II

down his arm. “Wouldn’t it have been too aw-ful? They’re so happy!”

“Oh, Ned ain’t much at steering. I guess Ican take you down all right!” he said disdain-fully.

He was aware that he was “talking big,” likeDenis Eady; but his reaction of joy had un-steadied him, and the inflection with which shehad said of the engaged couple “They’re sohappy!” made the words sound as if she hadbeen thinking of herself and him.

“The elm is dangerous, though. It ought tobe cut down,” she insisted.

“Would you be afraid of it, with me?”

“I told you I ain’t the kind to be afraid”she tossed back, almost indifferently; and sud-denly she began to walk on with a rapid step.

65

II

These alterations of mood were the despairand joy of Ethan Frome. The motions of hermind were as incalculable as the flit of a birdin the branches. The fact that he had no right toshow his feelings, and thus provoke the expres-sion of hers, made him attach a fantastic im-portance to every change in her look and tone.Now he thought she understood him, andfeared; now he was sure she did not, and de-spaired. To-night the pressure of accumulatedmisgivings sent the scale drooping toward de-spair, and her indifference was the more chill-ing after the flush of joy into which she hadplunged him by dismissing Denis Eady. Hemounted School House Hill at her side andwalked on in silence till they reached the laneleading to the saw-mill; then the need of somedefinite assurance grew too strong for him.

66

II

“You’d have found me right off if you hadn’tgone back to have that last reel with Denis,”he brought out awkwardly. He could not pro-nounce the name without a stiffening of themuscles of his throat.

“Why, Ethan, how could I tell you werethere?”

“I suppose what folks say is true,” he jerkedout at her, instead of answering.

She stopped short, and he felt, in the dark-ness, that her face was lifted quickly to his.“Why, what do folks say?”

“It’s natural enough you should be leavingus” he floundered on, following his thought.

“Is that what they say?” she mocked backat him; then, with a sudden drop of her sweettreble: “You mean that Zeena–ain’t suited withme any more?” she faltered.

67

II

Their arms had slipped apart and they stoodmotionless, each seeking to distinguish theother’s face.

“I know I ain’t anything like as smart as Iought to be,” she went on, while he vainlystruggled for expression. “There’s lots ofthings a hired girl could do that come awkwardto me still–and I haven’t got much strengthin my arms. But if she’d only tell me I’d try.You know she hardly ever says anything, andsometimes I can see she ain’t suited, and yet Idon’t know why.” She turned on him with asudden flash of indignation. “You’d ought totell me, Ethan Frome–you’d ought to! Unlessyou want me to go too–”

Unless he wanted her to go too! The crywas balm to his raw wound. The iron heav-ens seemed to melt and rain down sweetness.

68

II

Again he struggled for the all-expressive word,and again, his arm in hers, found only a deep“Come along.”

They walked on in silence through theblackness of the hemlock-shaded lane, whereEthan’s sawmill gloomed through the night,and out again into the comparative clearnessof the fields. On the farther side of the hem-lock belt the open country rolled away beforethem grey and lonely under the stars. Some-times their way led them under the shade of anoverhanging bank or through the thin obscu-rity of a clump of leafless trees. Here and therea farmhouse stood far back among the fields,mute and cold as a grave-stone. The night wasso still that they heard the frozen snow crackleunder their feet. The crash of a loaded branchfalling far off in the woods reverberated like a

69

II

musket-shot, and once a fox barked, and Mat-tie shrank closer to Ethan, and quickened hersteps.

At length they sighted the group of larches atEthan’s gate, and as they drew near it the sensethat the walk was over brought back his words.

“Then you don’t want to leave us, Matt?”

He had to stoop his head to catch her stifledwhisper: “Where’d I go, if I did?”

The answer sent a pang through him butthe tone suffused him with joy. He forgotwhat else he had meant to say and pressed heragainst him so closely that he seemed to feelher warmth in his veins.

“You ain’t crying are you, Matt?”

“No, of course I’m not,” she quavered.

70

II

They turned in at the gate and passed un-der the shaded knoll where, enclosed in a lowfence, the Frome grave-stones slanted at crazyangles through the snow. Ethan looked at themcuriously. For years that quiet company hadmocked his restlessness, his desire for changeand freedom. “We never got away–how shouldyou?” seemed to be written on every head-stone; and whenever he went in or out of hisgate he thought with a shiver: “I shall just goon living here till I join them.” But now all de-sire for change had vanished, and the sight ofthe little enclosure gave him a warm sense ofcontinuance and stability.

“I guess we’ll never let you go, Matt,” hewhispered, as though even the dead, loversonce, must conspire with him to keep her; andbrushing by the graves, he thought: “We’ll al-

71

II

ways go on living here together, and some dayshe’ll lie there beside me.”

He let the vision possess him as they climbedthe hill to the house. He was never so happywith her as when he abandoned himself tothese dreams. Half-way up the slope Mattiestumbled against some unseen obstruction andclutched his sleeve to steady herself. The waveof warmth that went through him was like theprolongation of his vision. For the first time hestole his arm about her, and she did not resist.They walked on as if they were floating on asummer stream.

Zeena always went to bed as soon as she hadhad her supper, and the shutterless windowsof the house were dark. A dead cucumber-vinedangled from the porch like the crape streamertied to the door for a death, and the thought

72

II

flashed through Ethan’s brain: “If it was therefor Zeena–” Then he had a distinct sight of hiswife lying in their bedroom asleep, her mouthslightly open, her false teeth in a tumbler by thebed...

They walked around to the back of thehouse, between the rigid gooseberry bushes. Itwas Zeena’s habit, when they came back latefrom the village, to leave the key of the kitchendoor under the mat. Ethan stood before thedoor, his head heavy with dreams, his arm stillabout Mattie. “Matt–” he began, not knowingwhat he meant to say.

She slipped out of his hold without speak-ing, and he stooped down and felt for the key.

“It’s not there!” he said, straightening him-self with a start.

They strained their eyes at each other

73

II

through the icy darkness. Such a thing hadnever happened before.

“Maybe she’s forgotten it,” Mattie said in atremulous whisper; but both of them knew thatit was not like Zeena to forget.

“It might have fallen off into the snow,” Mat-tie continued, after a pause during which theyhad stood intently listening.

“It must have been pushed off, then,” he re-joined in the same tone. Another wild thoughttore through him. What if tramps had beenthere–what if...

Again he listened, fancying he heard a dis-tant sound in the house; then he felt in hispocket for a match, and kneeling down, passedits light slowly over the rough edges of snowabout the doorstep.

74

II

He was still kneeling when his eyes, on alevel with the lower panel of the door, caughta faint ray beneath it. Who could be stirring inthat silent house? He heard a step on the stairs,and again for an instant the thought of trampstore through him. Then the door opened andhe saw his wife.

Against the dark background of the kitchenshe stood up tall and angular, one hand draw-ing a quilted counterpane to her flat breast,while the other held a lamp. The light, on alevel with her chin, drew out of the darknessher puckered throat and the projecting wrist ofthe hand that clutched the quilt, and deepenedfantastically the hollows and prominences ofher high-boned face under its ring of crimping-pins. To Ethan, still in the rosy haze of his hourwith Mattie, the sight came with the intense

75

II

precision of the last dream before waking. Hefelt as if he had never before known what hiswife looked like.

She drew aside without speaking, and Mat-tie and Ethan passed into the kitchen, whichhad the deadly chill of a vault after the dry coldof the night.

“Guess you forgot about us, Zeena,” Ethanjoked, stamping the snow from his boots.

“No. I just felt so mean I couldn’t sleep.”

Mattie came forward, unwinding her wraps,the colour of the cherry scarf in her fresh lipsand cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Zeena! Isn’t thereanything I can do?”

“No; there’s nothing.” Zeena turned awayfrom her. “You might ‘a’ shook off that snowoutside,” she said to her husband.

76

II

She walked out of the kitchen ahead of themand pausing in the hall raised the lamp atarm’s-length, as if to light them up the stairs.

Ethan paused also, affecting to fumble forthe peg on which he hung his coat and cap. Thedoors of the two bedrooms faced each otheracross the narrow upper landing, and to-nightit was peculiarly repugnant to him that Mattieshould see him follow Zeena.

“I guess I won’t come up yet awhile,” hesaid, turning as if to go back to the kitchen.

Zeena stopped short and looked at him. “Forthe land’s sake–what you going to do downhere?”

“I’ve got the mill accounts to go over.”She continued to stare at him, the flame of

the unshaded lamp bringing out with micro-scopic cruelty the fretful lines of her face.

77

II

“At this time o’ night? You’ll ketch yourdeath. The fire’s out long ago.”

Without answering he moved away towardthe kitchen. As he did so his glance crossedMattie’s and he fancied that a fugitive warninggleamed through her lashes. The next momentthey sank to her flushed cheeks and she beganto mount the stairs ahead of Zeena.

“That’s so. It is powerful cold down here,”Ethan assented; and with lowered head hewent up in his wife’s wake, and followed heracross the threshold of their room.

78

III

THERE was some hauling to be done at thelower end of the wood-lot, and Ethan was

out early the next day.The winter morning was as clear as crystal.

The sunrise burned red in a pure sky, the shad-ows on the rim of the wood-lot were darklyblue, and beyond the white and scintillating

79

III

fields patches of far-off forest hung like smoke.

It was in the early morning stillness, whenhis muscles were swinging to their famil-iar task and his lungs expanding with longdraughts of mountain air, that Ethan did hisclearest thinking. He and Zeena had not ex-changed a word after the door of their roomhad closed on them. She had measured outsome drops from a medicine-bottle on a chairby the bed and, after swallowing them, andwrapping her head in a piece of yellow flan-nel, had lain down with her face turned away.Ethan undressed hurriedly and blew out thelight so that he should not see her when he tookhis place at her side. As he lay there he couldhear Mattie moving about in her room, and hercandle, sending its small ray across the land-ing, drew a scarcely perceptible line of light

80

III

under his door. He kept his eyes fixed on thelight till it vanished. Then the room grew per-fectly black, and not a sound was audible butZeena’s asthmatic breathing. Ethan felt con-fusedly that there were many things he oughtto think about, but through his tingling veinsand tired brain only one sensation throbbed:the warmth of Mattie’s shoulder against his.Why had he not kissed her when he held herthere? A few hours earlier he would not haveasked himself the question. Even a few min-utes earlier, when they had stood alone outsidethe house, he would not have dared to think ofkissing her. But since he had seen her lips inthe lamplight he felt that they were his.

Now, in the bright morning air, her face wasstill before him. It was part of the sun’s redand of the pure glitter on the snow. How the

81

III

girl had changed since she had come to Stark-field! He remembered what a colourless slipof a thing she had looked the day he had mether at the station. And all the first winter, howshe had shivered with cold when the northerlygales shook the thin clapboards and the snowbeat like hail against the loose-hung windows!

He had been afraid that she would hate thehard life, the cold and loneliness; but not asign of discontent escaped her. Zeena took theview that Mattie was bound to make the best ofStarkfield since she hadn’t any other place to goto; but this did not strike Ethan as conclusive.Zeena, at any rate, did not apply the principlein her own case.

He felt all the more sorry for the girl be-cause misfortune had, in a sense, indenturedher to them. Mattie Silver was the daugh-

82

III

ter of a cousin of Zenobia Frome’s, who hadinflamed his clan with mingled sentiments ofenvy and admiration by descending from thehills to Connecticut, where he had married aStamford girl and succeeded to her father’sthriving “drug” business. Unhappily Orin Sil-ver, a man of far-reaching aims, had died toosoon to prove that the end justifies the means.His accounts revealed merely what the meanshad been; and these were such that it was for-tunate for his wife and daughter that his bookswere examined only after his impressive fu-neral. His wife died of the disclosure, and Mat-tie, at twenty, was left alone to make her wayon the fifty dollars obtained from the sale of herpiano. For this purpose her equipment, thoughvaried, was inadequate. She could trim a hat,make molasses candy, recite “Curfew shall notring to-night,” and play “The Lost Chord” and

83

III

a pot-pourri from “Carmen.” When she tried toextend the field of her activities in the directionof stenography and book-keeping her healthbroke down, and six months on her feet behindthe counter of a department store did not tendto restore it. Her nearest relations had beeninduced to place their savings in her father’shands, and though, after his death, they un-grudgingly acquitted themselves of the Chris-tian duty of returning good for evil by givinghis daughter all the advice at their disposal,they could hardly be expected to supplementit by material aid. But when Zenobia’s doc-tor recommended her looking about for someone to help her with the house-work the claninstantly saw the chance of exacting a compen-sation from Mattie. Zenobia, though doubtfulof the girl’s efficiency, was tempted by the free-dom to find fault without much risk of losing

84

III

her; and so Mattie came to Starkfield.

Zenobia’s fault-finding was of the silentkind, but not the less penetrating for that. Dur-ing the first months Ethan alternately burnedwith the desire to see Mattie defy her and trem-bled with fear of the result. Then the situa-tion grew less strained. The pure air, and thelong summer hours in the open, gave back lifeand elasticity to Mattie, and Zeena, with moreleisure to devote to her complex ailments, grewless watchful of the girl’s omissions; so thatEthan, struggling on under the burden of hisbarren farm and failing saw-mill, could at leastimagine that peace reigned in his house.

There was really, even now, no tangible ev-idence to the contrary; but since the previ-ous night a vague dread had hung on his sky-line. It was formed of Zeena’s obstinate si-

85

III

lence, of Mattie’s sudden look of warning, ofthe memory of just such fleeting imperceptiblesigns as those which told him, on certain stain-less mornings, that before night there would berain.

His dread was so strong that, man-like, hesought to postpone certainty. The hauling wasnot over till mid-day, and as the lumber wasto be delivered to Andrew Hale, the Starkfieldbuilder, it was really easier for Ethan to sendJotham Powell, the hired man, back to the farmon foot, and drive the load down to the vil-lage himself. He had scrambled up on the logs,and was sitting astride of them, close over hisshaggy grays, when, coming between him andtheir streaming necks, he had a vision of thewarning look that Mattie had given him thenight before.

86

III

“If there’s going to be any trouble I want tobe there,” was his vague reflection, as he threwto Jotham the unexpected order to unhitch theteam and lead them back to the barn.

It was a slow trudge home through theheavy fields, and when the two men enteredthe kitchen Mattie was lifting the coffee fromthe stove and Zeena was already at the table.Her husband stopped short at sight of her. In-stead of her usual calico wrapper and knit-ted shawl she wore her best dress of brownmerino, and above her thin strands of hair,which still preserved the tight undulations ofthe crimping-pins, rose a hard perpendicularbonnet, as to which Ethan’s clearest notion wasthat he had to pay five dollars for it at theBettsbridge Emporium. On the floor beside herstood his old valise and a bandbox wrapped in

87

III

newspapers.“Why, where are you going, Zeena?” he ex-

claimed.“I’ve got my shooting pains so bad that I’m

going over to Bettsbridge to spend the nightwith Aunt Martha Pierce and see that new doc-tor,” she answered in a matter-of-fact tone, as ifshe had said she was going into the store-roomto take a look at the preserves, or up to the atticto go over the blankets.

In spite of her sedentary habits such abruptdecisions were not without precedent inZeena’s history. Twice or thrice before she hadsuddenly packed Ethan’s valise and started offto Bettsbridge, or even Springfield, to seek theadvice of some new doctor, and her husbandhad grown to dread these expeditions becauseof their cost. Zeena always came back laden

88

III

with expensive remedies, and her last visit toSpringfield had been commemorated by herpaying twenty dollars for an electric batteryof which she had never been able to learn theuse. But for the moment his sense of relief wasso great as to preclude all other feelings. Hehad now no doubt that Zeena had spoken thetruth in saying, the night before, that she hadsat up because she felt “too mean” to sleep: herabrupt resolve to seek medical advice showedthat, as usual, she was wholly absorbed in herhealth.

