About : unfinished furniture night stands
Title : unfinished furniture night stands
unfinished furniture night stands
chapter v they finished supper, and while mattie clearedthe table ethan went to look at the cows and then took a last turnabout the house. the earth lay dark under a muffled sky and the air wasso still that now and then he heard a lump of snow come thumping downfrom a tree far off on the edge of the wood-lot. when he returned to the kitchen mattie hadpushed up his chair to the stove and seated herself near the lamp witha bit of sewing. the scene was just as he had dreamed of it that morning.he sat down, drew his
pipe from his pocket and stretched his feetto the glow. his hard day's work in the keen air made him feel at oncelazy and light of mood, and he had a confused sense of being in anotherworld, where all was warmth and harmony and time could bring no change.the only drawback to his complete well-being was the fact that he couldnot see mattie from where he sat; but he was too indolent to move andafter a moment he said: "come over here and sit by the stove." zeena's empty rocking-chair stood facing him.mattie rose obediently, and seated herself in it. as her young brownhead detached itself
against the patch-work cushion that habituallyframed his wife's gaunt countenance, ethan had a momentary shock.it was almost as if the other face, the face of the superseded woman, hadobliterated that of the intruder. after a moment mattie seemed tobe affected by the same sense of constraint. she changed her position, leaningforward to bend her head above her work, so that he saw only theforeshortened tip of her nose and the streak of red in her hair; thenshe slipped to her feet, saying "i can't see to sew," and went backto her chair by the lamp. ethan made a pretext of getting up to replenishthe stove, and when he
returned to his seat he pushed it sidewaysthat he might get a view of her profile and of the lamplight falling onher hands. the cat, who had been a puzzled observer of these unusualmovements, jumped up into zeena's chair, rolled itself into a ball,and lay watching them with narrowed eyes. deep quiet sank on the room. the clock tickedabove the dresser, a piece of charred wood fell now and then in the stove,and the faint sharp scent of the geraniums mingled with the odourof ethan's smoke, which began to throw a blue haze about the lampand to hang its greyish
cobwebs in the shadowy corners of the room. all constraint had vanished between the two,and they began to talk easily and simply. they spoke of every-daythings, of the prospect of snow, of the next church sociable, of theloves and quarrels of starkfield. the commonplace nature of whatthey said produced in ethan an illusion of long-established intimacy whichno outburst of emotion could have given, and he set his imaginationadrift on the fiction that they had always spent their evenings thusand would always go on doing so...
"this is the night we were to have gone coasting.matt," he said at length, with the rich sense, as he spoke,that they could go on any other night they chose, since they had alltime before them. she smiled back at him. "i guess you forgot!" "no, i didn't forget; but it's as dark asegypt outdoors. we might go to-morrow if there's a moon." she laughed with pleasure, her head tiltedback, the lamplight sparkling on her lips and teeth. "that would be lovely,ethan!" he kept his eyes fixed on her, marvellingat the way her face changed
with each turn of their talk, like a wheat-fieldunder a summer breeze. it was intoxicating to find such magic inhis clumsy words, and he longed to try new ways of using it. "would you be scared to go down the corburyroad with me on a night like this?" he asked. her cheeks burned redder. "i ain't any morescared than you are!" "well, i'd be scared, then; i wouldn't doit. that's an ugly corner down by the big elm. if a fellow didn't keep hiseyes open he'd go plumb into it." he luxuriated in the sense of protectionand authority which his
words conveyed. to prolong and intensify thefeeling he added: "i guess we're well enough here." she let her lids sink slowly, in the way heloved. "yes, we're well enough here," she sighed. her tone was so sweet that he took the pipefrom his mouth and drew his chair up to the table. leaning forward, hetouched the farther end of the strip of brown stuff that she was hemming."say, matt," he began with a smile, "what do you think i saw underthe varnum spruces, coming along home just now? i saw a friend of yoursgetting kissed."
the words had been on his tongue all the evening,but now that he had spoken them they struck him as inexpressiblyvulgar and out of place. mattie blushed to the roots of her hair andpulled her needle rapidly twice or thrice through her work, insensiblydrawing the end of it away from him. "i suppose it was ruth and ned,"she said in a low voice, as though he had suddenly touched on somethinggrave. ethan had imagined that his allusion mightopen the way to the accepted pleasantries, and these perhaps in turn toa harmless caress, if only a mere touch on her hand. but now he feltas if her blush had set a
flaming guard about her. he supposed it washis natural awkwardness that made him feel so. he knew that most youngmen made nothing at all of giving a pretty girl a kiss, and he rememberedthat the night before, when he had put his arm about mattie, shehad not resisted. but that had been out-of-doors, under the open irresponsiblenight. now, in the warm lamplit room, with all its ancient implicationsof conformity and order, she seemed infinitely farther away from himand 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 marriedsome time along in the summer." she pronounced the word married asif her voice caressed it. it seemed a rustling covert leading to enchantedglades. a pang shot through ethan, and he said, twisting awayfrom her in his chair: "it'll be your turn next, i wouldn't wonder." 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 sat in fascinated contemplationof the way in which her
hands went up and down above the strip ofstuff, just as he had seen a pair of birds make short perpendicular flightsover a nest they were building. at length, without turning her heador lifting her lids, she said in a low tone: "it's not because youthink zeena's got anything against me, is it?" his former dread started up full-armed atthe suggestion. "why, what do you mean?" he stammered. she raised distressed eyes to his, her workdropping on the table between them. "i don't know. i thought lastnight she seemed to have."
"i'd like to know what," he growled. "nobody can tell with zeena." it was the firsttime they had ever spoken so openly of her attitude toward mattie, andthe repetition of the name seemed to carry it to the farther cornersof the room and send it back to them in long repercussions of sound. mattiewaited, as if to give the echo time to drop, and then went on: "shehasn'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 thinkabout 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 thereflection of a thought stealing slowly across her heart. she satsilent, her hands clasped on her work, and it seemed to him that a warmcurrent flowed toward him along the strip of stuff that still layunrolled between them. cautiously he slid his hand palm-downwardalong the table till his finger-tips touched the end of the stuff.a faint vibration of her lashes seemed to show that she was aware ofhis gesture, and that it had
sent a counter-current back to her; and shelet her hands lie motionless on the other end of the strip. as they sat thus he heard a sound behind himand turned his head. the cat had jumped from zeena's chair to dartat a mouse in the wainscot, and as a result of the sudden movement theempty chair had set up a spectral rocking. "she'll be rocking in it herself this timeto-morrow," ethan thought. "i've been in a dream, and this is the onlyevening we'll ever have together." the return to reality was as painfulas the return to
consciousness after taking an anaesthetic.his body and brain ached with indescribable weariness, and he could thinkof nothing to say or to do that should arrest the mad flight of the moments. his alteration of mood seemed to have communicateditself to mattie. she looked up at him languidly, as though herlids were weighted with sleep and it cost her an effort to raise them. herglance fell on his hand, which now completely covered the end of herwork and grasped it as if it were a part of herself. he saw a scarcelyperceptible tremor cross her face, and without knowing what he did he stoopedhis head and kissed
the bit of stuff in his hold. as his lipsrested on it he felt it glide slowly from beneath them, and saw that mattiehad risen and was silently rolling up her work. she fastened it witha pin, and then, finding her thimble and scissors, put them with theroll of stuff into the box covered with fancy paper which he hadonce brought to her from bettsbridge. he stood up also, looking vaguely about theroom. the clock above the dresser struck eleven. "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 himself again he saw that she wasdragging toward the stove the old soap-box lined with carpet in whichthe cat made its bed. then she recrossed the floor and lifted two ofthe geranium pots in her arms, moving them away from the cold window. hefollowed her and brought the other geraniums, the hyacinth bulbs in a crackedcustard bowl and the german ivy trained over an old croquet hoop. when these nightly duties were performed therewas nothing left to do but to bring in the tin candlestick from thepassage, light the candle
and blow out the lamp. ethan put the candlestickin mattie's hand and she went out of the kitchen ahead of him,the light that she carried 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. "goodnight, ethan," she answered, and went up. when the door of her room had closed on herhe remembered that he had not even touched her hand.
end of chapter v chapter vi the next morning at breakfast jotham powellwas between them, and ethan tried to hide his joy under an air of exaggeratedindifference, lounging back in his chair to throw scraps to the cat,growling at the weather, and not so much as offering to help mattiewhen she rose to clear away the dishes. he did not know why he was so irrationallyhappy, for nothing was changed in his life or hers. he had not eventouched the tip of her
fingers or looked her full in the eyes. buttheir evening together had given him a vision of what life at her sidemight be, and he was glad now that he had done nothing to trouble thesweetness of the picture. he had a fancy that she knew what had restrainedhim... there was a last load of lumber to be hauledto the village, and jotham powell—who did not work regularly for ethanin winter—had "come round" to help with the job. but a wet snow, meltingto sleet, had fallen in the night and turned the roads to glass. therewas more wet in the air and it seemed likely to both men that theweather would "milden" toward
afternoon and make the going safer. ethantherefore proposed to his assistant that they should load the sledgeat the wood-lot, as they had done on the previous morning, and put offthe "teaming" to starkfield till later in the day. this plan had the advantageof enabling him to send jotham to the flats after dinner to meetzenobia, while he 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 the kitchen to themselves.she had plunged the breakfast dishes into a tin dish-pan and was bendingabove it with her slim arms
bared to the elbow, the steam from the hotwater beading her forehead and tightening her rough hair into littlebrown rings like the tendrils on the traveller's joy. ethan stood looking at her, his heart in histhroat. he wanted to say: "we shall never be alone again like this."instead, he reached down his tobacco-pouch from a shelf of the dresser,put it into his pocket and said: "i guess i can make out to be home fordinner." she answered "all right, ethan," and he heardher singing over the dishes as he went.
as soon as the sledge was loaded he meantto send jotham back to the farm and hurry on foot into the villageto buy the glue for the pickle-dish. with ordinary luck he shouldhave had time to carry out this plan; but everything went wrong fromthe start. on the way over to the wood-lot one of the greys slipped ona glare of ice and cut his knee; and when they got him up again jothamhad to go back to the barn for a strip of rag to bind the cut. then,when the loading finally began, a sleety rain was coming down oncemore, and the tree trunks were so slippery that it took twice as long asusual to lift them and get
them in place on the sledge. it was what jothamcalled a sour morning for work, and the horses, shivering and stampingunder their wet blankets, seemed to like it as little as themen. it was long past the dinner-hour when the job was done, and ethanhad to give up going to the village because he wanted to lead the injuredhorse home and wash the cut himself. he thought that by starting out again withthe lumber as soon as he had finished his dinner he might get back to thefarm with the glue before jotham and the old sorrel had had time tofetch zenobia from the flats;
but he knew the chance was a slight one. itturned on the state of the roads and on the possible lateness ofthe bettsbridge train. he remembered afterward, with a grim flashof self-derision, what importance he had attached to the weighingof these probabilities... as soon as dinner was over he set out againfor the wood-lot, not daring to linger till jotham powell left. the hiredman was still drying his wet feet at the stove, and ethan could onlygive mattie a quick look as he said beneath his breath: "i'll be backearly." he fancied that she nodded her comprehension;and with that scant solace
he had to trudge off through the rain. he had driven his load half-way to the villagewhen jotham powell overtook him, urging the reluctant sorreltoward the flats. "i'll have to hurry up to do it," ethan mused, as thesleigh dropped down ahead of him over the dip of the school-house hill.he worked like ten at the unloading, and when it was over hastened onto michael eady's for the glue. eady and his assistant were both "downstreet," and young denis, who seldom deigned to take their place, waslounging by the stove with a knot of the golden youth of starkfield.they hailed ethan with ironic
compliment and offers of conviviality; butno one knew where to find the glue. ethan, consumed with the longingfor a last moment alone with mattie, hung about impatiently while denismade an ineffectual search 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 along maybe he can put his handon it." "i'm obliged to you, but i'll try if i canget it down at mrs. homan's," ethan answered, burning to be gone. denis's commercial instinct compelled himto aver on oath that what
eady's store could not produce would neverbe found at the widow homan's; but ethan, heedless of this boast,had already climbed to the sledge and was driving on to the rivalestablishment. here, after considerable search, and sympathetic questionsas to what he wanted it for, and whether ordinary flour paste wouldn'tdo as well if she couldn't find it, the widow homan finallyhunted down her solitary bottle of glue to its hiding-place in a medleyof cough-lozenges and corset-laces. "i hope zeena ain't broken anything she setsstore by," she called after
him as he turned the greys toward home. the fitful bursts of sleet had changed intoa steady rain and the horses had heavy work even without a load behindthem. once or twice, hearing sleigh-bells, ethan turned his head, fancyingthat zeena and jotham might overtake him; but the old sorrel wasnot in sight, and he set his face against the rain and urged on his ponderouspair. the barn was empty when the horses turnedinto it and, after giving them the most perfunctory ministrations they hadever received from him, he strode up to the house and pushed open thekitchen door.
mattie was there alone, as he had picturedher. she was bending over a pan on the stove; but at the sound of hisstep she turned with a start 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 bottlein one hand while he put her lightly aside; but she did not seem to hearhim. "oh, ethan—zeena's come," she said in awhisper, clutching his sleeve. they stood and stared at each other, paleas culprits. "but the sorrel's not in the barn!" ethanstammered.
"jotham powell brought some goods over fromthe flats for his wife, and he drove right on home with them," she explained. he gazed blankly about the kitchen, whichlooked cold and squalid in the rainy winter twilight. "how is she?" he asked, dropping his voiceto mattie's whisper. she looked away from him uncertainly. "i don'tknow. she went right up to her room." "she didn't say anything?" "no."
ethan let out his doubts in a low whistleand thrust the bottle back into his pocket. "don't fret; i'll come downand 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 been attended to ethan said tohim: "you might as well come back up for a bite." he was not sorry to assurehimself of jotham's neutralising presence at the supper table,for zeena was always "nervous" after a journey. but the hired man,though seldom loth to
accept a meal not included in his wages, openedhis stiff jaws to answer slowly: "i'm obliged to you, but i guess i'llgo along back." ethan looked at him in surprise. "better comeup and dry off. looks as if there'd be something hot for supper." jotham's facial muscles were unmoved by thisappeal and, his vocabulary being limited, he merely repeated: "i guessi'll go along back." to ethan there was something vaguely ominousin this stolid rejection of free food and warmth, and he wondered whathad happened on the drive to nerve jotham to such stoicism. perhaps zeenahad failed to see the new
doctor or had not liked his counsels: ethanknew that in such cases the first person she met was likely to beheld responsible for her grievance. when he re-entered the kitchen the lamp litup the same scene of shining comfort as on the previous evening. the tablehad been as carefully laid, a clear fire glowed in the stove, thecat dozed in its warmth, and mattie came forward carrying a plate of doughnuts. she and ethan looked at each other in silence;then she said, as she had said the night before: "i guess it's abouttime for supper."
end of chapter vi chapter vii ethan went out into the passage to hang uphis wet garments. he listened for zeena's step and, not hearing it, calledher name up the stairs. she did not answer, and after a moment's hesitationhe went up and opened her door. the room was almost dark, but inthe obscurity he saw her sitting by the window, bolt upright, and knewby the rigidity of the outline projected against the pane that shehad not taken off her travelling dress.