As if expecting a protest, she continuedplaintively; “If you’re too busy with the haul-ing I presume you can let Jotham Powell driveme over with the sorrel in time to ketch thetrain at the Flats.”

Her husband hardly heard what she was

89

III

saying. During the winter months there wasno stage between Starkfield and Bettsbridge,and the trains which stopped at Corbury Flatswere slow and infrequent. A rapid calculationshowed Ethan that Zeena could not be back atthe farm before the following evening....

“If I’d supposed you’d ‘a’ made any objec-tion to Jotham Powell’s driving me over–” shebegan again, as though his silence had impliedrefusal. On the brink of departure she was al-ways seized with a flux of words. “All I knowis,” she continued, “I can’t go on the way I ammuch longer. The pains are clear away downto my ankles now, or I’d ‘a’ walked in to Stark-field on my own feet, sooner’n put you out,and asked Michael Eady to let me ride over onhis wagon to the Flats, when he sends to meetthe train that brings his groceries. I’d ‘a’ had

90

III

two hours to wait in the station, but I’d sooner‘a’ done it, even with this cold, than to haveyou say–”

“Of course Jotham’ll drive you over,” Ethanroused himself to answer. He became sud-denly conscious that he was looking at Mattiewhile Zeena talked to him, and with an efforthe turned his eyes to his wife. She sat oppo-site the window, and the pale light reflectedfrom the banks of snow made her face lookmore than usually drawn and bloodless, sharp-ened the three parallel creases between ear andcheek, and drew querulous lines from her thinnose to the corners of her mouth. Though shewas but seven years her husband’s senior, andhe was only twenty-eight, she was already anold woman.

Ethan tried to say something befitting the oc-

91

III

casion, but there was only one thought in hismind: the fact that, for the first time since Mat-tie had come to live with them, Zeena was to beaway for a night. He wondered if the girl werethinking of it too....

He knew that Zeena must be wonderingwhy he did not offer to drive her to the Flatsand let Jotham Powell take the lumber to Stark-field, and at first he could not think of a pretextfor not doing so; then he said: “I’d take youover myself, only I’ve got to collect the cash forthe lumber.”

As soon as the words were spoken he re-gretted them, not only because they wereuntrue–there being no prospect of his receivingcash payment from Hale–but also because heknew from experience the imprudence of let-ting Zeena think he was in funds on the eve of

92

III

one of her therapeutic excursions. At the mo-ment, however, his one desire was to avoid thelong drive with her behind the ancient sorrelwho never went out of a walk.

Zeena made no reply: she did not seemto hear what he had said. She had alreadypushed her plate aside, and was measuring outa draught from a large bottle at her elbow.

“It ain’t done me a speck of good, but Iguess I might as well use it up,” she remarked;adding, as she pushed the empty bottle towardMattie: “If you can get the taste out it’ll do forpickles.”

93

IV

AS soon as his wife had driven off Ethantook his coat and cap from the peg. Mat-

tie was washing up the dishes, humming oneof the dance tunes of the night before. He said“So long, Matt,” and she answered gaily “Solong, Ethan”; and that was all.

It was warm and bright in the kitchen. The

94

IV

sun slanted through the south window on thegirl’s moving figure, on the cat dozing in achair, and on the geraniums brought in fromthe door-way, where Ethan had planted themin the summer to “make a garden” for Mattie.He would have liked to linger on, watching hertidy up and then settle down to her sewing; buthe wanted still more to get the hauling doneand be back at the farm before night.

All the way down to the village he continuedto think of his return to Mattie. The kitchen wasa poor place, not “spruce” and shining as hismother had kept it in his boyhood; but it wassurprising what a homelike look the mere factof Zeena’s absence gave it. And he picturedwhat it would be like that evening, when heand Mattie were there after supper. For the firsttime they would be alone together indoors, and

95

IV

they would sit there, one on each side of thestove, like a married couple, he in his stockingfeet and smoking his pipe, she laughing andtalking in that funny way she had, which wasalways as new to him as if he had never heardher before.

The sweetness of the picture, and the re-lief of knowing that his fears of “trouble” withZeena were unfounded, sent up his spirits witha rush, and he, who was usually so silent, whis-tled and sang aloud as he drove through thesnowy fields. There was in him a slumber-ing spark of sociability which the long Stark-field winters had not yet extinguished. By na-ture grave and inarticulate, he admired reck-lessness and gaiety in others and was warmedto the marrow by friendly human intercourse.At Worcester, though he had the name of keep-

96

IV

ing to himself and not being much of a handat a good time, he had secretly gloried in beingclapped on the back and hailed as “Old Ethe”or “Old Stiff”; and the cessation of such famil-iarities had increased the chill of his return toStarkfield.

There the silence had deepened about himyear by year. Left alone, after his father’s ac-cident, to carry the burden of farm and mill, hehad had no time for convivial loiterings in thevillage; and when his mother fell ill the lone-liness of the house grew more oppressive thanthat of the fields. His mother had been a talkerin her day, but after her “trouble” the sound ofher voice was seldom heard, though she hadnot lost the power of speech. Sometimes, in thelong winter evenings, when in desperation herson asked her why she didn’t “say something,”

97

IV

she would lift a finger and answer: “BecauseI’m listening”; and on stormy nights, when theloud wind was about the house, she wouldcomplain, if he spoke to her: “They’re talkingso out there that I can’t hear you.”

It was only when she drew toward her lastillness, and his cousin Zenobia Pierce cameover from the next valley to help him nurseher, that human speech was heard again in thehouse. After the mortal silence of his long im-prisonment Zeena’s volubility was music in hisears. He felt that he might have “gone like hismother” if the sound of a new voice had notcome to steady him. Zeena seemed to under-stand his case at a glance. She laughed at himfor not knowing the simplest sick-bed dutiesand told him to “go right along out” and leaveher to see to things. The mere fact of obeying

98

IV

her orders, of feeling free to go about his busi-ness again and talk with other men, restoredhis shaken balance and magnified his sense ofwhat he owed her. Her efficiency shamed anddazzled him. She seemed to possess by instinctall the household wisdom that his long appren-ticeship had not instilled in him. When the endcame it was she who had to tell him to hitchup and go for the undertaker, and she thoughtit “funny” that he had not settled beforehandwho was to have his mother’s clothes and thesewing-machine. After the funeral, when hesaw her preparing to go away, he was seizedwith an unreasoning dread of being left aloneon the farm; and before he knew what he wasdoing he had asked her to stay there with him.He had often thought since that it would nothave happened if his mother had died in springinstead of winter...

99

IV

When they married it was agreed that, assoon as he could straighten out the difficul-ties resulting from Mrs. Frome’s long illness,they would sell the farm and saw-mill and trytheir luck in a large town. Ethan’s love of na-ture did not take the form of a taste for agricul-ture. He had always wanted to be an engineer,and to live in towns, where there were lecturesand big libraries and “fellows doing things.”A slight engineering job in Florida, put in hisway during his period of study at Worcester, in-creased his faith in his ability as well as his ea-gerness to see the world; and he felt sure that,with a “smart” wife like Zeena, it would not belong before he had made himself a place in it.

Zeena’s native village was slightly largerand nearer to the railway than Starkfield, andshe had let her husband see from the first that

100

IV

life on an isolated farm was not what she hadexpected when she married. But purchaserswere slow in coming, and while he waited forthem Ethan learned the impossibility of trans-planting her. She chose to look down on Stark-field, but she could not have lived in a placewhich looked down on her. Even Bettsbridgeor Shadd’s Falls would not have been suffi-ciently aware of her, and in the greater citieswhich attracted Ethan she would have suffereda complete loss of identity. And within a yearof their marriage she developed the “sickli-ness” which had since made her notable evenin a community rich in pathological instances.When she came to take care of his mother shehad seemed to Ethan like the very genius ofhealth, but he soon saw that her skill as a nursehad been acquired by the absorbed observationof her own symptoms.

101

IV

Then she too fell silent. Perhaps it was theinevitable effect of life on the farm, or per-haps, as she sometimes said, it was becauseEthan “never listened.” The charge was notwholly unfounded. When she spoke it wasonly to complain, and to complain of things notin his power to remedy; and to check a ten-dency to impatient retort he had first formedthe habit of not answering her, and finally ofthinking of other things while she talked. Oflate, however, since he had reasons for observ-ing her more closely, her silence had begun totrouble him. He recalled his mother’s grow-ing taciturnity, and wondered if Zeena werealso turning “queer.” Women did, he knew.Zeena, who had at her fingers’ ends the patho-logical chart of the whole region, had citedmany cases of the kind while she was nurs-ing his mother; and he himself knew of cer-

102

IV

tain lonely farm-houses in the neighbourhoodwhere stricken creatures pined, and of otherswhere sudden tragedy had come of their pres-ence. At times, looking at Zeena’s shut face,he felt the chill of such forebodings. At othertimes her silence seemed deliberately assumedto conceal far-reaching intentions, mysteriousconclusions drawn from suspicions and resent-ments impossible to guess. That suppositionwas even more disturbing than the other; andit was the one which had come to him the nightbefore, when he had seen her standing in thekitchen door.

Now her departure for Bettsbridge had oncemore eased his mind, and all his thoughts wereon the prospect of his evening with Mattie.Only one thing weighed on him, and that washis having told Zeena that he was to receive

103

IV

cash for the lumber. He foresaw so clearlythe consequences of this imprudence that withconsiderable reluctance he decided to ask An-drew Hale for a small advance on his load.

When Ethan drove into Hale’s yard thebuilder was just getting out of his sleigh.

“Hello, Ethe!” he said. “This comes handy.”Andrew Hale was a ruddy man with a big

gray moustache and a stubbly double-chin un-constrained by a collar; but his scrupulouslyclean shirt was always fastened by a small dia-mond stud. This display of opulence was mis-leading, for though he did a fairly good busi-ness it was known that his easygoing habitsand the demands of his large family frequentlykept him what Starkfield called “behind.” Hewas an old friend of Ethan’s family, and hishouse one of the few to which Zeena occasion-

104

IV

ally went, drawn there by the fact that Mrs.Hale, in her youth, had done more “doctoring”than any other woman in Starkfield, and wasstill a recognised authority on symptoms andtreatment.

Hale went up to the grays and patted theirsweating flanks.

“Well, sir,” he said, “you keep them two as ifthey was pets.”

Ethan set about unloading the logs andwhen he had finished his job he pushed openthe glazed door of the shed which the builderused as his office. Hale sat with his feet upon the stove, his back propped against a bat-tered desk strewn with papers: the place, likethe man, was warm, genial and untidy.

“Sit right down and thaw out,” he greetedEthan.

105

IV

The latter did not know how to begin, but atlength he managed to bring out his request foran advance of fifty dollars. The blood rushedto his thin skin under the sting of Hale’s as-tonishment. It was the builder’s custom to payat the end of three months, and there was noprecedent between the two men for a cash set-tlement.

Ethan felt that if he had pleaded an urgentneed Hale might have made shift to pay him;but pride, and an instinctive prudence, kepthim from resorting to this argument. Afterhis father’s death it had taken time to get hishead above water, and he did not want An-drew Hale, or any one else in Starkfield, tothink he was going under again. Besides, hehated lying; if he wanted the money he wantedit, and it was nobody’s business to ask why. He

106

IV

therefore made his demand with the awkward-ness of a proud man who will not admit to him-self that he is stooping; and he was not muchsurprised at Hale’s refusal.

The builder refused genially, as he did every-thing else: he treated the matter as somethingin the nature of a practical joke, and wanted toknow if Ethan meditated buying a grand pianoor adding a “cupolo” to his house; offering, inthe latter case, to give his services free of cost.

Ethan’s arts were soon exhausted, and afteran embarrassed pause he wished Hale goodday and opened the door of the office. As hepassed out the builder suddenly called afterhim: “See here–you ain’t in a tight place, areyou?”

“Not a bit,” Ethan’s pride retorted before hisreason had time to intervene.

107

IV

“Well, that’s good! Because I am, a shade.Fact is, I was going to ask you to give me alittle extra time on that payment. Business ispretty slack, to begin with, and then I’m fix-ing up a little house for Ned and Ruth whenthey’re married. I’m glad to do it for ‘em, butit costs.” His look appealed to Ethan for sym-pathy. “The young people like things nice. Youknow how it is yourself: it’s not so long agosince you fixed up your own place for Zeena.”

Ethan left the grays in Hale’s stable and wentabout some other business in the village. Ashe walked away the builder’s last phrase lin-gered in his ears, and he reflected grimly thathis seven years with Zeena seemed to Stark-field “not so long.”

The afternoon was drawing to an end, andhere and there a lighted pane spangled the cold

108

IV

gray dusk and made the snow look whiter. Thebitter weather had driven every one indoorsand Ethan had the long rural street to him-self. Suddenly he heard the brisk play of sleigh-bells and a cutter passed him, drawn by a free-going horse. Ethan recognised Michael Eady’sroan colt, and young Denis Eady, in a hand-some new fur cap, leaned forward and waveda greeting. “Hello, Ethe!” he shouted and spunon.

The cutter was going in the direction ofthe Frome farm, and Ethan’s heart contractedas he listened to the dwindling bells. Whatmore likely than that Denis Eady had heardof Zeena’s departure for Bettsbridge, and wasprofiting by the opportunity to spend an hourwith Mattie? Ethan was ashamed of the stormof jealousy in his breast. It seemed unworthy

109

IV

of the girl that his thoughts of her should be soviolent.

He walked on to the church corner and en-tered the shade of the Varnum spruces, wherehe had stood with her the night before. Ashe passed into their gloom he saw an indis-tinct outline just ahead of him. At his ap-proach it melted for an instant into two sepa-rate shapes and then conjoined again, and heheard a kiss, and a half-laughing “Oh!” pro-voked by the discovery of his presence. Againthe outline hastily disunited and the Varnumgate slammed on one half while the other hur-ried on ahead of him. Ethan smiled at the dis-comfiture he had caused. What did it matterto Ned Hale and Ruth Varnum if they werecaught kissing each other? Everybody in Stark-field knew they were engaged. It pleased Ethan

110

IV

to have surprised a pair of lovers on the spotwhere he and Mattie had stood with such athirst for each other in their hearts; but he felta pang at the thought that these two need nothide their happiness.

He fetched the grays from Hale’s stable andstarted on his long climb back to the farm. Thecold was less sharp than earlier in the day anda thick fleecy sky threatened snow for the mor-row. Here and there a star pricked through,showing behind it a deep well of blue. Inan hour or two the moon would push overthe ridge behind the farm, burn a gold-edgedrent in the clouds, and then be swallowed bythem. A mournful peace hung on the fields, asthough they felt the relaxing grasp of the coldand stretched themselves in their long wintersleep.

111

IV

Ethan’s ears were alert for the jingle ofsleigh-bells, but not a sound broke the silenceof the lonely road. As he drew near the farmhe saw, through the thin screen of larches atthe gate, a light twinkling in the house abovehim. “She’s up in her room,” he said to him-self, “fixing herself up for supper”; and he re-membered Zeena’s sarcastic stare when Mattie,on the evening of her arrival, had come downto supper with smoothed hair and a ribbon ather neck.

He passed by the graves on the knoll andturned his head to glance at one of the olderheadstones, which had interested him deeplyas a boy because it bore his name.

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OFETHAN FROME AND ENDURANCE HIS

WIFE,

112

IV

WHO DWELLED TOGETHER IN PEACEFOR FIFTY YEARS.

He used to think that fifty years sounded likea long time to live together, but now it seemedto him that they might pass in a flash. Then,with a sudden dart of irony, he wondered if,when their turn came, the same epitaph wouldbe written over him and Zeena.