"well, zeena," he ventured from the threshold. she did not move, and he continued: "supper'sabout ready. ain't you coming?" she replied: "i don't feel as if i could toucha morsel." it was the consecrated formula, and he expectedit to be followed, as usual, by her rising and going down to supper.but she remained seated, and he could think of nothing more felicitousthan: "i presume you're tired after the long ride." turning her head at this, she answered solemnly:"i'm a great deal
sicker than you think." her words fell on his ear with a strange shockof wonder. he had often heard her pronounce them before—what ifat last they were true? he advanced a step or two into the dim room."i hope that's not so, zeena," he said. she continued to gaze at him through the twilightwith a mien of wan authority, as of one consciously singled outfor a great fate. "i've got complications," she said. ethan knew the word for one of exceptionalimport. almost everybody in
the neighbourhood had "troubles," franklylocalized and specified; but only the chosen had "complications." tohave them was in itself a distinction, though it was also, in most cases,a death-warrant. people struggled on for years with "troubles," butthey almost always succumbed to "complications." ethan's heart was jerking to and fro betweentwo extremities of feeling, but for the moment compassion prevailed. hiswife looked so hard and 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 would wantme to have an operation." ethan was aware that, in regard to the importantquestion of surgical intervention, the female opinion of the neighbourhoodwas divided, some glorying in the prestige conferred by operationswhile others shunned them as indelicate. ethan, from motives ofeconomy, had always been glad that zeena was of the latter faction. in the agitation caused by the gravity ofher announcement he sought a consolatory short cut. "what do you knowabout this doctor anyway?
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 you could see it. and everybodyin bettsbridge knows about dr. buck. he has his office in worcester,and comes over once a fortnight to shadd's falls and bettsbridgefor consultations. eliza spears was wasting away with kidney troublebefore she went to him, and now she's up and around, and singing in thechoir."
"well, i'm glad of that. you must do justwhat he tells you," ethan answered sympathetically. she was still looking at him. "i mean to,"she said. he was struck by a new note in her voice. it was neither whiningnor reproachful, but drily resolute. "what does he want you should do?" he asked,with a mounting vision of fresh expenses. "he wants i should have a hired girl. he saysi oughtn't to have to do a single thing around 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 to come away out here, and iagreed to give her a dollar extry to make sure. she'll be over to-morrowafternoon." wrath and dismay contended in ethan. he hadforeseen an immediate demand for money, but not a permanent drain on hisscant resources. he no longer believed what zeena had told him ofthe supposed seriousness of her state: he saw in her expedition to bettsbridgeonly a plot hatched between herself and her pierce relations tofoist on him the cost of a
servant; and for the moment wrath predominated. "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 i was to pay her wages?" her voice rose furiously with his. "no, hedidn't. for i'd 'a' been ashamed to tell him that you grudged me themoney to get back my health,
when i lost it nursing your own mother!" "you lost your health nursing mother?" "yes; and my folks all told me at the timeyou couldn't do no less than marry me after—" "zeena!" through the obscurity which hid their facestheir thoughts seemed to dart at each other like serpents shootingvenom. ethan was seized with horror of the scene and shame at hisown share in it. it was as senseless and savage as a physical fight betweentwo enemies in the
darkness. he turned to the shelf above the chimney,groped for matches and lit the one candle in the room. at first its weakflame made no impression on the shadows; then zeena's face stood grimlyout 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 ifhe had lost an irretrievable advantage in descending to the level of recrimination.but the practical problem was there and had to be dealt with.
"you know i haven't got the money to pay fora girl, zeena. you'll have to send her back: i can't do it." "the doctor says it'll be my death if i goon slaving the way i've had to. he doesn't understand how i've stood itas long as i have." "slaving!—" he checked himself again, "yousha'n't lift a hand, if he says so. i'll do everything round the housemyself—" she broke in: "you're neglecting the farmenough already," and this being true, he found no answer, and left hertime to add ironically: "better send me over to the almshouse anddone with it... i guess
there's been fromes there afore 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 their weapons. then zeena saidin a level voice: "i thought you were to get fifty dollars from andrewhale for that lumber." "andrew hale never pays under three months."he had hardly spoken when he remembered the excuse he had made for notaccompanying his wife to the station the day before; and the bloodrose to his frowning brows.
"why, you told me yesterday you'd fixed itup with him to pay cash down. you said that was why you couldn't drive meover to the flats." ethan had no suppleness in deceiving. he hadnever before been convicted of a lie, and all the resources of evasionfailed him. "i guess that was a misunderstanding," he stammered. "you ain't got the money?" "and you ain't going to get it?" "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 helped. you're a poor man'swife, zeena; but i'll do the best i can for you." for a while she sat motionless, as if reflecting,her arms stretched along the arms of her chair, her eyes fixedon vacancy. "oh, i guess we'll make out," she said mildly. the change in her tone reassured him. "ofcourse we will! there's a whole lot more i can do for you, and mattie—" zeena, while he spoke, seemed to be followingout some elaborate mental calculation. she emerged from it to say: "there'llbe mattie's board
less, any how—" ethan, supposing the discussion to be over,had turned to go down to supper. he stopped short, not grasping whathe heard. "mattie's board less—?" he began. zeena laughed. it was on odd unfamiliar sound—hedid not remember ever having heard her laugh before. "you didn'tsuppose i was going to keep two girls, did you? no wonder you were scaredat the expense!" he still had but a confused sense of whatshe was saying. from the beginning of the discussion he had instinctivelyavoided the mention of
mattie's name, fearing he hardly knew what:criticism, complaints, or vague allusions to the imminent probabilityof her marrying. but the thought of a definite rupture had never cometo him, and even now could not lodge itself in his mind. "i don't know what you mean," he said. "mattiesilver's not a hired girl. she's your relation." "she's a pauper that's hung onto us all afterher father'd done his best to ruin us. i've kep' her here a whole year:it's somebody else's turn now."
as the shrill words shot out ethan heard atap on the door, which he had drawn shut when he turned back from the threshold. "ethan—zeena!" mattie's voice sounded gailyfrom the landing, "do you know what time it is? supper's been readyhalf an hour." inside the room there was a moment's silence;then zeena called out from her seat: "i'm not 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 and openedthe door. "go along down,
matt. zeena's just a little tired. i'm coming." he heard her "all right!" and her quick stepon the stairs; then he shut the door and turned back into the room.his wife's attitude was unchanged, her face inexorable, and he wasseized with the despairing sense of his helplessness. "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'tput her out of the house like a thief—a poor girl without friendsor money. she's done her best for you and she's got no place to go to. youmay forget she's your kin but everybody else'll remember it. if youdo a thing like that what do you suppose folks'll say of you?" zeena waited a moment, as if giving him timeto feel the full force of the contrast between his own excitementand her composure. then she replied in the same smooth voice: "i knowwell enough what they say of my having kep' her here as long as i have."
ethan's hand dropped from the door-knob, whichhe had held clenched since he had drawn the door shut on mattie.his wife's retort was like a knife-cut across the sinews and he felt suddenlyweak and powerless. he had meant to humble himself, to argue thatmattie's keep didn't cost much, after all, that he could make out tobuy a stove and fix up a place in the attic for the hired girl—butzeena's words revealed the peril of such pleadings. "you mean to tell her she's got to go—atonce?" he faltered out, in terror of letting his wife complete her sentence.
as if trying to make him see reason she repliedimpartially: "the girl will be over from bettsbridge to-morrow, andi presume she's got to have somewheres to sleep." ethan looked at her with loathing. she wasno longer the listless creature who had lived at his side in a stateof sullen self-absorption, but a mysterious alien presence, an evil energysecreted from the long years of silent brooding. it was the senseof his helplessness that sharpened his antipathy. there had never beenanything in her that one could appeal to; but as long as he couldignore and command he had
remained indifferent. now she had masteredhim and he abhorred her. mattie was her relation, not his: there wereno means by which he could compel her to keep the girl under her roof.all the long misery of his baffled past, of his youth of failure, hardshipand vain effort, rose up in his soul in bitterness and seemed totake shape before him in the woman who at every turn had barred his way.she had taken everything else from him; and now she meant to take theone thing that made up for all the others. for a moment such a flameof hate rose in him that it ran down his arm and clenched his fist againsther. he took a wild step
forward and 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 littlewhile," she answered mildly; and he turned and walked out of theroom. in the kitchen mattie was sitting by the stove,the cat curled up on her knees. she sprang to her feet as ethan enteredand carried the covered dish of meat-pie to the table. "i hope zeena isn't sick?" she asked. she shone at him across the table. "well,sit right down then. you must
be starving." she uncovered the pie and pushedit over to him. so they were to have one more evening together, herhappy eyes seemed to say! he helped himself mechanically and began toeat; then disgust took him by the throat and he laid down his fork. mattie's tender gaze was on him and she markedthe gesture. "why, ethan, what's the matter? don't it tasteright?" "yes—it's first—rate. only i—" he pushedhis plate away, rose from his chair, and walked around the table to herside. she started up with frightened eyes.