He opened the barn-door and craned hishead into the obscurity, half-fearing to discoverDenis Eady’s roan colt in the stall beside thesorrel. But the old horse was there alone, mum-bling his crib with toothless jaws, and Ethanwhistled cheerfully while he bedded down thegrays and shook an extra measure of oats intotheir mangers. His was not a tuneful throat–but harsh melodies burst from it as he locked

113

IV

the barn and sprang up the hill to the house.He reached the kitchen-porch and turned thedoor-handle; but the door did not yield to histouch.

Startled at finding it locked he rattled thehandle violently; then he reflected that Mattiewas alone and that it was natural she shouldbarricade herself at nightfall. He stood in thedarkness expecting to hear her step. It didnot come, and after vainly straining his earshe called out in a voice that shook with joy:“Hello, Matt!”

Silence answered; but in a minute or two hecaught a sound on the stairs and saw a lineof light about the door-frame, as he had seenit the night before. So strange was the preci-sion with which the incidents of the previousevening were repeating themselves that he half

114

IV

expected, when he heard the key turn, to seehis wife before him on the threshold; but thedoor opened, and Mattie faced him.

She stood just as Zeena had stood, a liftedlamp in her hand, against the black back-ground of the kitchen. She held the light at thesame level, and it drew out with the same dis-tinctness her slim young throat and the brownwrist no bigger than a child’s. Then, strikingupward, it threw a lustrous fleck on her lips,edged her eyes with velvet shade, and laid amilky whiteness above the black curve of herbrows.

She wore her usual dress of darkish stuff,and there was no bow at her neck; but throughher hair she had run a streak of crimson ribbon.This tribute to the unusual transformed andglorified her. She seemed to Ethan taller, fuller,

115

IV

more womanly in shape and motion. She stoodaside, smiling silently, while he entered, andthen moved away from him with somethingsoft and flowing in her gait. She set the lampon the table, and he saw that it was carefullylaid for supper, with fresh doughnuts, stewedblueberries and his favourite pickles in a dishof gay red glass. A bright fire glowed in thestove and the cat lay stretched before it, watch-ing the table with a drowsy eye.

Ethan was suffocated with the sense of well-being. He went out into the passage to hangup his coat and pull off his wet boots. When hecame back Mattie had set the teapot on the ta-ble and the cat was rubbing itself persuasivelyagainst her ankles.

“Why, Puss! I nearly tripped over you,”she cried, the laughter sparkling through her

116

IV

lashes.Again Ethan felt a sudden twinge of jealousy.

Could it be his coming that gave her such a kin-dled face?

“Well, Matt, any visitors?” he threw off,stooping down carelessly to examine the fas-tening of the stove.

She nodded and laughed “Yes, one,” and hefelt a blackness settling on his brows.

“Who was that?” he questioned, raisinghimself up to slant a glance at her beneath hisscowl.

Her eyes danced with malice. “Why, JothamPowell. He came in after he got back, andasked for a drop of coffee before he went downhome.”

The blackness lifted and light flooded

117

IV

Ethan’s brain. “That all? Well, I hope you madeout to let him have it.” And after a pause he feltit right to add: “I suppose he got Zeena over tothe Flats all right?”

“Oh, yes; in plenty of time.”

The name threw a chill between them, andthey stood a moment looking sideways at eachother before Mattie said with a shy laugh. “Iguess it’s about time for supper.”

They drew their seats up to the table, andthe cat, unbidden, jumped between them intoZeena’s empty chair. “Oh, Puss!” said Mattie,and they laughed again.

Ethan, a moment earlier, had felt himselfon the brink of eloquence; but the mention ofZeena had paralysed him. Mattie seemed tofeel the contagion of his embarrassment, and

118

IV

sat with downcast lids, sipping her tea, whilehe feigned an insatiable appetite for dough-nuts and sweet pickles. At last, after castingabout for an effective opening, he took a longgulp of tea, cleared his throat, and said: “Looksas if there’d be more snow.”

She feigned great interest. “Is that so? Doyou suppose it’ll interfere with Zeena’s gettingback?” She flushed red as the question escapedher, and hastily set down the cup she was lift-ing.

Ethan reached over for another helping ofpickles. “You never can tell, this time of year,it drifts so bad on the Flats.” The name had be-numbed him again, and once more he felt as ifZeena were in the room between them.

“Oh, Puss, you’re too greedy!” Mattie cried.The cat, unnoticed, had crept up on muffled

119

IV

paws from Zeena’s seat to the table, and wasstealthily elongating its body in the direction ofthe milk-jug, which stood between Ethan andMattie. The two leaned forward at the samemoment and their hands met on the handle ofthe jug. Mattie’s hand was underneath, andEthan kept his clasped on it a moment longerthan was necessary. The cat, profiting by thisunusual demonstration, tried to effect an un-noticed retreat, and in doing so backed into thepickle-dish, which fell to the floor with a crash.

Mattie, in an instant, had sprung from herchair and was down on her knees by the frag-ments.

“Oh, Ethan, Ethan–it’s all to pieces! Whatwill Zeena say?”

But this time his courage was up. “Well,she’ll have to say it to the cat, any way!” he re-

120

IV

joined with a laugh, kneeling down at Mattie’sside to scrape up the swimming pickles.

She lifted stricken eyes to him. “Yes, but,you see, she never meant it should be used, noteven when there was company; and I had to getup on the step-ladder to reach it down from thetop shelf of the china-closet, where she keepsit with all her best things, and of course she’llwant to know why I did it–”

The case was so serious that it called forth allof Ethan’s latent resolution.

“She needn’t know anything about it if youkeep quiet. I’ll get another just like it to-morrow. Where did it come from? I’ll go toShadd’s Falls for it if I have to!”

“Oh, you’ll never get another even there!It was a wedding present–don’t you remem-ber? It came all the way from Philadelphia,

121

IV

from Zeena’s aunt that married the minister.That’s why she wouldn’t ever use it. Oh, Ethan,Ethan, what in the world shall I do?”

She began to cry, and he felt as if every oneof her tears were pouring over him like burn-ing lead. “Don’t, Matt, don’t–oh, don’t!” heimplored her.

She struggled to her feet, and he rose andfollowed her helplessly while she spread outthe pieces of glass on the kitchen dresser. Itseemed to him as if the shattered fragments oftheir evening lay there.

“Here, give them to me,” he said in a voiceof sudden authority.

She drew aside, instinctively obeying histone. “Oh, Ethan, what are you going to do?”

Without replying he gathered the pieces ofglass into his broad palm and walked out of the

122

IV

kitchen to the passage. There he lit a candle-end, opened the china-closet, and, reaching hislong arm up to the highest shelf, laid the piecestogether with such accuracy of touch that aclose inspection convinced him of the impossi-bility of detecting from below that the dish wasbroken. If he glued it together the next morningmonths might elapse before his wife noticedwhat had happened, and meanwhile he mightafter all be able to match the dish at Shadd’sFalls or Bettsbridge. Having satisfied himselfthat there was no risk of immediate discoveryhe went back to the kitchen with a lighter step,and found Mattie disconsolately removing thelast scraps of pickle from the floor.

“It’s all right, Matt. Come back and finishsupper,” he commanded her.

Completely reassured, she shone on him

123

IV

through tear-hung lashes, and his soul swelledwith pride as he saw how his tone subdued her.She did not even ask what he had done. Ex-cept when he was steering a big log down themountain to his mill he had never known sucha thrilling sense of mastery.

124

V

THEY finished supper, and while Mattiecleared the table Ethan went to look at the

cows and then took a last turn about the house.The earth lay dark under a muffled sky andthe air was so still that now and then he hearda lump of snow come thumping down from atree far off on the edge of the wood-lot.

125

V

When he returned to the kitchen Mattie hadpushed up his chair to the stove and seated her-self near the lamp with a bit of sewing. Thescene was just as he had dreamed of it thatmorning. He sat down, drew his pipe fromhis pocket and stretched his feet to the glow.His hard day’s work in the keen air made himfeel at once lazy and light of mood, and he hada confused sense of being in another world,where all was warmth and harmony and timecould bring no change. The only drawback tohis complete well-being was the fact that hecould not see Mattie from where he sat; but hewas too indolent to move and after a momenthe said: “Come over here and sit by the stove.”

Zeena’s empty rocking-chair stood facinghim. Mattie rose obediently, and seated her-self in it. As her young brown head detached

126

V

itself against the patch-work cushion that ha-bitually framed his wife’s gaunt countenance,Ethan had a momentary shock. It was almostas if the other face, the face of the supersededwoman, had obliterated that of the intruder.After a moment Mattie seemed to be affectedby the same sense of constraint. She changedher position, leaning forward to bend her headabove her work, so that he saw only the fore-shortened tip of her nose and the streak of redin her hair; then she slipped to her feet, saying“I can’t see to sew,” and went back to her chairby the lamp.

Ethan made a pretext of getting up to replen-ish the stove, and when he returned to his seathe pushed it sideways that he might get a viewof her profile and of the lamplight falling onher hands. The cat, who had been a puzzled

127

V

observer of these unusual movements, jumpedup into Zeena’s chair, rolled itself into a ball,and lay watching them with narrowed eyes.

Deep quiet sank on the room. The clockticked above the dresser, a piece of charredwood fell now and then in the stove, and thefaint sharp scent of the geraniums mingledwith the odour of Ethan’s smoke, which beganto throw a blue haze about the lamp and tohang its greyish cobwebs in the shadowy cor-ners of the room.

All constraint had vanished between thetwo, and they began to talk easily and sim-ply. They spoke of every-day things, of theprospect of snow, of the next church sociable,of the loves and quarrels of Starkfield. Thecommonplace nature of what they said pro-duced in Ethan an illusion of long-established

128

V

intimacy which no outburst of emotion couldhave given, and he set his imagination adrifton the fiction that they had always spent theirevenings thus and would always go on doingso...

“This is the night we were to have gonecoasting, Matt,” he said at length, with the richsense, as he spoke, that they could go on anyother night they chose, since they had all timebefore them.

She smiled back at him. “I guess you forgot!”

“No, I didn’t forget; but it’s as dark as Egyptoutdoors. We might go to-morrow if there’s amoon.”

She laughed with pleasure, her head tiltedback, the lamplight sparkling on her lips andteeth. “That would be lovely, Ethan!”

129

V

He kept his eyes fixed on her, marvelling atthe way her face changed with each turn oftheir talk, like a wheat-field under a summerbreeze. It was intoxicating to find such magicin his clumsy words, and he longed to try newways of using it.

“Would you be scared to go down the Cor-bury road with me on a night like this?” heasked.

Her cheeks burned redder. “I ain’t any morescared than you are!”

“Well, I’d be scared, then; I wouldn’t do it.That’s an ugly corner down by the big elm. If afellow didn’t keep his eyes open he’d go plumbinto it.” He luxuriated in the sense of protec-tion and authority which his words conveyed.To prolong and intensify the feeling he added:“I guess we’re well enough here.”

130

V

She let her lids sink slowly, in the way heloved. “Yes, we’re well enough here,” shesighed.

Her tone was so sweet that he took the pipefrom his mouth and drew his chair up to thetable. Leaning forward, he touched the fartherend of the strip of brown stuff that she washemming. “Say, Matt,” he began with a smile,“what do you think I saw under the Varnumspruces, coming along home just now? I saw afriend of yours getting kissed.”

The words had been on his tongue all theevening, but now that he had spoken them theystruck him as inexpressibly vulgar and out ofplace.

Mattie blushed to the roots of her hairand pulled her needle rapidly twice or thricethrough her work, insensibly drawing the end

131

V

of it away from him. “I suppose it was Ruthand Ned,” she said in a low voice, as thoughhe had suddenly touched on something grave.

Ethan had imagined that his allusion mightopen the way to the accepted pleasantries, andthese perhaps in turn to a harmless caress, ifonly a mere touch on her hand. But now hefelt as if her blush had set a flaming guardabout her. He supposed it was his natural awk-wardness that made him feel so. He knew thatmost young men made nothing at all of giv-ing a pretty girl a kiss, and he rememberedthat the night before, when he had put his armabout Mattie, she had not resisted. But that hadbeen out-of-doors, under the open irresponsi-ble night. Now, in the warm lamplit room, withall its ancient implications of conformity andorder, she seemed infinitely farther away from

132

V

him and more unapproachable.

To ease his constraint he said: “I supposethey’ll be setting a date before long.”

“Yes. I shouldn’t wonder if they got mar-ried some time along in the summer.” Shepronounced the word married as if her voicecaressed it. It seemed a rustling covert lead-ing to enchanted glades. A pang shot throughEthan, and he said, twisting away from her inhis chair: “It’ll be your turn next, I wouldn’twonder.”

She laughed a little uncertainly. “Why doyou keep on saying that?”

He echoed her laugh. “I guess I do it to getused to the idea.”

He drew up to the table again and she sewedon in silence, with dropped lashes, while he

133

V

sat in fascinated contemplation of the way inwhich her hands went up and down above thestrip of stuff, just as he had seen a pair of birdsmake short perpendicular flights over a nestthey were building. At length, without turningher head or lifting her lids, she said in a lowtone: “It’s not because you think Zeena’s gotanything against me, is it?”

His former dread started up full-armed atthe suggestion. “Why, what do you mean?” hestammered.

She raised distressed eyes to his, her workdropping on the table between them. “I don’tknow. I thought last night she seemed to have.”

“I’d like to know what,” he growled.

“Nobody can tell with Zeena.” It was thefirst time they had ever spoken so openly of

134

V

her attitude toward Mattie, and the repetitionof the name seemed to carry it to the farthercorners of the room and send it back to them inlong repercussions of sound. Mattie waited, asif to give the echo time to drop, and then wenton: “She hasn’t said anything to you?”

He shook his head. “No, not a word.”

She tossed the hair back from her foreheadwith a laugh. “I guess I’m just nervous, then.I’m not going to think about it any more.”

“Oh, no–don’t let’s think about it, Matt!”

The sudden heat of his tone made her colourmount again, not with a rush, but gradually,delicately, like the reflection of a thought steal-ing slowly across her heart. She sat silent, herhands clasped on her work, and it seemed tohim that a warm current flowed toward him

135

V

along the strip of stuff that still lay unrolledbetween them. Cautiously he slid his handpalm-downward along the table till his finger-tips touched the end of the stuff. A faint vi-bration of her lashes seemed to show that shewas aware of his gesture, and that it had senta counter-current back to her; and she let herhands lie motionless on the other end of thestrip.

As they sat thus he heard a sound behindhim and turned his head. The cat had jumpedfrom Zeena’s chair to dart at a mouse in thewainscot, and as a result of the sudden move-ment the empty chair had set up a spectralrocking.

“She’ll be rocking in it herself this time to-morrow,” Ethan thought. “I’ve been in adream, and this is the only evening we’ll ever

136

V

have together.” The return to reality was aspainful as the return to consciousness after tak-ing an anaesthetic. His body and brain achedwith indescribable weariness, and he couldthink of nothing to say or to do that should ar-rest the mad flight of the moments.

His alteration of mood seemed to have com-municated itself to Mattie. She looked upat him languidly, as though her lids wereweighted with sleep and it cost her an effortto raise them. Her glance fell on his hand,which now completely covered the end of herwork and grasped it as if it were a part of her-self. He saw a scarcely perceptible tremor crossher face, and without knowing what he did hestooped his head and kissed the bit of stuff inhis hold. As his lips rested on it he felt it glideslowly from beneath them, and saw that Mattie

137

V

had risen and was silently rolling up her work.She fastened it with a pin, and then, findingher thimble and scissors, put them with the rollof stuff into the box covered with fancy paperwhich he had once brought to her from Betts-bridge.