"ethan, there's something wrong! i knew therewas!" she seemed to melt against him in her terror,and he caught her in his arms, held her fast there, felt her lashesbeat his cheek like netted butterflies. "what is it—what is it?" she stammered;but he had found her lips at last and was drinking unconsciousness of everythingbut the joy they gave him. she lingered a moment, caught in the samestrong current; then she slipped from him and drew back a step or two,pale and troubled. her
look smote him with compunction, and he criedout, 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 them asthough a torch of warning flew from hand to hand through a black landscape. ethan was overcome with shame at his lackof self-control in flinging the news at her so brutally. his head reeledand he had to support himself against the table. all the while hefelt as if he were still kissing her, and yet dying of thirst for herlips.
"ethan, what has happened? is zeena mad withme?" her cry steadied him, though it deepened hiswrath and pity. "no, no," he assured her, "it's not that. but this newdoctor has scared her about herself. you know she believes all they saythe first time she sees them. and this one's told her she won't getwell unless she lays up and don't do a thing about the house—not formonths—" he paused, his eyes wandering from her miserably.she stood silent a moment, drooping before him like a brokenbranch. she was so small and weak-looking that it wrung his heart; butsuddenly she lifted her head
and looked straight at him. "and she wantssomebody handier 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 knewthat zeena never changed her mind, and that in her case a resolve oncetaken was equivalent 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 an aching tenderness. he sawher quick lids beating back the tears, and longed to take her in his armsand 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 of the future came to herdistinctly. "i might get something to do over at stamford," she faltered,as if knowing that he
knew she had no hope. he dropped back into his seat and hid hisface in his hands. despair seized him at the thought of her setting outalone to renew the weary quest for work. in the only place where shewas known she was surrounded by indifference or animosity; and what chancehad she, inexperienced and untrained, among the million bread-seekersof the cities? there came back to him miserable tales he had heard atworcester, and the faces of girls whose lives had begun as hopefullyas mattie's.... it was not possible to think of such things without arevolt of his whole being. he
sprang up suddenly. "you can't go, matt! i won't let you! she'salways had her way, but i mean to have mine 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 draggingdown-at-the-heel step, and quietly took her accustomed seat between them. "i felt a little mite better, and dr. bucksays i ought to eat all i can to keep my strength up, even if i ain't gotany appetite," she said in
her flat whine, reaching across mattie forthe teapot. her "good" dress had been replaced by the black calico andbrown knitted shawl which formed her daily wear, and with them she hadput on her usual face and manner. she poured out her tea, added a greatdeal of milk to it, helped herself largely to pie and pickles, and madethe familiar gesture of adjusting her false teeth before she beganto eat. the cat rubbed itself ingratiatingly against her, and she said "goodpussy," stooped to stroke it and gave it a scrap of meat from her plate. ethan sat speechless, not pretending to eat,but mattie nibbled
valiantly at her food and asked zeena oneor two questions about her visit to bettsbridge. zeena answered in herevery-day tone and, warming to the theme, regaled them with several vividdescriptions of intestinal disturbances among her friends and relatives.she looked straight at mattie as she spoke, a faint smile deepeningthe vertical lines between her nose and chin. when supper was over she rose from her seatand pressed her hand to the flat surface over the region of her heart."that pie of yours always sets a mite heavy, matt," she said, not ill-naturedly.she seldom
abbreviated the girl's name, and when shedid so it was always a sign of affability. "i've a good mind to go and hunt up thosestomach powders i got last year over in springfield," she continued."i ain't tried them for quite a while, and maybe they'll help the heartburn." mattie lifted her eyes. "can't i get themfor you, zeena?" she ventured. "no. they're in a place you don't know about,"zeena answered darkly, with one of her secret looks. she went out of the kitchen and mattie, rising,began to clear the
dishes from the table. as she passed ethan'schair their eyes met and clung together desolately. the warm stillkitchen looked as peaceful as the night before. the cat had sprung to zeena'srocking-chair, and the heat of the fire was beginning to draw outthe faint sharp scent of the geraniums. ethan dragged himself wearily tohis feet. "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 comingback into the room, her lips twitching with anger, a flush of excitementon her sallow face.
the shawl had slipped from her shoulders andwas dragging at her down-trodden heels, and in her hands she carriedthe fragments of the red 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 ina trembling voice: "i went to get those powders i'd put away in father'sold spectacle-case, top of the china-closet, where i keep the thingsi set store by, so's folks shan't meddle with them—" her voice broke,and two small tears hung
on her lashless lids and ran slowly down hercheeks. "it takes the stepladder to get at the top shelf, and iput aunt philura maple's pickle-dish up there o' purpose when we wasmarried, and it's never been down since, 'cept for the spring cleaning,and then i always lifted it with my own hands, so's 't shouldn't get broke."she laid the fragments reverently on the table. "i want to know whodone this," she quavered. at the challenge ethan turned back into theroom and faced her. "i can tell you, then. the cat done it." "the cat?"
"that's what i said." she looked at him hard, and then turned hereyes to mattie, who was carrying the dish-pan to the table. "i'd like to know how the cat got into mychina-closet"' she said. "chasin' mice, i guess," ethan rejoined. "therewas a mouse round the kitchen all last evening." zeena continued to look from one to the other;then she emitted her small strange laugh. "i knew the cat was asmart cat," she said in a high voice, "but i didn't know he was smartenough to pick up the pieces
of my pickle-dish and lay 'em edge to edgeon the very shelf he knocked 'em off of." mattie suddenly drew her arms out of the steamingwater. "it wasn't ethan's fault, zeena! the cat did break thedish; but i got it down from the china-closet, and i'm the one to blamefor its getting broken." zeena stood beside the ruin of her treasure,stiffening into a stony image of resentment, "you got down my pickle-dish-whatfor?" a bright flush flew to mattie's cheeks. "iwanted to make the supper-table pretty," she said.
"you wanted to make the supper-table pretty;and you waited till my back was turned, and took the thing i set moststore by of anything i've got, and wouldn't never use it, not even when theminister come to dinner, or aunt martha pierce come over from bettsbridge—"zeena paused with a gasp, as if terrified by her own evocationof the sacrilege. "you're a bad girl, mattie silver, and i always knownit. it's the way your father begun, and i was warned of it when i tookyou, and i tried to keep my things where you couldn't get at 'em—andnow you've took from me the one i cared for most of all—" she broke offin a short spasm of sobs that
passed and left her more than ever like ashape of stone. "if i'd 'a' listened to folks, you'd 'a' gonebefore now, and this wouldn't 'a' happened," she said; and gatheringup the bits of broken glass she went out of the room as if she carrieda dead body... end of chapter vii chapter viii when ethan was called back to the farm byhis father's illness his mother gave him, for his own use, a smallroom behind the untenanted "best parlour." here he had nailed up shelvesfor his books, built
himself a box-sofa out of boards and a mattress,laid out his papers on a kitchen-table, hung on the rough plasterwall an engraving of abraham lincoln and a calendar with "thoughts fromthe poets," and tried, with these meagre properties, to produce some likenessto the study of a "minister" who had been kind to him and lenthim books when he was at worcester. he still took refuge there in summer,but when mattie came to live at the farm he had to give her his stove,and consequently the room was uninhabitable for several months of theyear. to this retreat he descended as soon as thehouse was quiet, and zeena's
steady breathing from the bed had assuredhim that there was to be no sequel to the scene in the kitchen. afterzeena's departure he and mattie had stood speechless, neither seekingto approach the other. then the girl had returned to her task of clearingup the kitchen for the night and he had taken his lantern and goneon his usual round outside the house. the kitchen was empty when he cameback to it; but his tobacco-pouch and pipe had been laid on thetable, and under them was a scrap of paper torn from the back of a seedsman'scatalogue, on which three words were written: "don't trouble,ethan."
going into his cold dark "study" he placedthe lantern on the table and, stooping to its light, read the messageagain and again. it was the first time that mattie had ever written tohim, and the possession of the paper gave him a strange new sense ofher nearness; yet it deepened his anguish by reminding him that henceforththey would have no other way of communicating with each other. forthe life of her smile, the warmth of her voice, only cold paper and deadwords! confused motions of rebellion stormed in him.he was too young, too strong, too full of the sap of living, tosubmit so easily to the
destruction of his hopes. must he wear outall his years at the side of a bitter querulous woman? other possibilitieshad been in him, possibilities sacrificed, one by one, to zeena'snarrow-mindedness and ignorance. and what good had come of it?she was a hundred times bitterer and more discontented than when hehad married her: the one pleasure left her was to inflict pain on him.all the healthy instincts of 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. under his cheek he felta hard object with strange
protuberances. it was a cushion which zeenahad made for him when they were engaged—the only piece of needleworkhe had ever seen her do. he flung it across the floor and propped hishead against the wall... he knew a case of a man over the mountain—ayoung fellow of about his own age—who had escaped from just such alife of misery by going west with the girl he cared for. his wife had divorcedhim, and he had married the girl and prospered. ethan hadseen the couple the summer before at shadd's falls, where they had cometo visit relatives. they had a little girl with fair curls, who worea gold locket and was
dressed like a princess. the deserted wifehad not done badly either. her husband had given her the farm and shehad managed to sell it, and with that and the alimony she had starteda lunch-room at bettsbridge and bloomed into activity and importance.ethan was fired by the thought. why should he not leave with mattiethe next day, instead of letting her go alone? he would hide his valiseunder the seat of the sleigh, and zeena would suspect nothing tillshe went upstairs for her afternoon nap and found a letter on the bed... his impulses were still near the surface,and he sprang up, re-lit the
lantern, and sat down at the table. he rummagedin the drawer for a sheet of paper, found one, and began to write. "zeena, i've done all i could for you, andi don't see as it's been any use. i don't blame you, nor i don't blamemyself. maybe both of us will do better separate. i'm going to try my luckwest, and you can sell the farm and mill, and keep the money—" his pen paused on the word, which broughthome to him the relentless conditions of his lot. if he gave the farmand mill to zeena what would be left him to start his own life with? oncein the west he was sure of
picking up work—he would not have fearedto try his chance alone. but with mattie depending on him the case wasdifferent. and what of zeena's fate? farm and mill were mortgaged to thelimit of their value, and even if she found a purchaser—in itself an unlikelychance—it was doubtful if she could clear a thousand dollars on thesale. meanwhile, how could she keep the farm going? it was only by incessantlabour and personal supervision that ethan drew a meagre livingfrom his land, and his wife, even if she were in better health than sheimagined, could never carry such a burden alone.
well, she could go back to her people, then,and see what they would do for her. it was the fate she was forcing onmattie—why not let her try it herself? by the time she had discoveredhis whereabouts, and brought suit for divorce, he would probably—whereverhe was—be earning enough to pay her a sufficient alimony. and the alternativewas to let mattie go forth alone, with far less hope of ultimateprovision... he had scattered the contents of the table-drawerin his search for a sheet of paper, and as he took up his penhis eye fell on an old copy of the bettsbridge eagle. the advertising sheetwas folded uppermost, and
he read the seductive words: "trips to thewest: reduced rates." he drew the lantern nearer and eagerly scannedthe fares; then the paper fell from his hand and he pushed aside hisunfinished letter. a moment ago he had wondered what he and mattie wereto live on when they reached the west; now he saw that he had not eventhe money to take her there. borrowing was out of the question: six monthsbefore he had given his only security to raise funds for necessaryrepairs to the mill, and he knew that without security no one at starkfieldwould lend him ten dollars. the inexorable facts closed in onhim like prison-warders
handcuffing a convict. there was no way out—none.he was a prisoner for life, and now his one ray of light was tobe extinguished. he crept back heavily to the sofa, stretchinghimself out with limbs so leaden that he felt as if they would nevermove again. tears rose in his throat and slowly burned their way to hislids. as he lay there, the window-pane that facedhim, growing gradually lighter, inlaid upon the darkness a squareof moon-suffused sky. a crooked tree-branch crossed it, a branch ofthe apple-tree under which, on summer evenings, he had sometimes foundmattie sitting when he came
up from the mill. slowly the rim of the rainyvapours caught fire and burnt away, and a pure moon swung into theblue. ethan, rising on his elbow, watched the landscape whiten and shapeitself under the sculpture of the moon. this was the night on which hewas to have taken mattie coasting, and there hung the lamp to lightthem! he looked out at the slopes bathed in lustre, the silver-edgeddarkness of the woods, the spectral purple of the hills against the sky,and it seemed as though all the beauty of the night had beenpoured out to mock his wretchedness...
he fell asleep, and when he woke the chillof the winter dawn was in the room. he felt cold and stiff and hungry, andashamed of being hungry. he rubbed his eyes and went to the window.a red sun stood over the grey rim of the fields, behind trees that lookedblack and brittle. he said to himself: "this is matt's last day," andtried to think what the place would be 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 poordress, with the red scarf
wound about her, and the cold light turningher paleness sallow, that ethan stood before her without speaking. "you must be frozen," she went on, fixinglustreless eyes on him. he drew a step nearer. "how did you know iwas here?" "because i heard you go down stairs againafter i went to bed, and i listened all night, and you didn't come up." all his tenderness rushed to his lips. helooked at her and said: "i'll come right along and make up the kitchen fire." they went back to the kitchen, and he fetchedthe coal and kindlings
and cleared out the stove for her, while shebrought in the milk and the cold remains of the meat-pie. when warmthbegan to radiate from the stove, and the first ray of sunlight lay onthe kitchen floor, ethan's dark thoughts melted in the mellower air.the sight of mattie going about her work as he had seen her on so manymornings made it seem impossible that she should ever cease to bea part of the scene. he said to himself that he had doubtless exaggeratedthe significance of zeena's threats, and that she too, with the returnof daylight, would come to a saner mood.
he went up to mattie as she bent above thestove, and laid his hand on her arm. "i don't want you should troubleeither," he said, looking 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 herlids, and he went on: "she ain't said anything this morning?" "no. i haven't seen her yet."