He stood up also, looking vaguely aboutthe room. The clock above the dresser struckeleven.

“Is the fire all right?” she asked in a lowvoice.

He opened the door of the stove and pokedaimlessly at the embers. When he raised him-self again he saw that she was dragging towardthe stove the old soap-box lined with carpetin which the cat made its bed. Then she re-crossed the floor and lifted two of the geraniumpots in her arms, moving them away from the

138

V

cold window. He followed her and broughtthe other geraniums, the hyacinth bulbs ina cracked custard bowl and the German ivytrained over an old croquet hoop.

When these nightly duties were performedthere was nothing left to do but to bring in thetin candlestick from the passage, light the can-dle and blow out the lamp. Ethan put the can-dlestick in Mattie’s hand and she went out ofthe kitchen ahead of him, the light that she car-ried before her making her dark hair look likea drift of mist on the moon.

“Good night, Matt,” he said as she put herfoot on the first step of the stairs.

She turned and looked at him a moment.“Good night, Ethan,” she answered, and wentup.

When the door of her room had closed on her

139

V

he remembered that he had not even touchedher hand.

140

VI

THE next morning at breakfast Jotham Pow-ell was between them, and Ethan tried to

hide his joy under an air of exaggerated in-difference, lounging back in his chair to throwscraps to the cat, growling at the weather, andnot so much as offering to help Mattie whenshe rose to clear away the dishes.

141

VI

He did not know why he was so irrationallyhappy, for nothing was changed in his life orhers. He had not even touched the tip of herfingers or looked her full in the eyes. But theirevening together had given him a vision ofwhat life at her side might be, and he was gladnow that he had done nothing to trouble thesweetness of the picture. He had a fancy thatshe knew what had restrained him...

There was a last load of lumber to be hauledto the village, and Jotham Powell–who did notwork regularly for Ethan in winter–had “comeround” to help with the job. But a wet snow,melting to sleet, had fallen in the night andturned the roads to glass. There was more wetin the air and it seemed likely to both men thatthe weather would “milden” toward afternoonand make the going safer. Ethan therefore pro-

142

VI

posed to his assistant that they should load thesledge at the wood-lot, as they had done on theprevious morning, and put off the “teaming”to Starkfield till later in the day. This plan hadthe advantage of enabling him to send Jothamto the Flats after dinner to meet Zenobia, whilehe himself took the lumber down to the village.

He told Jotham to go out and harness up thegreys, and for a moment he and Mattie had thekitchen to themselves. She had plunged thebreakfast dishes into a tin dish-pan and wasbending above it with her slim arms bared tothe elbow, the steam from the hot water bead-ing her forehead and tightening her rough hairinto little brown rings like the tendrils on thetraveller’s joy.

Ethan stood looking at her, his heart in histhroat. He wanted to say: “We shall never

143

VI

be alone again like this.” Instead, he reacheddown his tobacco-pouch from a shelf of thedresser, put it into his pocket and said: “I guessI can make out to be home for dinner.”

She answered “All right, Ethan,” and heheard her singing over the dishes as he went.

As soon as the sledge was loaded he meantto send Jotham back to the farm and hurry onfoot into the village to buy the glue for thepickle-dish. With ordinary luck he should havehad time to carry out this plan; but everythingwent wrong from the start. On the way over tothe wood-lot one of the greys slipped on a glareof ice and cut his knee; and when they got himup again Jotham had to go back to the barn fora strip of rag to bind the cut. Then, when theloading finally began, a sleety rain was comingdown once more, and the tree trunks were so

144

VI

slippery that it took twice as long as usual tolift them and get them in place on the sledge.It was what Jotham called a sour morning forwork, and the horses, shivering and stampingunder their wet blankets, seemed to like it aslittle as the men. It was long past the dinner-hour when the job was done, and Ethan had togive up going to the village because he wantedto lead the injured horse home and wash thecut himself.

He thought that by starting out again withthe lumber as soon as he had finished his din-ner he might get back to the farm with the gluebefore Jotham and the old sorrel had had timeto fetch Zenobia from the Flats; but he knewthe chance was a slight one. It turned on thestate of the roads and on the possible latenessof the Bettsbridge train. He remembered after-

145

VI

ward, with a grim flash of self-derision, whatimportance he had attached to the weighing ofthese probabilities...

As soon as dinner was over he set outagain for the wood-lot, not daring to linger tillJotham Powell left. The hired man was stilldrying his wet feet at the stove, and Ethancould only give Mattie a quick look as he saidbeneath his breath: “I’ll be back early.”

He fancied that she nodded her compre-hension; and with that scant solace he had totrudge off through the rain.

He had driven his load half-way to the vil-lage when Jotham Powell overtook him, urg-ing the reluctant sorrel toward the Flats. “I’llhave to hurry up to do it,” Ethan mused, as thesleigh dropped down ahead of him over thedip of the school-house hill. He worked like

146

VI

ten at the unloading, and when it was over has-tened on to Michael Eady’s for the glue. Eadyand his assistant were both “down street,” andyoung Denis, who seldom deigned to take theirplace, was lounging by the stove with a knotof the golden youth of Starkfield. They hailedEthan with ironic compliment and offers ofconviviality; but no one knew where to find theglue. Ethan, consumed with the longing fora last moment alone with Mattie, hung aboutimpatiently while Denis made an ineffectualsearch in the obscurer corners of the store.

“Looks as if we were all sold out. But ifyou’ll wait around till the old man comes alongmaybe he can put his hand on it.”

“I’m obliged to you, but I’ll try if I can getit down at Mrs. Homan’s,” Ethan answered,burning to be gone.

147

VI

Denis’s commercial instinct compelled himto aver on oath that what Eady’s store could notproduce would never be found at the widowHoman’s; but Ethan, heedless of this boast, hadalready climbed to the sledge and was drivingon to the rival establishment. Here, after con-siderable search, and sympathetic questions asto what he wanted it for, and whether ordinaryflour paste wouldn’t do as well if she couldn’tfind it, the widow Homan finally hunted downher solitary bottle of glue to its hiding-place ina medley of cough-lozenges and corset-laces.

“I hope Zeena ain’t broken anything she setsstore by,” she called after him as he turned thegreys toward home.

The fitful bursts of sleet had changed intoa steady rain and the horses had heavy workeven without a load behind them. Once or

148

VI

twice, hearing sleigh-bells, Ethan turned hishead, fancying that Zeena and Jotham mightovertake him; but the old sorrel was not insight, and he set his face against the rain andurged on his ponderous pair.

The barn was empty when the horses turnedinto it and, after giving them the most perfunc-tory ministrations they had ever received fromhim, he strode up to the house and pushedopen the kitchen door.

Mattie was there alone, as he had picturedher. She was bending over a pan on the stove;but at the sound of his step she turned with astart and sprang to him.

“See, here, Matt, I’ve got some stuff to mendthe dish with! Let me get at it quick,” he cried,waving the bottle in one hand while he put herlightly aside; but she did not seem to hear him.

149

VI

“Oh, Ethan–Zeena’s come,” she said in awhisper, clutching his sleeve.

They stood and stared at each other, pale asculprits.

“But the sorrel’s not in the barn!” Ethanstammered.

“Jotham Powell brought some goods overfrom the Flats for his wife, and he drove righton home with them,” she explained.

He gazed blankly about the kitchen, whichlooked cold and squalid in the rainy wintertwilight.

“How is she?” he asked, dropping his voiceto Mattie’s whisper.

She looked away from him uncertainly. “Idon’t know. She went right up to her room.”

“She didn’t say anything?”

150

VI

“No.”Ethan let out his doubts in a low whistle and

thrust the bottle back into his pocket. “Don’tfret; I’ll come down and mend it in the night,”he said. He pulled on his wet coat again andwent back to the barn to feed the greys.

While he was there Jotham Powell drove upwith the sleigh, and when the horses had beenattended to Ethan said to him: “You might aswell come back up for a bite.” He was notsorry to assure himself of Jotham’s neutralisingpresence at the supper table, for Zeena was al-ways “nervous” after a journey. But the hiredman, though seldom loth to accept a meal notincluded in his wages, opened his stiff jaws toanswer slowly: “I’m obliged to you, but I guessI’ll go along back.”

Ethan looked at him in surprise. “Better

151

VI

come up and dry off. Looks as if there’d besomething hot for supper.”

Jotham’s facial muscles were unmoved bythis appeal and, his vocabulary being limited,he merely repeated: “I guess I’ll go alongback.”

To Ethan there was something vaguely omi-nous in this stolid rejection of free food andwarmth, and he wondered what had happenedon the drive to nerve Jotham to such stoicism.Perhaps Zeena had failed to see the new doctoror had not liked his counsels: Ethan knew thatin such cases the first person she met was likelyto be held responsible for her grievance.

When he re-entered the kitchen the lamp litup the same scene of shining comfort as on theprevious evening. The table had been as care-fully laid, a clear fire glowed in the stove, the

152

VI

cat dozed in its warmth, and Mattie came for-ward carrying a plate of doughnuts.

She and Ethan looked at each other in si-lence; then she said, as she had said the nightbefore: “I guess it’s about time for supper.”

153

VII

ETHAN went out into the passage to hang uphis wet garments. He listened for Zeena’s

step and, not hearing it, called her name upthe stairs. She did not answer, and after a mo-ment’s hesitation he went up and opened herdoor. The room was almost dark, but in the ob-scurity he saw her sitting by the window, bolt

154

VII

upright, and knew by the rigidity of the out-line projected against the pane that she had nottaken off her travelling dress.

“Well, Zeena,” he ventured from the thresh-old.

She did not move, and he continued: “Sup-per’s about ready. Ain’t you coming?”

She replied: “I don’t feel as if I could touch amorsel.”

It was the consecrated formula, and he ex-pected it to be followed, as usual, by her risingand going down to supper. But she remainedseated, and he could think of nothing more fe-licitous than: “I presume you’re tired after thelong ride.”

Turning her head at this, she answeredsolemnly: “I’m a great deal sicker than youthink.”

155

VII

Her words fell on his ear with a strangeshock of wonder. He had often heard her pro-nounce them before–what if at last they weretrue?

He advanced a step or two into the dimroom. “I hope that’s not so, Zeena,” he said.

She continued to gaze at him through thetwilight with a mien of wan authority, as of oneconsciously singled out for a great fate. “I’vegot complications,” she said.

Ethan knew the word for one of exceptionalimport. Almost everybody in the neighbour-hood had “troubles,” frankly localized andspecified; but only the chosen had “complica-tions.” To have them was in itself a distinc-tion, though it was also, in most cases, a death-warrant. People struggled on for years with“troubles,” but they almost always succumbed

156

VII

to “complications.”Ethan’s heart was jerking to and fro between

two extremities of feeling, but for the momentcompassion prevailed. His wife looked so hardand lonely, sitting there in the darkness withsuch thoughts.

“Is that what the new doctor told you?” heasked, instinctively lowering his voice.

“Yes. He says any regular doctor wouldwant me to have an operation.”

Ethan was aware that, in regard to the im-portant question of surgical intervention, thefemale opinion of the neighbourhood was di-vided, some glorying in the prestige conferredby operations while others shunned them as in-delicate. Ethan, from motives of economy, hadalways been glad that Zeena was of the latterfaction.

157

VII

In the agitation caused by the gravity of herannouncement he sought a consolatory shortcut. “What do you know about this doctor any-way? Nobody ever told you that before.”

He saw his blunder before she could take itup: she wanted sympathy, not consolation.

“I didn’t need to have anybody tell me I waslosing ground every day. Everybody but youcould see it. And everybody in Bettsbridgeknows about Dr. Buck. He has his office inWorcester, and comes over once a fortnightto Shadd’s Falls and Bettsbridge for consulta-tions. Eliza Spears was wasting away with kid-ney trouble before she went to him, and nowshe’s up and around, and singing in the choir.”

“Well, I’m glad of that. You must do justwhat he tells you,” Ethan answered sympathet-ically.

158

VII

She was still looking at him. “I mean to,”she said. He was struck by a new note in hervoice. It was neither whining nor reproachful,but drily resolute.

“What does he want you should do?” heasked, with a mounting vision of fresh ex-penses.

“He wants I should have a hired girl. Hesays I oughtn’t to have to do a single thingaround the house.”

“A hired girl?” Ethan stood transfixed.“Yes. And Aunt Martha found me one right

off. Everybody said I was lucky to get a girl tocome away out here, and I agreed to give hera dollar extry to make sure. She’ll be over to-morrow afternoon.”

Wrath and dismay contended in Ethan. Hehad foreseen an immediate demand for money,

159

VII

but not a permanent drain on his scant re-sources. He no longer believed what Zeenahad told him of the supposed seriousness ofher state: he saw in her expedition to Betts-bridge only a plot hatched between herself andher Pierce relations to foist on him the cost ofa servant; and for the moment wrath predomi-nated.

“If you meant to engage a girl you ought tohave told me before you started,” he said.

“How could I tell you before I started? Howdid I know what Dr. Buck would say?”

“Oh, Dr. Buck–” Ethan’s incredulity escapedin a short laugh. “Did Dr. Buck tell you how Iwas to pay her wages?”

Her voice rose furiously with his. “No, hedidn’t. For I’d ‘a’ been ashamed to tell him

160

VII

that you grudged me the money to get backmy health, when I lost it nursing your ownmother!”

“You lost your health nursing mother?”

“Yes; and my folks all told me at the time youcouldn’t do no less than marry me after–”

“Zeena!”

Through the obscurity which hid their facestheir thoughts seemed to dart at each other likeserpents shooting venom. Ethan was seizedwith horror of the scene and shame at his ownshare in it. It was as senseless and savage asa physical fight between two enemies in thedarkness.

He turned to the shelf above the chimney,groped for matches and lit the one candle inthe room. At first its weak flame made no

161

VII

impression on the shadows; then Zeena’s facestood grimly out against the uncurtained pane,which had turned from grey to black.

It was the first scene of open anger betweenthe couple in their sad seven years together,and Ethan felt as if he had lost an irretrievableadvantage in descending to the level of recrimi-nation. But the practical problem was there andhad to be dealt with.

“You know I haven’t got the money to payfor a girl, Zeena. You’ll have to send her back:I can’t do it.”

“The doctor says it’ll be my death if I go onslaving the way I’ve had to. He doesn’t under-stand how I’ve stood it as long as I have.”

“Slaving!–” He checked himself again, “Yousha’n‘t lift a hand, if he says so. I’ll do every-thing round the house myself–”

162

VII

She broke in: “You’re neglecting the farmenough already,” and this being true, he foundno answer, and left her time to add ironically:“Better send me over to the almshouse anddone with it... I guess there’s been Fromes thereafore now.”

The taunt burned into him, but he let it pass.“I haven’t got the money. That settles it.”

There was a moment’s pause in the struggle,as though the combatants were testing theirweapons. Then Zeena said in a level voice: “Ithought you were to get fifty dollars from An-drew Hale for that lumber.”

“Andrew Hale never pays under threemonths.” He had hardly spoken when he re-membered the excuse he had made for not ac-companying his wife to the station the day be-fore; and the blood rose to his frowning brows.

163

VII

“Why, you told me yesterday you’d fixed itup with him to pay cash down. You said thatwas why you couldn’t drive me over to theFlats.”

Ethan had no suppleness in deceiving. Hehad never before been convicted of a lie, andall the resources of evasion failed him. “I guessthat was a misunderstanding,” he stammered.

“You ain’t got the money?”

“No.”

“And you ain’t going to get it?”

“No.”

“Well, I couldn’t know that when I engagedthe girl, could I?”

“No.” He paused to control his voice. “Butyou know it now. I’m sorry, but it can’t be

164

VII

helped. You’re a poor man’s wife, Zeena; butI’ll do the best I can for you.”

For a while she sat motionless, as if reflect-ing, her arms stretched along the arms of herchair, her eyes fixed on vacancy. “Oh, I guesswe’ll make out,” she said mildly.

The change in her tone reassured him. “Ofcourse we will! There’s a whole lot more I cando for you, and Mattie–”

Zeena, while he spoke, seemed to be follow-ing out some elaborate mental calculation. Sheemerged from it to say: “There’ll be Mattie’sboard less, any how–”

Ethan, supposing the discussion to be over,had turned to go down to supper. He stoppedshort, not grasping what he heard. “Mattie’sboard less–?” he began.

165

VII

Zeena laughed. It was on odd unfamiliarsound–he did not remember ever having heardher laugh before. “You didn’t suppose I wasgoing to keep two girls, did you? No wonderyou were scared at the expense!”

He still had but a confused sense of what shewas saying. From the beginning of the discus-sion he had instinctively avoided the mentionof Mattie’s name, fearing he hardly knew what:criticism, complaints, or vague allusions to theimminent probability of her marrying. But thethought of a definite rupture had never cometo him, and even now could not lodge itself inhis mind.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said.“Mattie Silver’s not a hired girl. She’s your re-lation.”

“She’s a pauper that’s hung onto us all after

166

VII

her father’d done his best to ruin us. I’ve kep’her here a whole year: it’s somebody else’s turnnow.”

As the shrill words shot out Ethan hearda tap on the door, which he had drawn shutwhen he turned back from the threshold.

“Ethan–Zeena!” Mattie’s voice soundedgaily from the landing, “do you know whattime it is? Supper’s been ready half an hour.”

Inside the room there was a moment’s si-lence; then Zeena called out from her seat: “I’mnot coming down to supper.”

“Oh, I’m sorry! Aren’t you well? Sha’n‘t Ibring you up a bite of something?”

Ethan roused himself with an effort andopened the door. “Go along down, Matt.Zeena’s just a little tired. I’m coming.”

167

VII

He heard her “All right!” and her quick stepon the stairs; then he shut the door and turnedback into the room. His wife’s attitude wasunchanged, her face inexorable, and he wasseized with the despairing sense of his help-lessness.

“You ain’t going to do it, Zeena?”“Do what?” she emitted between flattened

lips.“Send Mattie away–like this?”“I never bargained to take her for life!”He continued with rising vehemence: “You

can’t put her out of the house like a thief–a poorgirl without friends or money. She’s done herbest for you and she’s got no place to go to. Youmay forget she’s your kin but everybody else’llremember it. If you do a thing like that whatdo you suppose folks’ll say of you?”

168

VII

Zeena waited a moment, as if giving himtime to feel the full force of the contrast be-tween his own excitement and her composure.Then she replied in the same smooth voice: “Iknow well enough what they say of my havingkep’ her here as long as I have.”

Ethan’s hand dropped from the door-knob,which he had held clenched since he haddrawn the door shut on Mattie. His wife’s re-tort was like a knife-cut across the sinews andhe felt suddenly weak and powerless. He hadmeant to humble himself, to argue that Mattie’skeep didn’t cost much, after all, that he couldmake out to buy a stove and fix up a place inthe attic for the hired girl–but Zeena’s wordsrevealed the peril of such pleadings.

“You mean to tell her she’s got to go–atonce?” he faltered out, in terror of letting his

169

VII

wife complete her sentence.

As if trying to make him see reason shereplied impartially: “The girl will be over fromBettsbridge to-morrow, and I presume she’s gotto have somewheres to sleep.”

Ethan looked at her with loathing. She wasno longer the listless creature who had lived athis side in a state of sullen self-absorption, buta mysterious alien presence, an evil energy se-creted from the long years of silent brooding.It was the sense of his helplessness that sharp-ened his antipathy. There had never been any-thing in her that one could appeal to; but aslong as he could ignore and command he hadremained indifferent. Now she had masteredhim and he abhorred her. Mattie was her re-lation, not his: there were no means by whichhe could compel her to keep the girl under her

170

VII

roof. All the long misery of his baffled past, ofhis youth of failure, hardship and vain effort,rose up in his soul in bitterness and seemed totake shape before him in the woman who at ev-ery turn had barred his way. She had taken ev-erything else from him; and now she meant totake the one thing that made up for all the oth-ers. For a moment such a flame of hate rose inhim that it ran down his arm and clenched hisfist against her. He took a wild step forwardand then stopped.

“You’re–you’re not coming down?” he saidin a bewildered voice.

“No. I guess I’ll lay down on the bed a lit-tle while,” she answered mildly; and he turnedand walked out of the room.

In the kitchen Mattie was sitting by the stove,the cat curled up on her knees. She sprang to

171

VII

her feet as Ethan entered and carried the cov-ered dish of meat-pie to the table.

“I hope Zeena isn’t sick?” she asked.

“No.”

She shone at him across the table. “Well,sit right down then. You must be starving.”She uncovered the pie and pushed it over tohim. So they were to have one more eveningtogether, her happy eyes seemed to say!

He helped himself mechanically and beganto eat; then disgust took him by the throat andhe laid down his fork.

Mattie’s tender gaze was on him and shemarked the gesture.

“Why, Ethan, what’s the matter? Don’t ittaste right?”

172

VII

“Yes–it’s first–rate. Only I–” He pushed hisplate away, rose from his chair, and walkedaround the table to her side. She started upwith frightened eyes.

“Ethan, there’s something wrong! I knewthere was!”

She seemed to melt against him in her ter-ror, and he caught her in his arms, held her fastthere, felt her lashes beat his cheek like nettedbutterflies.

“What is it–what is it?” she stammered; buthe had found her lips at last and was drinkingunconsciousness of everything but the joy theygave him.

She lingered a moment, caught in the samestrong current; then she slipped from him anddrew back a step or two, pale and troubled.

173

VII

Her look smote him with compunction, and hecried out, as if he saw her drowning in a dream:“You can’t go, Matt! I’ll never let you!”

“Go–go?” she stammered. “Must I go?”

The words went on sounding between themas though a torch of warning flew from hand tohand through a black landscape.

Ethan was overcome with shame at his lackof self-control in flinging the news at her sobrutally. His head reeled and he had to sup-port himself against the table. All the while hefelt as if he were still kissing her, and yet dyingof thirst for her lips.

“Ethan, what has happened? Is Zeena madwith me?”

Her cry steadied him, though it deepened hiswrath and pity. “No, no,” he assured her, “it’s

174

VII

not that. But this new doctor has scared herabout herself. You know she believes all theysay the first time she sees them. And this one’stold her she won’t get well unless she lays upand don’t do a thing about the house–not formonths–”

He paused, his eyes wandering from hermiserably. She stood silent a moment, droop-ing before him like a broken branch. She was sosmall and weak-looking that it wrung his heart;but suddenly she lifted her head and lookedstraight at him. “And she wants somebodyhandier in my place? Is that it?”

“That’s what she says to-night.”“If she says it to-night she’ll say it to-

morrow.”Both bowed to the inexorable truth: they

knew that Zeena never changed her mind, and

175

VII

that in her case a resolve once taken was equiv-alent to an act performed.

There was a long silence between them; thenMattie said in a low voice: “Don’t be too sorry,Ethan.”

“Oh, God–oh, God,” he groaned. The glowof passion he had felt for her had melted to anaching tenderness. He saw her quick lids beat-ing back the tears, and longed to take her in hisarms and soothe her.

“You’re letting your supper get cold,” sheadmonished him with a pale gleam of gaiety.

“Oh, Matt–Matt–where’ll you go to?”

Her lids sank and a tremor crossed her face.He saw that for the first time the thought ofthe future came to her distinctly. “I might getsomething to do over at Stamford,” she fal-

176

VII

tered, as if knowing that he knew she had nohope.

He dropped back into his seat and hid hisface in his hands. Despair seized him at thethought of her setting out alone to renew theweary quest for work. In the only place whereshe was known she was surrounded by indif-ference or animosity; and what chance had she,inexperienced and untrained, among the mil-lion bread-seekers of the cities? There cameback to him miserable tales he had heard atWorcester, and the faces of girls whose liveshad begun as hopefully as Mattie’s.... It wasnot possible to think of such things without arevolt of his whole being. He sprang up sud-denly.

“You can’t go, Matt! I won’t let you! She’salways had her way, but I mean to have mine

177

VII

now–”Mattie lifted her hand with a quick gesture,

and he heard his wife’s step behind him.Zeena came into the room with her dragging

down-at-the-heel step, and quietly took her ac-customed seat between them.

“I felt a little mite better, and Dr. Buck says Iought to eat all I can to keep my strength up,even if I ain’t got any appetite,” she said inher flat whine, reaching across Mattie for theteapot. Her “good” dress had been replacedby the black calico and brown knitted shawlwhich formed her daily wear, and with themshe had put on her usual face and manner. Shepoured out her tea, added a great deal of milkto it, helped herself largely to pie and pick-les, and made the familiar gesture of adjust-ing her false teeth before she began to eat. The

178

VII

cat rubbed itself ingratiatingly against her, andshe said “Good Pussy,” stooped to stroke it andgave it a scrap of meat from her plate.

Ethan sat speechless, not pretending to eat,but Mattie nibbled valiantly at her food andasked Zeena one or two questions about hervisit to Bettsbridge. Zeena answered in herevery-day tone and, warming to the theme, re-galed them with several vivid descriptions ofintestinal disturbances among her friends andrelatives. She looked straight at Mattie as shespoke, a faint smile deepening the vertical linesbetween her nose and chin.

When supper was over she rose from herseat and pressed her hand to the flat surfaceover the region of her heart. “That pie of yoursalways sets a mite heavy, Matt,” she said, notill-naturedly. She seldom abbreviated the girl’s

179

VII

name, and when she did so it was always a signof affability.

“I’ve a good mind to go and hunt up thosestomach powders I got last year over in Spring-field,” she continued. “I ain’t tried them forquite a while, and maybe they’ll help the heart-burn.”

Mattie lifted her eyes. “Can’t I get them foryou, Zeena?” she ventured.

“No. They’re in a place you don’t knowabout,” Zeena answered darkly, with one of hersecret looks.

She went out of the kitchen and Mattie, ris-ing, began to clear the dishes from the ta-ble. As she passed Ethan’s chair their eyesmet and clung together desolately. The warmstill kitchen looked as peaceful as the night be-

180

VII

fore. The cat had sprung to Zeena’s rocking-chair, and the heat of the fire was beginningto draw out the faint sharp scent of the gera-niums. Ethan dragged himself wearily to hisfeet.

“I’ll go out and take a look around,” he said,going toward the passage to get his lantern.

As he reached the door he met Zeena com-ing back into the room, her lips twitching withanger, a flush of excitement on her sallow face.The shawl had slipped from her shoulders andwas dragging at her down-trodden heels, andin her hands she carried the fragments of thered glass pickle-dish.

“I’d like to know who done this,” she said,looking sternly from Ethan to Mattie.

There was no answer, and she continued in atrembling voice: “I went to get those powders

181

VII

I’d put away in father’s old spectacle-case, topof the china-closet, where I keep the things I setstore by, so’s folks shan’t meddle with them–” Her voice broke, and two small tears hungon her lashless lids and ran slowly down hercheeks. “It takes the stepladder to get at the topshelf, and I put Aunt Philura Maple’s pickle-dish up there o’ purpose when we was mar-ried, and it’s never been down since, ‘cept forthe spring cleaning, and then I always liftedit with my own hands, so’s ‘t shouldn’t getbroke.” She laid the fragments reverently onthe table. “I want to know who done this,” shequavered.

At the challenge Ethan turned back into theroom and faced her. “I can tell you, then. Thecat done it.”

“The cat?”

182

VII

“That’s what I said.”She looked at him hard, and then turned her

eyes to Mattie, who was carrying the dish-panto the table.

“I’d like to know how the cat got into mychina-closet“’ she said.

“Chasin’ mice, I guess,” Ethan rejoined.“There was a mouse round the kitchen all lastevening.”

Zeena continued to look from one to theother; then she emitted her small strangelaugh. “I knew the cat was a smart cat,” shesaid in a high voice, “but I didn’t know hewas smart enough to pick up the pieces of mypickle-dish and lay ‘em edge to edge on thevery shelf he knocked ‘em off of.”

Mattie suddenly drew her arms out of thesteaming water. “It wasn’t Ethan’s fault,

183

VII

Zeena! The cat did break the dish; but I gotit down from the china-closet, and I’m the oneto blame for its getting broken.”

Zeena stood beside the ruin of her treasure,stiffening into a stony image of resentment,“You got down my pickle-dish-what for?”

A bright flush flew to Mattie’s cheeks. “Iwanted to make the supper-table pretty,” shesaid.

“You wanted to make the supper-tablepretty; and you waited till my back was turned,and took the thing I set most store by ofanything I’ve got, and wouldn’t never useit, not even when the minister come to din-ner, or Aunt Martha Pierce come over fromBettsbridge–” Zeena paused with a gasp, as ifterrified by her own evocation of the sacrilege.“You’re a bad girl, Mattie Silver, and I always

184

VII

known it. It’s the way your father begun, and Iwas warned of it when I took you, and I tried tokeep my things where you couldn’t get at ‘em–and now you’ve took from me the one I caredfor most of all–” She broke off in a short spasmof sobs that passed and left her more than everlike a shape of stone.

“If I’d ‘a’ listened to folks, you’d ‘a’ gone be-fore now, and this wouldn’t ‘a’ happened,” shesaid; and gathering up the bits of broken glassshe went out of the room as if she carried adead body...

185

VIII

WHEN Ethan was called back to the farm byhis father’s illness his mother gave him,

for his own use, a small room behind the un-tenanted “best parlour.” Here he had nailedup shelves for his books, built himself a box-sofa out of boards and a mattress, laid out hispapers on a kitchen-table, hung on the rough

186

VIII

plaster wall an engraving of Abraham Lincolnand a calendar with “Thoughts from the Po-ets,” and tried, with these meagre properties, toproduce some likeness to the study of a “min-ister” who had been kind to him and lent himbooks when he was at Worcester. He still tookrefuge there in summer, but when Mattie cameto live at the farm he had to give her his stove,and consequently the room was uninhabitablefor several months of the year.

To this retreat he descended as soon as thehouse was quiet, and Zeena’s steady breath-ing from the bed had assured him that therewas to be no sequel to the scene in the kitchen.After Zeena’s departure he and Mattie hadstood speechless, neither seeking to approachthe other. Then the girl had returned to hertask of clearing up the kitchen for the night

187

VIII

and he had taken his lantern and gone on hisusual round outside the house. The kitchenwas empty when he came back to it; but histobacco-pouch and pipe had been laid on thetable, and under them was a scrap of papertorn from the back of a seedsman’s catalogue,on which three words were written: “Don’ttrouble, Ethan.”

Going into his cold dark “study” he placedthe lantern on the table and, stooping to itslight, read the message again and again. Itwas the first time that Mattie had ever writtento him, and the possession of the paper gavehim a strange new sense of her nearness; yetit deepened his anguish by reminding him thathenceforth they would have no other way ofcommunicating with each other. For the life ofher smile, the warmth of her voice, only cold

188

VIII

paper and dead words!

Confused motions of rebellion stormed inhim. He was too young, too strong, too fullof the sap of living, to submit so easily to thedestruction of his hopes. Must he wear outall his years at the side of a bitter querulouswoman? Other possibilities had been in him,possibilities sacrificed, one by one, to Zeena’snarrow-mindedness and ignorance. And whatgood had come of it? She was a hundred timesbitterer and more discontented than when hehad married her: the one pleasure left her wasto inflict pain on him. All the healthy instinctsof self-defence rose up in him against suchwaste...