"don't you take any notice when you do." with this injunction he left her and wentout to the cow-barn. he saw jotham powell walking up the hill throughthe morning mist, and the familiar sight added to his growing convictionof security. as the two men were clearing out the stallsjotham rested on his pitch-fork to say: "dan'l byrne's goin' overto the flats to-day noon, an' he c'd take mattie's trunk along, andmake it easier ridin' when i take her over in the sleigh." ethan looked at him blankly, and he continued:"mis' frome said the new
girl'd be at the flats at five, and i wasto take mattie then, so's 't she could ketch the six o'clock train forstamford." ethan felt the blood drumming in his temples.he had to wait a moment before he could find voice to say: "oh, itain't so sure about mattie's going—" "that so?" said jotham indifferently; andthey went on with their work. when they returned to the kitchen the twowomen were already at breakfast. zeena had an air of unusual alertnessand activity. she drank two cups of coffee and fed the cat with thescraps left in the pie-dish;
then she rose from her seat and, walking overto the window, snipped two or three yellow leaves from the geraniums."aunt martha's ain't got a faded leaf on 'em; but they pine away whenthey ain't cared for," she said reflectively. then she turned to jothamand asked: "what time'd you say dan'l byrne'd be along?" the hired man threw a hesitating glance atethan. "round about noon," he said. zeena turned to mattie. "that trunk of yoursis too heavy for the sleigh, and dan'l byrne'll be round to takeit over to the flats," she
said. "i'm much obliged to you, zeena," said mattie. "i'd like to go over things with you first,"zeena continued in an unperturbed voice. "i know there's a huckabucktowel missing; and i can't take out what you done with that match-safe't used to stand behind the stuffed owl in the parlour." she went out, followed by mattie, and whenthe men were alone jotham said to his employer: "i guess i better letdan'l come round, then." ethan finished his usual morning tasks aboutthe house and barn; then
he said to jotham: "i'm going down to starkfield.tell them not to wait dinner." the passion of rebellion had broken out inhim again. that which had seemed incredible in the sober light of dayhad really come to pass, and he was to assist as a helpless spectatorat mattie's banishment. his manhood was humbled by the part he wascompelled to play and by the thought of what mattie must think of him.confused impulses struggled in him as he strode along to the village.he had made up his mind to do something, but he did not know what it wouldbe.
the early mist had vanished and the fieldslay like a silver shield under the sun. it was one of the days whenthe glitter of winter shines through a pale haze of spring. every yardof the road was alive with mattie's presence, and there was hardly abranch against the sky or a tangle of brambles on the bank in which somebright shred of memory was not caught. once, in the stillness, the callof a bird in a mountain ash was so like her laughter that his heart tightenedand then grew large; and all these things made him see that somethingmust be done at once. suddenly it occurred to him that andrew hale,who was a kind-hearted
man, might be induced to reconsider his refusaland advance a small sum on the lumber if he were told that zeena'sill-health made it necessary to hire a servant. hale, after all, knew enoughof ethan's situation to make it possible for the latter to renewhis appeal without too much loss of pride; and, moreover, how much didpride count in the ebullition of passions in his breast? the more he considered his plan the more hopefulit seemed. if he could get mrs. hale's ear he felt certain of success,and with fifty dollars in his pocket nothing could keep him frommattie...
his first object was to reach starkfield beforehale had started for his work; he knew the carpenter had a jobdown the corbury road and was likely to leave his house early. ethan's longstrides grew more rapid with the accelerated beat of his thoughts,and as he reached the foot of school house hill he caught sight of hale'ssleigh in the distance. he hurried forward to meet it, but as it drewnearer he saw that it was driven by the carpenter's youngest boy andthat the figure at his side, looking like a large upright cocoon in spectacles,was that of mrs. hale. ethan signed to them to stop, and mrs.hale leaned forward, her
pink wrinkles twinkling with benevolence. "mr. hale? why, yes, you'll find him downhome now. he ain't going to his work this forenoon. he woke up with atouch o' lumbago, and i just made him put on one of old dr. kidder's plastersand set right up into the fire." beaming maternally on ethan, she bent overto add: "i on'y just heard from mr. hale 'bout zeena's going over tobettsbridge to see that new doctor. i'm real sorry she's feeling so badagain! i hope he thinks he can do something for her. i don't know anybodyround here's had more
sickness than zeena. i always tell mr. halei don't know what she'd 'a' done if she hadn't 'a' had you to look afterher; and i used to say the same thing 'bout your mother. you've hadan awful mean time, ethan frome." she gave him a last nod of sympathy whileher son chirped to the horse; and ethan, as she drove off, stood in themiddle of the road and stared after the retreating sleigh. it was a long time since any one had spokento him as kindly as mrs. hale. most people were either indifferentto his troubles, or disposed
to think it natural that a young fellow ofhis age should have carried without repining the burden of three crippledlives. but mrs. hale had said, "you've had an awful mean time, ethanfrome," and he felt less alone with his misery. if the hales were sorryfor him they would surely respond to his appeal... he started down the road toward their house,but at the end of a few yards he pulled up sharply, the blood in hisface. for the first time, in the light of the words he had just heard,he saw what he was about to do. he was planning to take advantage of thehales' sympathy to obtain
money from them on false pretences. that wasa plain statement of the cloudy purpose which had driven him in headlongto starkfield. with the sudden perception of the point towhich his madness had carried him, the madness fell and he saw his lifebefore him as it was. he was a poor man, the husband of a sickly woman, whomhis desertion would leave alone and destitute; and even if he had hadthe heart to desert her he could have done so only by deceiving two kindlypeople who had pitied him. he turned and walked slowly back to the farm.
end of chapter viii chapter ix at the kitchen door daniel byrne sat in hissleigh behind a big-boned grey who pawed the snow and swung his longhead restlessly from side to side. ethan went into the kitchen and found hiswife by the stove. her head was wrapped in her shawl, and she was readinga book called "kidney troubles and their cure" on which he had hadto pay extra postage only a few days before.
zeena did not move or look up when he entered,and after a moment he asked: "where's mattie?" without lifting her eyes from the page shereplied: "i presume she's getting down her trunk." 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 and sprung up the stairs. thedoor of mattie's room was
shut, and he wavered a moment on the landing."matt," he said in a low voice; but there was no answer, and he puthis hand on the door-knob. he had never been in her room except once,in the early summer, when he had gone there to plaster up a leak inthe eaves, but he remembered exactly how everything had looked: the red-and-whitequilt on her narrow bed, the pretty pin-cushion on the chest ofdrawers, and over it the enlarged photograph of her mother, in an oxydizedframe, with a bunch of dyed grasses at the back. now these and allother tokens of her presence had vanished and the room looked as bare andcomfortless as when zeena
had shown her into it on the day of her arrival.in the middle of the floor stood her trunk, and on the trunk shesat in her sunday dress, her back turned to the door and her face inher hands. she had not heard ethan's call because she was sobbing and shedid not hear his step till he stood close behind her and laid his handson 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 see you again!" he took her in his arms, pressing her close,and with a trembling hand
smoothed away the hair from her forehead. "not see me again? what do you mean?" she sobbed out: "jotham said you told himwe wasn't to wait dinner for you, and i thought—" "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 yet springy, like certain mosseson warm slopes, and had the faint woody fragrance of fresh sawdustin the sun. through the door they heard zeena's voicecalling out from below: "dan'l
byrne says you better hurry up if you wanthim to take that trunk." they drew apart with stricken faces. wordsof resistance rushed to ethan's lips and died there. mattie foundher handkerchief and dried her eyes; then,—bending down, she took holdof a handle of the trunk. ethan put her aside. "you let go, matt," heordered her. she answered: "it takes two to coax it roundthe corner"; and submitting to this argument he grasped the other handle,and together they manoeuvred the heavy trunk out to the landing. "now let go," he repeated; then he shoulderedthe trunk and carried it
down the stairs and across the passage tothe kitchen. zeena, who had gone back to her seat by the stove, did notlift her head from her book as he passed. mattie followed him out of thedoor and helped him to lift the trunk into the back of the sleigh. whenit was in place they stood side by side on the door-step, watching danielbyrne plunge off behind his fidgety horse. it seemed to ethan that his heart was boundwith cords which an unseen hand was tightening with every tick of theclock. twice he opened his lips to speak to mattie and found no breath.at length, as she turned to
re-enter the house, he laid a detaining handon her. "i'm going to drive you over, matt," he whispered. 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 answering. at dinner ethan could not eat. if he liftedhis eyes they rested on zeena's pinched face, and the corners of herstraight lips seemed to quiver away into a smile. she ate well, declaringthat the mild weather made her feel better, and pressed a secondhelping of beans on jotham
powell, whose wants she generally ignored. mattie, when the meal was over, went abouther usual task of clearing the table and washing 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 backhis chair and moved toward 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, mechanicallyfilling his pipe while
he watched mattie move to and fro. he answered:"you needn't come round; i'm going to drive her over myself." he saw the rise of the colour in mattie'saverted cheek, and the quick lifting of zeena's head. "i want you should stay here this afternoon,ethan," his wife said. "jotham can drive mattie over." mattie flung an imploring glance at him, buthe repeated curtly: "i'm going to drive her over myself." zeena continued in the same even tone: "iwanted you should stay and fix
up that stove in mattie's room afore the girlgets here. it ain't been drawing right for nigh on a month now." ethan's voice rose indignantly. "if it wasgood enough for mattie i guess it's good enough for a hired girl." "that girl that's coming told me she was usedto a house where they had a furnace," zeena persisted with the samemonotonous mildness. "she'd better ha' stayed there then," he flungback at her; and turning to mattie he added in a hard voice: "you beready by three, matt; i've got business at corbury."