He bundled himself into his old coon-skincoat and lay down on the box-sofa to think. Un-der his cheek he felt a hard object with strange

189

VIII

protuberances. It was a cushion which Zeenahad made for him when they were engaged–the only piece of needlework he had ever seenher do. He flung it across the floor and proppedhis head against the wall...

He knew a case of a man over the mountain–a young fellow of about his own age–who hadescaped from just such a life of misery by goingWest with the girl he cared for. His wife haddivorced him, and he had married the girl andprospered. Ethan had seen the couple the sum-mer before at Shadd’s Falls, where they hadcome to visit relatives. They had a little girlwith fair curls, who wore a gold locket and wasdressed like a princess. The deserted wife hadnot done badly either. Her husband had givenher the farm and she had managed to sell it,and with that and the alimony she had started

190

VIII

a lunch-room at Bettsbridge and bloomed intoactivity and importance. Ethan was fired bythe thought. Why should he not leave withMattie the next day, instead of letting her goalone? He would hide his valise under the seatof the sleigh, and Zeena would suspect nothingtill she went upstairs for her afternoon nap andfound a letter on the bed...

His impulses were still near the surface, andhe sprang up, re-lit the lantern, and sat downat the table. He rummaged in the drawer for asheet of paper, found one, and began to write.

“Zeena, I’ve done all I could for you, and Idon’t see as it’s been any use. I don’t blameyou, nor I don’t blame myself. Maybe both ofus will do better separate. I’m going to try myluck West, and you can sell the farm and mill,and keep the money–”

191

VIII

His pen paused on the word, which broughthome to him the relentless conditions of hislot. If he gave the farm and mill to Zeenawhat would be left him to start his own lifewith? Once in the West he was sure of pick-ing up work–he would not have feared to tryhis chance alone. But with Mattie dependingon him the case was different. And what ofZeena’s fate? Farm and mill were mortgagedto the limit of their value, and even if she founda purchaser–in itself an unlikely chance–it wasdoubtful if she could clear a thousand dollarson the sale. Meanwhile, how could she keepthe farm going? It was only by incessant labourand personal supervision that Ethan drew ameagre living from his land, and his wife, evenif she were in better health than she imagined,could never carry such a burden alone.

192

VIII

Well, she could go back to her people, then,and see what they would do for her. It wasthe fate she was forcing on Mattie–why not lether try it herself? By the time she had discov-ered his whereabouts, and brought suit for di-vorce, he would probably–wherever he was–beearning enough to pay her a sufficient alimony.And the alternative was to let Mattie go forthalone, with far less hope of ultimate provision...

He had scattered the contents of the table-drawer in his search for a sheet of paper, and ashe took up his pen his eye fell on an old copyof the Bettsbridge Eagle. The advertising sheetwas folded uppermost, and he read the seduc-tive words: “Trips to the West: Reduced Rates.”

He drew the lantern nearer and eagerlyscanned the fares; then the paper fell from hishand and he pushed aside his unfinished let-

193

VIII

ter. A moment ago he had wondered what heand Mattie were to live on when they reachedthe West; now he saw that he had not even themoney to take her there. Borrowing was out ofthe question: six months before he had givenhis only security to raise funds for necessaryrepairs to the mill, and he knew that withoutsecurity no one at Starkfield would lend himten dollars. The inexorable facts closed in onhim like prison-warders handcuffing a convict.There was no way out–none. He was a prisonerfor life, and now his one ray of light was to beextinguished.

He crept back heavily to the sofa, stretchinghimself out with limbs so leaden that he felt asif they would never move again. Tears rose inhis throat and slowly burned their way to hislids.

194

VIII

As he lay there, the window-pane that facedhim, growing gradually lighter, inlaid upon thedarkness a square of moon-suffused sky. Acrooked tree-branch crossed it, a branch of theapple-tree under which, on summer evenings,he had sometimes found Mattie sitting whenhe came up from the mill. Slowly the rim ofthe rainy vapours caught fire and burnt away,and a pure moon swung into the blue. Ethan,rising on his elbow, watched the landscapewhiten and shape itself under the sculpture ofthe moon. This was the night on which he wasto have taken Mattie coasting, and there hungthe lamp to light them! He looked out at theslopes bathed in lustre, the silver-edged dark-ness of the woods, the spectral purple of thehills against the sky, and it seemed as thoughall the beauty of the night had been poured outto mock his wretchedness...

195

VIII

He fell asleep, and when he woke the chillof the winter dawn was in the room. He feltcold and stiff and hungry, and ashamed of be-ing hungry. He rubbed his eyes and went tothe window. A red sun stood over the grey rimof the fields, behind trees that looked black andbrittle. He said to himself: “This is Matt’s lastday,” and tried to think what the place wouldbe without her.

As he stood there he heard a step behind himand she entered.

“Oh, Ethan–were you here all night?”She looked so small and pinched, in her poor

dress, with the red scarf wound about her, andthe cold light turning her paleness sallow, thatEthan stood before her without speaking.

“You must be frozen,” she went on, fixinglustreless eyes on him.

196

VIII

He drew a step nearer. “How did you knowI was here?”

“Because I heard you go down stairs againafter I went to bed, and I listened all night, andyou didn’t come up.”

All his tenderness rushed to his lips. Helooked at her and said: “I’ll come right alongand make up the kitchen fire.”

They went back to the kitchen, and hefetched the coal and kindlings and cleared outthe stove for her, while she brought in the milkand the cold remains of the meat-pie. Whenwarmth began to radiate from the stove, andthe first ray of sunlight lay on the kitchen floor,Ethan’s dark thoughts melted in the mellowerair. The sight of Mattie going about her workas he had seen her on so many mornings madeit seem impossible that she should ever cease

197

VIII

to be a part of the scene. He said to himselfthat he had doubtless exaggerated the signifi-cance of Zeena’s threats, and that she too, withthe return of daylight, would come to a sanermood.

He went up to Mattie as she bent above thestove, and laid his hand on her arm. “I don’twant you should trouble either,” he said, look-ing down into her eyes with a smile.

She flushed up warmly and whispered back:“No, Ethan, I ain’t going to trouble.”

“I guess things’ll straighten out,” he added.There was no answer but a quick throb of her

lids, and he went on: “She ain’t said anythingthis morning?”

“No. I haven’t seen her yet.”“Don’t you take any notice when you do.”

198

VIII

With this injunction he left her and went outto the cow-barn. He saw Jotham Powell walk-ing up the hill through the morning mist, andthe familiar sight added to his growing convic-tion of security.

As the two men were clearing out the stallsJotham rested on his pitch-fork to say: “Dan’lByrne’s goin’ over to the Flats to-day noon, an’he c’d take Mattie’s trunk along, and make iteasier ridin’ when I take her over in the sleigh.”

Ethan looked at him blankly, and he contin-ued: “Mis’ Frome said the new girl’d be at theFlats at five, and I was to take Mattie then, so’s‘t she could ketch the six o’clock train for Stam-ford.”

Ethan felt the blood drumming in his tem-ples. He had to wait a moment before he couldfind voice to say: “Oh, it ain’t so sure about

199

VIII

Mattie’s going–”“That so?” said Jotham indifferently; and

they went on with their work.When they returned to the kitchen the two

women were already at breakfast. Zeena hadan air of unusual alertness and activity. Shedrank two cups of coffee and fed the cat withthe scraps left in the pie-dish; then she rosefrom her seat and, walking over to the window,snipped two or three yellow leaves from thegeraniums. “Aunt Martha’s ain’t got a fadedleaf on ‘em; but they pine away when theyain’t cared for,” she said reflectively. Then sheturned to Jotham and asked: “What time’d yousay Dan’l Byrne’d be along?”

The hired man threw a hesitating glance atEthan.

“Round about noon,” he said.

200

VIII

Zeena turned to Mattie. “That trunk of yoursis too heavy for the sleigh, and Dan’l Byrne’llbe round to take it over to the Flats,” she said.

“I’m much obliged to you, Zeena,” said Mat-tie.

“I’d like to go over things with you first,”Zeena continued in an unperturbed voice. “Iknow there’s a huckabuck towel missing; and Ican’t take out what you done with that match-safe ‘t used to stand behind the stuffed owl inthe parlour.”

She went out, followed by Mattie, and whenthe men were alone Jotham said to his em-ployer: “I guess I better let Dan’l come round,then.”

Ethan finished his usual morning tasksabout the house and barn; then he said to

201

VIII

Jotham: “I’m going down to Starkfield. Tellthem not to wait dinner.”

The passion of rebellion had broken out inhim again. That which had seemed incredi-ble in the sober light of day had really come topass, and he was to assist as a helpless specta-tor at Mattie’s banishment. His manhood washumbled by the part he was compelled to playand by the thought of what Mattie must thinkof him. Confused impulses struggled in him ashe strode along to the village. He had made uphis mind to do something, but he did not knowwhat it would be.

The early mist had vanished and the fieldslay like a silver shield under the sun. It was oneof the days when the glitter of winter shinesthrough a pale haze of spring. Every yard ofthe road was alive with Mattie’s presence, and

202

VIII

there was hardly a branch against the sky or atangle of brambles on the bank in which somebright shred of memory was not caught. Once,in the stillness, the call of a bird in a mountainash was so like her laughter that his heart tight-ened and then grew large; and all these thingsmade him see that something must be done atonce.

Suddenly it occurred to him that AndrewHale, who was a kind-hearted man, might beinduced to reconsider his refusal and advancea small sum on the lumber if he were toldthat Zeena’s ill-health made it necessary to hirea servant. Hale, after all, knew enough ofEthan’s situation to make it possible for the lat-ter to renew his appeal without too much lossof pride; and, moreover, how much did pridecount in the ebullition of passions in his breast?

203

VIII

The more he considered his plan the morehopeful it seemed. If he could get Mrs. Hale’sear he felt certain of success, and with fifty dol-lars in his pocket nothing could keep him fromMattie...

His first object was to reach Starkfield beforeHale had started for his work; he knew the car-penter had a job down the Corbury road andwas likely to leave his house early. Ethan’slong strides grew more rapid with the accel-erated beat of his thoughts, and as he reachedthe foot of School House Hill he caught sightof Hale’s sleigh in the distance. He hurried for-ward to meet it, but as it drew nearer he sawthat it was driven by the carpenter’s youngestboy and that the figure at his side, looking likea large upright cocoon in spectacles, was that ofMrs. Hale. Ethan signed to them to stop, and

204

VIII

Mrs. Hale leaned forward, her pink wrinklestwinkling with benevolence.

“Mr. Hale? Why, yes, you’ll find him downhome now. He ain’t going to his work thisforenoon. He woke up with a touch o’ lum-bago, and I just made him put on one of old Dr.Kidder’s plasters and set right up into the fire.”

Beaming maternally on Ethan, she bent overto add: “I on’y just heard from Mr. Hale ‘boutZeena’s going over to Bettsbridge to see thatnew doctor. I’m real sorry she’s feeling so badagain! I hope he thinks he can do somethingfor her. I don’t know anybody round here’shad more sickness than Zeena. I always tellMr. Hale I don’t know what she’d ‘a’ done ifshe hadn’t ‘a’ had you to look after her; and Iused to say the same thing ‘bout your mother.You’ve had an awful mean time, Ethan Frome.”

205

VIII

She gave him a last nod of sympathy whileher son chirped to the horse; and Ethan, as shedrove off, stood in the middle of the road andstared after the retreating sleigh.

It was a long time since any one had spokento him as kindly as Mrs. Hale. Most peoplewere either indifferent to his troubles, or dis-posed to think it natural that a young fellowof his age should have carried without repin-ing the burden of three crippled lives. But Mrs.Hale had said, “You’ve had an awful meantime, Ethan Frome,” and he felt less alone withhis misery. If the Hales were sorry for him theywould surely respond to his appeal...

He started down the road toward theirhouse, but at the end of a few yards he pulledup sharply, the blood in his face. For the firsttime, in the light of the words he had just heard,

206

VIII

he saw what he was about to do. He was plan-ning to take advantage of the Hales’ sympathyto obtain money from them on false pretences.That was a plain statement of the cloudy pur-pose which had driven him in headlong toStarkfield.

With the sudden perception of the point towhich his madness had carried him, the mad-ness fell and he saw his life before him as itwas. He was a poor man, the husband ofa sickly woman, whom his desertion wouldleave alone and destitute; and even if he hadhad the heart to desert her he could have doneso only by deceiving two kindly people whohad pitied him.

He turned and walked slowly back to thefarm.

207

IX

AT the kitchen door Daniel Byrne sat inhis sleigh behind a big-boned grey who

pawed the snow and swung his long head rest-lessly from side to side.

Ethan went into the kitchen and found hiswife by the stove. Her head was wrapped inher shawl, and she was reading a book called

208

IX

“Kidney Troubles and Their Cure” on which hehad had to pay extra postage only a few daysbefore.

Zeena did not move or look up when he en-tered, and after a moment he asked: “Where’sMattie?”

Without lifting her eyes from the page shereplied: “I presume she’s getting down hertrunk.”

The blood rushed to his face. “Getting downher trunk–alone?”

“Jotham Powell’s down in the wood-lot, andDan’l Byrne says he darsn’t leave that horse,”she returned.

Her husband, without stopping to hear theend of the phrase, had left the kitchen andsprung up the stairs. The door of Mattie’s room

209

IX

was shut, and he wavered a moment on thelanding. “Matt,” he said in a low voice; butthere was no answer, and he put his hand onthe door-knob.

He had never been in her room except once,in the early summer, when he had gone thereto plaster up a leak in the eaves, but he re-membered exactly how everything had looked:the red-and-white quilt on her narrow bed, thepretty pin-cushion on the chest of drawers, andover it the enlarged photograph of her mother,in an oxydized frame, with a bunch of dyedgrasses at the back. Now these and all othertokens of her presence had vanished and theroom looked as bare and comfortless as whenZeena had shown her into it on the day of herarrival. In the middle of the floor stood hertrunk, and on the trunk she sat in her Sunday

210

IX

dress, her back turned to the door and her facein her hands. She had not heard Ethan’s callbecause she was sobbing and she did not hearhis step till he stood close behind her and laidhis hands on her shoulders.

“Matt–oh, don’t–oh, Matt!”

She started up, lifting her wet face to his.“Ethan–I thought I wasn’t ever going to seeyou again!”

He took her in his arms, pressing her close,and with a trembling hand smoothed away thehair from her forehead.

“Not see me again? What do you mean?”

She sobbed out: “Jotham said you toldhim we wasn’t to wait dinner for you, and Ithought–”

211

IX

“You thought I meant to cut it?” he finishedfor her grimly.

She clung to him without answering, and helaid his lips on her hair, which was soft yetspringy, like certain mosses on warm slopes,and had the faint woody fragrance of freshsawdust in the sun.

Through the door they heard Zeena’s voicecalling out from below: “Dan’l Byrne says youbetter hurry up if you want him to take thattrunk.”

They drew apart with stricken faces. Wordsof resistance rushed to Ethan’s lips and diedthere. Mattie found her handkerchief and driedher eyes; then,–bending down, she took hold ofa handle of the trunk.

Ethan put her aside. “You let go, Matt,” heordered her.

212

IX

She answered: “It takes two to coax it roundthe corner”; and submitting to this argumenthe grasped the other handle, and together theymanoeuvred the heavy trunk out to the land-ing.

“Now let go,” he repeated; then he shoul-dered the trunk and carried it down the stairsand across the passage to the kitchen. Zeena,who had gone back to her seat by the stove, didnot lift her head from her book as he passed.Mattie followed him out of the door and helpedhim to lift the trunk into the back of the sleigh.When it was in place they stood side by side onthe door-step, watching Daniel Byrne plungeoff behind his fidgety horse.

It seemed to Ethan that his heart was boundwith cords which an unseen hand was tight-ening with every tick of the clock. Twice he

213

IX

opened his lips to speak to Mattie and foundno breath. At length, as she turned to re-enterthe house, he laid a detaining hand on her.

“I’m going to drive you over, Matt,” he whis-pered.

She murmured back: “I think Zeena wants Ishould go with Jotham.”

“I’m going to drive you over,” he repeated;and she went into the kitchen without answer-ing.

At dinner Ethan could not eat. If he liftedhis eyes they rested on Zeena’s pinched face,and the corners of her straight lips seemed toquiver away into a smile. She ate well, declar-ing that the mild weather made her feel bet-ter, and pressed a second helping of beans onJotham Powell, whose wants she generally ig-nored.

214

IX

Mattie, when the meal was over, went abouther usual task of clearing the table and wash-ing up the dishes. Zeena, after feeding the cat,had returned to her rocking-chair by the stove,and Jotham Powell, who always lingered last,reluctantly pushed back his chair and movedtoward the door.

On the threshold he turned back to say toEthan: “What time’ll I come round for Mattie?”

Ethan was standing near the window, me-chanically filling his pipe while he watchedMattie move to and fro. He answered: “Youneedn’t come round; I’m going to drive herover myself.”

He saw the rise of the colour in Mattie’saverted cheek, and the quick lifting of Zeena’shead.

“I want you should stay here this afternoon,

215

IX

Ethan,” his wife said. “Jotham can drive Mattieover.”

Mattie flung an imploring glance at him, buthe repeated curtly: “I’m going to drive her overmyself.”

Zeena continued in the same even tone: “Iwanted you should stay and fix up that stovein Mattie’s room afore the girl gets here. It ain’tbeen drawing right for nigh on a month now.”

Ethan’s voice rose indignantly. “If it wasgood enough for Mattie I guess it’s goodenough for a hired girl.”

“That girl that’s coming told me she wasused to a house where they had a furnace,”Zeena persisted with the same monotonousmildness.

“She’d better ha’ stayed there then,” he flungback at her; and turning to Mattie he added in

216

IX

a hard voice: “You be ready by three, Matt; I’vegot business at Corbury.”

Jotham Powell had started for the barn,and Ethan strode down after him aflame withanger. The pulses in his temples throbbed anda fog was in his eyes. He went about his taskwithout knowing what force directed him, orwhose hands and feet were fulfilling its orders.It was not till he led out the sorrel and backedhim between the shafts of the sleigh that heonce more became conscious of what he wasdoing. As he passed the bridle over the horse’shead, and wound the traces around the shafts,he remembered the day when he had made thesame preparations in order to drive over andmeet his wife’s cousin at the Flats. It was lit-tle more than a year ago, on just such a soft af-ternoon, with a “feel” of spring in the air. The

217

IX

sorrel, turning the same big ringed eye on him,nuzzled the palm of his hand in the same way;and one by one all the days between rose upand stood before him...

He flung the bearskin into the sleigh,climbed to the seat, and drove up to the house.When he entered the kitchen it was empty,but Mattie’s bag and shawl lay ready by thedoor. He went to the foot of the stairs and lis-tened. No sound reached him from above, butpresently he thought he heard some one mov-ing about in his deserted study, and pushingopen the door he saw Mattie, in her hat andjacket, standing with her back to him near thetable.

She started at his approach and turningquickly, said: “Is it time?”

“What are you doing here, Matt?” he asked

218

IX

her.

She looked at him timidly. “I was just takinga look round–that’s all,” she answered, with awavering smile.

They went back into the kitchen withoutspeaking, and Ethan picked up her bag andshawl.

“Where’s Zeena?” he asked.

“She went upstairs right after dinner. Shesaid she had those shooting pains again, anddidn’t want to be disturbed.”

“Didn’t she say good-bye to you?”

“No. That was all she said.”

Ethan, looking slowly about the kitchen, saidto himself with a shudder that in a few hours hewould be returning to it alone. Then the sense

219

IX

of unreality overcame him once more, and hecould not bring himself to believe that Mattiestood there for the last time before him.

“Come on,” he said almost gaily, opening thedoor and putting her bag into the sleigh. Hesprang to his seat and bent over to tuck the rugabout her as she slipped into the place at hisside. “Now then, go ‘long,” he said, with ashake of the reins that sent the sorrel placidlyjogging down the hill.

“We got lots of time for a good ride, Matt!”he cried, seeking her hand beneath the fur andpressing it in his. His face tingled and he feltdizzy, as if he had stopped in at the Starkfieldsaloon on a zero day for a drink.

At the gate, instead of making for Starkfield,he turned the sorrel to the right, up the Betts-bridge road. Mattie sat silent, giving no sign

220

IX

of surprise; but after a moment she said: “Areyou going round by Shadow Pond?”

He laughed and answered: “I knew you’dknow!”

She drew closer under the bearskin, so that,looking sideways around his coat-sleeve, hecould just catch the tip of her nose and a blownbrown wave of hair. They drove slowly upthe road between fields glistening under thepale sun, and then bent to the right down alane edged with spruce and larch. Ahead ofthem, a long way off, a range of hills stainedby mottlings of black forest flowed away inround white curves against the sky. The lanepassed into a pine-wood with boles reddeningin the afternoon sun and delicate blue shad-ows on the snow. As they entered it the breezefell and a warm stillness seemed to drop from

221

IX

the branches with the dropping needles. Herethe snow was so pure that the tiny tracks ofwood-animals had left on it intricate lace-likepatterns, and the bluish cones caught in its sur-face stood out like ornaments of bronze.

Ethan drove on in silence till they reached apart of the wood where the pines were morewidely spaced, then he drew up and helpedMattie to get out of the sleigh. They passed be-tween the aromatic trunks, the snow breakingcrisply under their feet, till they came to a smallsheet of water with steep wooded sides. Acrossits frozen surface, from the farther bank, a sin-gle hill rising against the western sun threw thelong conical shadow which gave the lake itsname. It was a shy secret spot, full of the samedumb melancholy that Ethan felt in his heart.

He looked up and down the little pebbly

222

IX

beach till his eye lit on a fallen tree-trunk halfsubmerged in snow.

“There’s where we sat at the picnic,” he re-minded her.

The entertainment of which he spoke wasone of the few that they had taken part in to-gether: a “church picnic” which, on a long af-ternoon of the preceding summer, had filledthe retired place with merry-making. Mattiehad begged him to go with her but he hadrefused. Then, toward sunset, coming downfrom the mountain where he had been fellingtimber, he had been caught by some strayedrevellers and drawn into the group by the lake,where Mattie, encircled by facetious youths,and bright as a blackberry under her spread-ing hat, was brewing coffee over a gipsy fire.He remembered the shyness he had felt at ap-

223

IX

proaching her in his uncouth clothes, and thenthe lighting up of her face, and the way shehad broken through the group to come to himwith a cup in her hand. They had sat for a fewminutes on the fallen log by the pond, and shehad missed her gold locket, and set the youngmen searching for it; and it was Ethan who hadspied it in the moss.... That was all; but alltheir intercourse had been made up of just suchinarticulate flashes, when they seemed to comesuddenly upon happiness as if they had sur-prised a butterfly in the winter woods...

“It was right there I found your locket,” hesaid, pushing his foot into a dense tuft of blue-berry bushes.

“I never saw anybody with such sharpeyes!” she answered.

She sat down on the tree-trunk in the sun

224

IX

and he sat down beside her.

“You were as pretty as a picture in that pinkhat,” he said.

She laughed with pleasure. “Oh, I guess itwas the hat!” she rejoined.

They had never before avowed their inclina-tion so openly, and Ethan, for a moment, hadthe illusion that he was a free man, wooing thegirl he meant to marry. He looked at her hairand longed to touch it again, and to tell her thatit smelt of the woods; but he had never learnedto say such things.

Suddenly she rose to her feet and said: “Wemustn’t stay here any longer.”

He continued to gaze at her vaguely, onlyhalf-roused from his dream. “There’s plenty oftime,” he answered.

225

IX

They stood looking at each other as if theeyes of each were straining to absorb and holdfast the other’s image. There were things hehad to say to her before they parted, but hecould not say them in that place of summermemories, and he turned and followed her insilence to the sleigh. As they drove away thesun sank behind the hill and the pine-bolesturned from red to grey.

By a devious track between the fields theywound back to the Starkfield road. Under theopen sky the light was still clear, with a reflec-tion of cold red on the eastern hills. The clumpsof trees in the snow seemed to draw together inruffled lumps, like birds with their heads un-der their wings; and the sky, as it paled, rosehigher, leaving the earth more alone.

As they turned into the Starkfield road Ethan

226

IX

said: “Matt, what do you mean to do?”She did not answer at once, but at length she

said: “I’ll try to get a place in a store.”“You know you can’t do it. The bad air and

the standing all day nearly killed you before.”“I’m a lot stronger than I was before I came

to Starkfield.”“And now you’re going to throw away all

the good it’s done you!”There seemed to be no answer to this, and

again they drove on for a while without speak-ing. With every yard of the way some spotwhere they had stood, and laughed together orbeen silent, clutched at Ethan and dragged himback.

“Isn’t there any of your father’s folks couldhelp you?”

227

IX

“There isn’t any of ‘em I’d ask.”

He lowered his voice to say: “You knowthere’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you if Icould.”

“I know there isn’t.”

“But I can’t–”

She was silent, but he felt a slight tremor inthe shoulder against his.

“Oh, Matt,” he broke out, “if I could ha’ gonewith you now I’d ha’ done it–”

She turned to him, pulling a scrap of pa-per from her breast. “Ethan–I found this,” shestammered. Even in the failing light he saw itwas the letter to his wife that he had begun thenight before and forgotten to destroy. Throughhis astonishment there ran a fierce thrill of joy.

228

IX

“Matt–” he cried; “if I could ha’ done it, wouldyou?”

“Oh, Ethan, Ethan–what’s the use?” With asudden movement she tore the letter in shredsand sent them fluttering off into the snow.

“Tell me, Matt! Tell me!” he adjured her.

She was silent for a moment; then she said,in such a low tone that he had to stoop his headto hear her: “I used to think of it sometimes,summer nights, when the moon was so brightI couldn’t sleep.”

His heart reeled with the sweetness of it. “Aslong ago as that?”

She answered, as if the date had long beenfixed for her: “The first time was at ShadowPond.”

229

IX

“Was that why you gave me my coffee beforethe others?”

“I don’t know. Did I? I was dreadfully putout when you wouldn’t go to the picnic withme; and then, when I saw you coming downthe road, I thought maybe you’d gone homethat way o’ purpose; and that made me glad.”

They were silent again. They had reachedthe point where the road dipped to the hol-low by Ethan’s mill and as they descendedthe darkness descended with them, droppingdown like a black veil from the heavy hemlockboughs.

“I’m tied hand and foot, Matt. There isn’t athing I can do,” he began again.

“You must write to me sometimes, Ethan.”“Oh, what good’ll writing do? I want to put

my hand out and touch you. I want to do for

230

IX

you and care for you. I want to be there whenyou’re sick and when you’re lonesome.”

“You mustn’t think but what I’ll do all right.”“You won’t need me, you mean? I suppose

you’ll marry!”“Oh, Ethan!” she cried.“I don’t know how it is you make me feel,

Matt. I’d a’most rather have you dead thanthat!”

“Oh, I wish I was, I wish I was!” she sobbed.The sound of her weeping shook him out of

his dark anger, and he felt ashamed.“Don’t let’s talk that way,” he whispered.“Why shouldn’t we, when it’s true? I’ve

been wishing it every minute of the day.”“Matt! You be quiet! Don’t you say it.”

231

IX

“There’s never anybody been good to me butyou.”

“Don’t say that either, when I can’t lift ahand for you!”

“Yes; but it’s true just the same.”

They had reached the top of School HouseHill and Starkfield lay below them in the twi-light. A cutter, mounting the road from thevillage, passed them by in a joyous flutter ofbells, and they straightened themselves andlooked ahead with rigid faces. Along the mainstreet lights had begun to shine from the house-fronts and stray figures were turning in hereand there at the gates. Ethan, with a touch ofhis whip, roused the sorrel to a languid trot.

As they drew near the end of the village thecries of children reached them, and they saw a

232

IX

knot of boys, with sleds behind them, scatter-ing across the open space before the church.

“I guess this’ll be their last coast for a day ortwo,” Ethan said, looking up at the mild sky.

Mattie was silent, and he added: “We wereto have gone down last night.”

Still she did not speak and, prompted by anobscure desire to help himself and her throughtheir miserable last hour, he went on discur-sively: “Ain’t it funny we haven’t been downtogether but just that once last winter?”

She answered: “It wasn’t often I got down tothe village.”

“That’s so,” he said.They had reached the crest of the Corbury

road, and between the indistinct white glim-mer of the church and the black curtain of the

233

IX

Varnum spruces the slope stretched away be-low them without a sled on its length. Some er-ratic impulse prompted Ethan to say: “How’dyou like me to take you down now?”

She forced a laugh. “Why, there isn’t time!”

“There’s all the time we want. Come along!”His one desire now was to postpone the mo-ment of turning the sorrel toward the Flats.

“But the girl,” she faltered. “The girl’ll bewaiting at the station.”

“Well, let her wait. You’d have to if shedidn’t. Come!”

The note of authority in his voice seemed tosubdue her, and when he had jumped from thesleigh she let him help her out, saying only,with a vague feint of reluctance: “But thereisn’t a sled round anywheres.”

234

IX

“Yes, there is! Right over there under thespruces.” He threw the bearskin over the sor-rel, who stood passively by the roadside, hang-ing a meditative head. Then he caught Mattie’shand and drew her after him toward the sled.

She seated herself obediently and he took hisplace behind her, so close that her hair brushedhis face. “All right, Matt?” he called out, as ifthe width of the road had been between them.

She turned her head to say: “It’s dreadfullydark. Are you sure you can see?”

He laughed contemptuously: “I could godown this coast with my eyes tied!” and shelaughed with him, as if she liked his audac-ity. Nevertheless he sat still a moment, strain-ing his eyes down the long hill, for it was themost confusing hour of the evening, the hourwhen the last clearness from the upper sky is

235

IX

merged with the rising night in a blur that dis-guises landmarks and falsifies distances.

“Now!” he cried.The sled started with a bound, and they flew

on through the dusk, gathering smoothnessand speed as they went, with the hollow nightopening out below them and the air singing bylike an organ. Mattie sat perfectly still, but asthey reached the bend at the foot of the hill,where the big elm thrust out a deadly elbow,he fancied that she shrank a little closer.

“Don’t be scared, Matt!” he cried exultantly,as they spun safely past it and flew down thesecond slope; and when they reached the levelground beyond, and the speed of the sled be-gan to slacken, he heard her give a little laughof glee.

They sprang off and started to walk back up

236

IX

the hill. Ethan dragged the sled with one handand passed the other through Mattie’s arm.

“Were you scared I’d run you into the elm?”he asked with a boyish laugh.

“I told you I was never scared with you,” sheanswered.

The strange exaltation of his mood hadbrought on one of his rare fits of boastfulness.“It is a tricky place, though. The least swerve,and we’d never ha’ come up again. But I canmeasure distances to a hair’s-breadth-alwayscould.”

She murmured: “I always say you’ve got thesurest eye...”

Deep silence had fallen with the starlessdusk, and they leaned on each other withoutspeaking; but at every step of their climb Ethan

237

IX

said to himself: “It’s the last time we’ll everwalk together.”

They mounted slowly to the top of the hill.When they were abreast of the church hestooped his head to her to ask: “Are you tired?”and she answered, breathing quickly: “It wassplendid!”