jotham powell had started for the barn, andethan strode down after him aflame with anger. the pulses in his templesthrobbed and a fog was in his eyes. he went about his task without knowingwhat force directed him, or whose hands and feet were fulfillingits orders. it was not till he led out the sorrel and backed him betweenthe shafts of the sleigh that he once more became conscious of whathe was doing. as he passed the bridle over the horse's head, and woundthe traces around the shafts, he remembered the day when he hadmade the same preparations in order to drive over and meet his wife'scousin at the flats. it
was little more than a year ago, on just sucha soft afternoon, with a "feel" of spring in the air. the sorrel, turningthe same big ringed eye on him, nuzzled the palm of his hand in thesame way; and one by one all the days between rose up and stood beforehim... he flung the bearskin into the sleigh, climbedto the seat, and drove up to the house. when he entered the kitchenit was empty, but mattie's bag and shawl lay ready by the door. he went tothe foot of the stairs and listened. no sound reached him from above,but presently he thought he heard some one moving about in his desertedstudy, and pushing open the
door he saw mattie, in her hat and jacket,standing with her back to him near the table. she started at his approach and turning quickly,said: "is it time?" "what are you doing here, matt?" he askedher. she looked at him timidly. "i was just takinga look round—that's all," she answered, with a wavering smile. they went back into the kitchen without speaking,and ethan picked up her bag and shawl. "where's zeena?" he asked.
"she went upstairs right after dinner. shesaid she had those shooting pains again, and didn'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 he would be returningto it alone. then the sense of unreality overcame him once more, and hecould not bring himself to believe that mattie stood there for the lasttime before him. "come on," he said almost gaily, opening thedoor and putting her bag
into the sleigh. he sprang to his seat andbent over to tuck the rug about her as she slipped into the place athis side. "now then, go 'long," he said, with a shake of the reinsthat sent the sorrel placidly jogging down the hill. "we got lots of time for a good ride, matt!"he cried, seeking her hand beneath the fur and pressing it in his. hisface tingled and he felt dizzy, 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 bettsbridge road. mattiesat silent, giving no sign of surprise; but after a moment she said:"are you going round by shadow pond?" he laughed and answered: "i knew you'd know!" she drew closer under the bearskin, so that,looking sideways around his coat-sleeve, he could just catch the tip ofher nose and a blown brown wave of hair. they drove slowly up the roadbetween fields glistening under the pale sun, and then bent to the rightdown a lane edged with spruce and larch. ahead of them, a long wayoff, a range of hills
stained by mottlings of black forest flowedaway in round white curves against the sky. the lane passed into a pine-woodwith boles reddening in the afternoon sun and delicate blue shadowson the snow. as they entered it the breeze fell and a warm stillnessseemed to drop from the branches with the dropping needles. here thesnow was so pure that the tiny tracks of wood-animals had left on itintricate lace-like patterns, and the bluish cones caught in its surfacestood out like ornaments of bronze. ethan drove on in silence till they reacheda part of the wood where the
pines were more widely spaced, then he drewup and helped mattie to get out of the sleigh. they passed between thearomatic trunks, the snow breaking crisply under their feet, till theycame to a small sheet of water with steep wooded sides. across itsfrozen surface, from the farther bank, a single hill rising againstthe western sun threw the long conical shadow which gave the lake itsname. it was a shy secret spot, full of the same dumb melancholy thatethan felt in his heart. he looked up and down the little pebbly beachtill his eye lit on a fallen tree-trunk half submerged in snow.
"there's where we sat at the picnic," he remindedher. the entertainment of which he spoke was oneof the few that they had taken part in together: a "church picnic"which, on a long afternoon of the preceding summer, had filled the retiredplace with merry-making. mattie had begged him to go with her but hehad refused. then, toward sunset, coming down from the mountain wherehe had been felling timber, he had been caught by some strayed revellersand drawn into the group by the lake, where mattie, encircled by facetiousyouths, and bright as a blackberry under her spreading hat, wasbrewing coffee over a gipsy
fire. he remembered the shyness he had feltat approaching her in his uncouth clothes, and then the lighting upof her face, and the way she had broken through the group to come to himwith a cup in her hand. they had sat for a few minutes on the fallen logby the pond, and she had missed her gold locket, and set the youngmen searching for it; and it was ethan who had spied it in the moss....that was all; but all their intercourse had been made up of just suchinarticulate flashes, when they seemed to come suddenly upon happinessas if they had surprised a butterfly in the winter woods...
"it was right there i found your locket,"he said, pushing his foot into a dense tuft of blueberry bushes. "i never saw anybody with such sharp eyes!"she answered. she sat down on the tree-trunk in the sunand 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 inclinationso openly, and ethan, for a moment, had the illusion that he was a freeman, wooing the girl he meant to marry. he looked at her hair andlonged to touch it again, and
to tell her that it smelt of the woods; buthe had never learned to 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 of time," he answered. they stood looking at each other as if theeyes of each were straining to absorb and hold fast the other's image.there were things he had to say to her before they parted, but he couldnot say them in that place
of summer memories, and he turned and followedher in silence to the sleigh. as they drove away the sun sankbehind the hill and the pine-boles turned from red to grey. by a devious track between the fields theywound back to the starkfield road. under the open sky the light was stillclear, with a reflection of cold red on the eastern hills. the clumpsof trees in the snow seemed to draw together in ruffled lumps, like birdswith their heads under their wings; and the sky, as it paled, rose higher,leaving the earth more alone.
as they turned into the starkfield road ethansaid: "matt, what do you mean to do?" she did not answer at once, but at lengthshe said: "i'll try to get a place in a store." "you know you can't do it. the bad air andthe standing all day nearly killed you before." "i'm a lot stronger than i was before i cameto starkfield." "and now you're going to throw away all thegood it's done you!" there seemed to be no answer to this, andagain they drove on for a
while without speaking. with every yard ofthe way some spot where they had stood, and laughed together or been silent,clutched at ethan and dragged him back. "isn't there any of your father's folks couldhelp you?" "there isn't any of 'em i'd ask." he lowered his voice to say: "you know there'snothing i wouldn't do for you if i could." "i know there isn't." "but i can't—"
she was silent, but he felt a slight tremorin the shoulder against his. "oh, matt," he broke out, "if i could ha'gone with you now i'd ha' done it—" she turned to him, pulling a scrap of paperfrom her breast. "ethan—i found this," she stammered. even in the failinglight he saw it was the letter to his wife that he had begun the nightbefore and forgotten to destroy. through his astonishment thereran a fierce thrill of joy. "matt—" he cried; "if i could ha' done it,would you?" "oh, ethan, ethan—what's the use?" witha sudden movement she tore the
letter in shreds and sent them flutteringoff 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 head to hear her: "i usedto think of it sometimes, summer nights, when the moon was so brighti couldn't sleep." his heart reeled with the sweetness of it."as long ago as that?" she answered, as if the date had long beenfixed for her: "the first time was at shadow pond." "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 with me; and then, when i saw youcoming down the road, i thought maybe you'd gone home that way o'purpose; and that made me glad." they were silent again. they had reached thepoint where the road dipped to the hollow by ethan's mill and asthey descended the darkness descended with them, dropping down like ablack veil from the heavy hemlock boughs. "i'm tied hand and foot, matt. there isn'ta thing i can do," he began
again. "you must write to me sometimes, ethan." "oh, what good'll writing do? i want to putmy hand out and touch you. i want to do for you and care for you. i wantto be there when you'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'llmarry!" "oh, ethan!" she cried. "i don't know how it is you make me feel,matt. i'd a'most rather have
you dead than that!" "oh, i wish i was, i wish i was!" she sobbed. the sound of her weeping shook him out ofhis 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 beenwishing it every minute of the day." "matt! you be quiet! don't you say it." "there's never anybody been good to me butyou."