With a pressure of his arm he guided her to-ward the Norway spruces. “I guess this sledmust be Ned Hale’s. Anyhow I’ll leave it whereI found it.” He drew the sled up to the Var-num gate and rested it against the fence. As heraised himself he suddenly felt Mattie close tohim among the shadows.

“Is this where Ned and Ruth kissed eachother?” she whispered breathlessly, and flungher arms about him. Her lips, groping for his,swept over his face, and he held her fast in a

238

IX

rapture of surprise.“Good-bye-good-bye,” she stammered, and

kissed him again.“Oh, Matt, I can’t let you go!” broke from

him in the same old cry.She freed herself from his hold and he heard

her sobbing. “Oh, I can’t go either!” shewailed.

“Matt! What’ll we do? What’ll we do?”They clung to each other’s hands like chil-

dren, and her body shook with desperate sobs.Through the stillness they heard the church

clock striking five.“Oh, Ethan, it’s time!” she cried.He drew her back to him. “Time for what?

You don’t suppose I’m going to leave younow?”

239

IX

“If I missed my train where’d I go?”

“Where are you going if you catch it?”

She stood silent, her hands lying cold and re-laxed in his.

“What’s the good of either of us going any-wheres without the other one now?” he said.

She remained motionless, as if she had notheard him. Then she snatched her handsfrom his, threw her arms about his neck, andpressed a sudden drenched cheek against hisface. “Ethan! Ethan! I want you to take medown again!”

“Down where?”

“The coast. Right off,” she panted. “So ‘twe’ll never come up any more.”

“Matt! What on earth do you mean?”

240

IX

She put her lips close against his ear to say:“Right into the big elm. You said you could.So ‘t we’d never have to leave each other anymore.”

“Why, what are you talking of? You’recrazy!”

“I’m not crazy; but I will be if I leave you.”

“Oh, Matt, Matt–” he groaned.

She tightened her fierce hold about his neck.Her face lay close to his face.

“Ethan, where’ll I go if I leave you? I don’tknow how to get along alone. You said so your-self just now. Nobody but you was ever goodto me. And there’ll be that strange girl in thehouse... and she’ll sleep in my bed, where Iused to lay nights and listen to hear you comeup the stairs...”

241

IX

The words were like fragments torn from hisheart. With them came the hated vision of thehouse he was going back to–of the stairs hewould have to go up every night, of the womanwho would wait for him there. And the sweet-ness of Mattie’s avowal, the wild wonder ofknowing at last that all that had happened tohim had happened to her too, made the othervision more abhorrent, the other life more in-tolerable to return to...

Her pleadings still came to him betweenshort sobs, but he no longer heard what shewas saying. Her hat had slipped back and hewas stroking her hair. He wanted to get thefeeling of it into his hand, so that it would sleepthere like a seed in winter. Once he found hermouth again, and they seemed to be by thepond together in the burning August sun. But

242

IX

his cheek touched hers, and it was cold and fullof weeping, and he saw the road to the Flatsunder the night and heard the whistle of thetrain up the line.

The spruces swathed them in blackness andsilence. They might have been in their coffinsunderground. He said to himself: “Perhaps it’llfeel like this...” and then again: “After this Isha’n‘t feel anything...”

Suddenly he heard the old sorrel whinnyacross the road, and thought: “He’s wonderingwhy he doesn’t get his supper...”

“Come!” Mattie whispered, tugging at hishand.

Her sombre violence constrained him: sheseemed the embodied instrument of fate. Hepulled the sled out, blinking like a night-bird

243

IX

as he passed from the shade of the spruces intothe transparent dusk of the open. The slopebelow them was deserted. All Starkfield wasat supper, and not a figure crossed the openspace before the church. The sky, swollen withthe clouds that announce a thaw, hung as lowas before a summer storm. He strained hiseyes through the dimness, and they seemedless keen, less capable than usual.

He took his seat on the sled and Mattie in-stantly placed herself in front of him. Her hathad fallen into the snow and his lips were inher hair. He stretched out his legs, drove hisheels into the road to keep the sled from slip-ping forward, and bent her head back betweenhis hands. Then suddenly he sprang up again.

“Get up,” he ordered her.It was the tone she always heeded, but she

244

IX

cowered down in her seat, repeating vehe-mently: “No, no, no!”

“Get up!”

“Why?”

“I want to sit in front.”

“No, no! How can you steer in front?”

“I don’t have to. We’ll follow the track.”

They spoke in smothered whispers, asthough the night were listening.

“Get up! Get up!” he urged her; but shekept on repeating: “Why do you want to sit infront?”

“Because I–because I want to feel you hold-ing me,” he stammered, and dragged her to herfeet.

245

IX

The answer seemed to satisfy her, or else sheyielded to the power of his voice. He bentdown, feeling in the obscurity for the glassyslide worn by preceding coasters, and placedthe runners carefully between its edges. Shewaited while he seated himself with crossedlegs in the front of the sled; then she crouchedquickly down at his back and clasped her armsabout him. Her breath in his neck set him shud-dering again, and he almost sprang from hisseat. But in a flash he remembered the alterna-tive. She was right: this was better than part-ing. He leaned back and drew her mouth tohis...

Just as they started he heard the sorrel’swhinny again, and the familiar wistful call, andall the confused images it brought with it, wentwith him down the first reach of the road. Half-

246

IX

way down there was a sudden drop, then arise, and after that another long delirious de-scent. As they took wing for this it seemed tohim that they were flying indeed, flying far upinto the cloudy night, with Starkfield immea-surably below them, falling away like a speckin space... Then the big elm shot up ahead, ly-ing in wait for them at the bend of the road,and he said between his teeth: “We can fetch it;I know we can fetch it–”

As they flew toward the tree Mattie pressedher arms tighter, and her blood seemed to bein his veins. Once or twice the sled swerveda little under them. He slanted his body tokeep it headed for the elm, repeating to him-self again and again: “I know we can fetch it”;and little phrases she had spoken ran throughhis head and danced before him on the air.

247

IX

The big tree loomed bigger and closer, and asthey bore down on it he thought: “It’s wait-ing for us: it seems to know.” But suddenlyhis wife’s face, with twisted monstrous linea-ments, thrust itself between him and his goal,and he made an instinctive movement to brushit aside. The sled swerved in response, buthe righted it again, kept it straight, and drovedown on the black projecting mass. There wasa last instant when the air shot past him likemillions of fiery wires; and then the elm...

The sky was still thick, but looking straightup he saw a single star, and tried vaguely toreckon whether it were Sirius, or–or–The efforttired him too much, and he closed his heavylids and thought that he would sleep... Thestillness was so profound that he heard a lit-tle animal twittering somewhere near by under

248

IX

the snow. It made a small frightened cheep likea field mouse, and he wondered languidly if itwere hurt. Then he understood that it must bein pain: pain so excruciating that he seemed,mysteriously, to feel it shooting through hisown body. He tried in vain to roll over in thedirection of the sound, and stretched his leftarm out across the snow. And now it was asthough he felt rather than heard the twittering;it seemed to be under his palm, which restedon something soft and springy. The thought ofthe animal’s suffering was intolerable to himand he struggled to raise himself, and couldnot because a rock, or some huge mass, seemedto be lying on him. But he continued to fingerabout cautiously with his left hand, thinking hemight get hold of the little creature and helpit; and all at once he knew that the soft thinghe had touched was Mattie’s hair and that his

249

IX

hand was on her face.

He dragged himself to his knees, the mon-strous load on him moving with him as hemoved, and his hand went over and over herface, and he felt that the twittering came fromher lips...

He got his face down close to hers, with hisear to her mouth, and in the darkness he sawher eyes open and heard her say his name.

“Oh, Matt, I thought we’d fetched it,” hemoaned; and far off, up the hill, he heard thesorrel whinny, and thought: “I ought to be get-ting him his feed...”

250

IX

The Querulous Drone ceased as I enteredFrome’s kitchen, and of the two women sit-ting there I could not tell which had been thespeaker.

One of them, on my appearing, raised hertall bony figure from her seat, not as if to wel-come me–for she threw me no more than abrief glance of surprise–but simply to set aboutpreparing the meal which Frome’s absence haddelayed. A slatternly calico wrapper hungfrom her shoulders and the wisps of her thingrey hair were drawn away from a high fore-head and fastened at the back by a brokencomb. She had pale opaque eyes which re-vealed nothing and reflected nothing, and hernarrow lips were of the same sallow colour asher face.

The other woman was much smaller and

251

IX

slighter. She sat huddled in an arm-chair nearthe stove, and when I came in she turnedher head quickly toward me, without the leastcorresponding movement of her body. Herhair was as grey as her companion’s, her faceas bloodless and shrivelled, but amber-tinted,with swarthy shadows sharpening the noseand hollowing the temples. Under her shape-less dress her body kept its limp immobility,and her dark eyes had the bright witch-likestare that disease of the spine sometimes gives.

Even for that part of the country the kitchenwas a poor-looking place. With the exceptionof the dark-eyed woman’s chair, which lookedlike a soiled relic of luxury bought at a coun-try auction, the furniture was of the roughestkind. Three coarse china plates and a broken-nosed milk-jug had been set on a greasy table

252

IX

scored with knife-cuts, and a couple of straw-bottomed chairs and a kitchen dresser of un-painted pine stood meagrely against the plasterwalls.

“My, it’s cold here! The fire must be ‘mostout,” Frome said, glancing about him apologet-ically as he followed me in.

The tall woman, who had moved away fromus toward the dresser, took no notice; butthe other, from her cushioned niche, answeredcomplainingly, in a high thin voice. “It’s on’yjust been made up this very minute. Zeena fellasleep and slep’ ever so long, and I thought I’dbe frozen stiff before I could wake her up andget her to ‘tend to it.”

I knew then that it was she who had beenspeaking when we entered.

Her companion, who was just coming back

253

IX

to the table with the remains of a cold mince-pie in a battered pie-dish, set down her unap-petising burden without appearing to hear theaccusation brought against her.

Frome stood hesitatingly before her as sheadvanced; then he looked at me and said: “Thisis my wife, Mis’ Frome.” After another intervalhe added, turning toward the figure in the arm-chair: “And this is Miss Mattie Silver...”

Mrs. Hale, tender soul, had pictured me aslost in the Flats and buried under a snow-drift;and so lively was her satisfaction on seeing mesafely restored to her the next morning that I

254

IX

felt my peril had caused me to advance severaldegrees in her favour.

Great was her amazement, and that of oldMrs. Varnum, on learning that Ethan Frome’sold horse had carried me to and from CorburyJunction through the worst blizzard of the win-ter; greater still their surprise when they heardthat his master had taken me in for the night.

Beneath their wondering exclamations I felta secret curiosity to know what impressionsI had received from my night in the Fromehousehold, and divined that the best way ofbreaking down their reserve was to let them tryto penetrate mine. I therefore confined myselfto saying, in a matter-of-fact tone, that I hadbeen received with great kindness, and thatFrome had made a bed for me in a room on theground-floor which seemed in happier days to

255

IX

have been fitted up as a kind of writing-roomor study.

“Well,” Mrs. Hale mused, “in such a stormI suppose he felt he couldn’t do less than takeyou in–but I guess it went hard with Ethan. Idon’t believe but what you’re the only strangerhas set foot in that house for over twenty years.He’s that proud he don’t even like his oldestfriends to go there; and I don’t know as any do,any more, except myself and the doctor...”

“You still go there, Mrs. Hale?” I ventured.“I used to go a good deal after the accident,

when I was first married; but after awhile I gotto think it made ‘em feel worse to see us. Andthen one thing and another came, and my owntroubles... But I generally make out to driveover there round about New Year’s, and oncein the summer. Only I always try to pick a day

256

IX

when Ethan’s off somewheres. It’s bad enoughto see the two women sitting there–but his face,when he looks round that bare place, just killsme... You see, I can look back and call it up inhis mother’s day, before their troubles.”

Old Mrs. Varnum, by this time, had goneup to bed, and her daughter and I were sit-ting alone, after supper, in the austere seclusionof the horse-hair parlour. Mrs. Hale glancedat me tentatively, as though trying to see howmuch footing my conjectures gave her; and Iguessed that if she had kept silence till now itwas because she had been waiting, through allthe years, for some one who should see whatshe alone had seen.

I waited to let her trust in me gather strengthbefore I said: “Yes, it’s pretty bad, seeing allthree of them there together.”

257

IX

She drew her mild brows into a frown ofpain. “It was just awful from the beginning. Iwas here in the house when they were carriedup–they laid Mattie Silver in the room you’rein. She and I were great friends, and she was tohave been my bridesmaid in the spring... Whenshe came to I went up to her and stayed allnight. They gave her things to quiet her, andshe didn’t know much till to’rd morning, andthen all of a sudden she woke up just like her-self, and looked straight at me out of her bigeyes, and said... Oh, I don’t know why I’mtelling you all this,” Mrs. Hale broke off, cry-ing.

She took off her spectacles, wiped the mois-ture from them, and put them on again with anunsteady hand. “It got about the next day,” shewent on, “that Zeena Frome had sent Mattie off

258

IX

in a hurry because she had a hired girl coming,and the folks here could never rightly tell whatshe and Ethan were doing that night coasting,when they’d ought to have been on their wayto the Flats to ketch the train... I never knewmyself what Zeena thought–I don’t to this day.Nobody knows Zeena’s thoughts. Anyhow,when she heard o’ the accident she came rightin and stayed with Ethan over to the minister’s,where they’d carried him. And as soon as thedoctors said that Mattie could be moved, Zeenasent for her and took her back to the farm.”

“And there she’s been ever since?”Mrs. Hale answered simply: “There was

nowhere else for her to go;” and my heart tight-ened at the thought of the hard compulsions ofthe poor.

“Yes, there she’s been,” Mrs. Hale continued,

259

IX

“and Zeena’s done for her, and done for Ethan,as good as she could. It was a miracle, consid-ering how sick she was–but she seemed to beraised right up just when the call came to her.Not as she’s ever given up doctoring, and she’shad sick spells right along; but she’s had thestrength given her to care for those two for overtwenty years, and before the accident came shethought she couldn’t even care for herself.”

Mrs. Hale paused a moment, and I remainedsilent, plunged in the vision of what her wordsevoked. “It’s horrible for them all,” I mur-mured.

“Yes: it’s pretty bad. And they ain’t any of‘em easy people either. Mattie was, before theaccident; I never knew a sweeter nature. Butshe’s suffered too much–that’s what I alwayssay when folks tell me how she’s soured. And

260

IX

Zeena, she was always cranky. Not but whatshe bears with Mattie wonderful–I’ve seen thatmyself. But sometimes the two of them getgoing at each other, and then Ethan’s face’dbreak your heart... When I see that, I thinkit’s him that suffers most... anyhow it ain’tZeena, because she ain’t got the time... It’s apity, though,” Mrs. Hale ended, sighing, “thatthey’re all shut up there’n that one kitchen. Inthe summertime, on pleasant days, they moveMattie into the parlour, or out in the door-yard,and that makes it easier... but winters there’sthe fires to be thought of; and there ain’t a dimeto spare up at the Fromes.”’

Mrs. Hale drew a deep breath, as though hermemory were eased of its long burden, and shehad no more to say; but suddenly an impulse ofcomplete avowal seized her.

261

IX

She took off her spectacles again, leaned to-ward me across the bead-work table-cover, andwent on with lowered voice: “There was oneday, about a week after the accident, when theyall thought Mattie couldn’t live. Well, I say it’sa pity she did. I said it right out to our min-ister once, and he was shocked at me. Onlyhe wasn’t with me that morning when she firstcame to... And I say, if she’d ha’ died, Ethanmight ha’ lived; and the way they are now, Idon’t see’s there’s much difference between theFromes up at the farm and the Fromes down inthe graveyard; ‘cept that down there they’re allquiet, and the women have got to hold theirtongues.”

262