"don't say that either, when i can't lifta hand for you!" "yes; but it's true just the same." they had reached the top of school house hilland starkfield lay below them in the twilight. a cutter, mounting theroad from the village, passed them by in a joyous flutter of bells,and they straightened themselves and looked ahead with rigid faces.along the main street lights had begun to shine from the house-frontsand stray figures were turning in here and there at the gates. ethan,with a touch of his 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 knot of boys, with sledsbehind them, scattering across the open space before the church. "i guess this'll be their last coast for aday or two," 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 through their miserablelast hour, he went on discursively: "ain't it funny we haven't beendown together but just
that once last winter?" she answered: "it wasn't often i got downto the village." "that's so," he said. they had reached the crest of the corburyroad, and between the indistinct white glimmer of the church andthe black curtain of the varnum spruces the slope stretched away belowthem without a sled on its length. some erratic impulse prompted ethanto say: "how'd you 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 moment of turning the sorreltoward the flats. "but the girl," she faltered. "the girl'llbe waiting at the station." "well, let her wait. you'd have to if shedidn't. come!" the note of authority in his voice seemedto subdue her, and when he had jumped from the sleigh she let him helpher out, saying only, with a vague feint of reluctance: "but there isn'ta sled round anywheres." "yes, there is! right over there under thespruces." he threw the bearskin over the sorrel, who stood passivelyby the roadside, hanging
a meditative head. then he caught mattie'shand and drew her after him toward the sled. she seated herself obediently and he tookhis place behind her, so close that her hair brushed his face. "all right,matt?" he called out, as if the 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 go downthis coast with my eyes tied!" and she laughed with him, as ifshe liked his audacity.
nevertheless he sat still a moment, straininghis eyes down the long hill, for it was the most confusing hour ofthe evening, the hour when the last clearness from the upper sky is mergedwith the rising night in a blur that disguises landmarks and falsifiesdistances. "now!" he cried. the sled started with a bound, and they flewon through the dusk, gathering smoothness and speed as they went,with the hollow night opening out below them and the air singingby like an organ. mattie sat perfectly still, but as they reached the bendat 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 the second slope; and whenthey reached the level ground beyond, and the speed of the sled beganto slacken, he heard her give a little laugh of glee. they sprang off and started to walk back upthe hill. ethan dragged the sled with one hand and passed the other throughmattie'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,"she answered. the strange exaltation of his mood had broughton 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-always could." she murmured: "i always say you've got thesurest eye..." deep silence had fallen with the starlessdusk, and they leaned on each other without speaking; but at every stepof their climb ethan said to
himself: "it's the last time we'll ever walktogether." they mounted slowly to the top of the hill.when they were abreast of the church he stooped his head to her to ask:"are you tired?" and she answered, breathing quickly: "it was splendid!" with a pressure of his arm he guided her towardthe norway spruces. "i guess this sled must be ned hale's. anyhowi'll leave it where i found it." he drew the sled up to the varnum gateand rested it against the fence. as he raised himself he suddenly feltmattie close to him among the shadows.
"is this where ned and ruth kissed each other?"she whispered breathlessly, and flung her arms about him.her lips, groping for his, swept over his face, and he held her fastin a rapture of surprise. "good-bye-good-bye," she stammered, and kissedhim again. "oh, matt, i can't let you go!" broke fromhim in the same old cry. she freed herself from his hold and he heardher sobbing. "oh, i can't go either!" she wailed. "matt! what'll we do? what'll we do?" they clung to each other's hands like children,and her body shook with
desperate sobs. through the stillness they heard the churchclock striking five. "oh, ethan, it's time!" she cried. he drew her back to him. "time for what? youdon't suppose i'm going to leave you now?" "if i missed my train where'd i go?" "where are you going if you catch it?" she stood silent, her hands lying cold andrelaxed in his. "what's the good of either of us going anywhereswithout the other one
now?" he said. she remained motionless, as if she had notheard him. then she snatched her hands from his, threw her arms about hisneck, and pressed a sudden drenched cheek against his face. "ethan! ethan!i want you to take me down again!" "down where?" "the coast. right off," she panted. "so 'twe'll never come up any more." "matt! what on earth do you mean?"
she put her lips close against his ear tosay: "right into the big elm. you said you could. so 't we'd never haveto leave each other any more." "why, what are you talking of? you're crazy!" "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 yourself just now. nobodybut you was ever good to
me. and there'll be that strange girl in thehouse... and she'll sleep in my bed, where i used to lay nights andlisten to hear you come up the stairs..." the words were like fragments torn from hisheart. with them came the hated vision of the house he was going backto—of the stairs he would have to go up every night, of the woman whowould wait for him there. and the sweetness of mattie's avowal, thewild wonder of knowing at last that all that had happened to him hadhappened to her too, made the other vision more abhorrent, the other lifemore intolerable to return
to... her pleadings still came to him between shortsobs, but he no longer heard what she was saying. her hat had slippedback and he was stroking her hair. he wanted to get the feeling ofit into his hand, so that it would sleep there like a seed in winter. oncehe found her mouth again, and they seemed to be by the pond togetherin the burning august sun. but his cheek touched hers, and it was coldand full of weeping, and he saw the road to the flats under the nightand heard the whistle of the train up the line.
the spruces swathed them in blackness andsilence. they might have been in their coffins underground. he said to himself:"perhaps it'll feel like this..." and then again: "after thisi sha'n't feel anything..." suddenly he heard the old sorrel whinny acrossthe road, and thought: "he's wondering why he doesn't get his supper..." "come!" mattie whispered, tugging at his hand. her sombre violence constrained him: she seemedthe embodied instrument of fate. he pulled the sled out, blinkinglike a night-bird as he passed from the shade of the spruces into the transparentdusk of the open. the
slope below them was deserted. all starkfieldwas at supper, and not a figure crossed the open space before the church.the sky, swollen with the clouds that announce a thaw, hung as lowas before a summer storm. he strained his eyes through the dimness,and they seemed less keen, less capable than usual. he took his seat on the sled and mattie instantlyplaced herself in front of him. her hat had fallen into thesnow and his lips were in her hair. he stretched out his legs, drove hisheels into the road to keep the sled from slipping forward, and bent herhead back between his
hands. then suddenly he sprang up again. "get up," he ordered her. it was the tone she always heeded, but shecowered down in her seat, repeating vehemently: "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, as thoughthe night were listening. "get up! get up!" he urged her; but she kepton repeating: "why do you want to sit in front?" "because i—because i want to feel you holdingme," he stammered, and dragged her to her feet. the answer seemed to satisfy her, or elseshe yielded to the power of his voice. he bent down, feeling in the obscurityfor the glassy slide worn by preceding coasters, and placed therunners carefully between its edges. she waited while he seated himselfwith crossed legs in the front
of the sled; then she crouched quickly downat his back and clasped her arms about him. her breath in his neck sethim shuddering again, and he almost sprang from his seat. but in a flashhe remembered the alternative. she was right: this was betterthan parting. he leaned back and drew her mouth to his... just as they started he heard the sorrel'swhinny again, and the familiar wistful call, and all the confusedimages it brought with it, went with him down the first reach of theroad. half-way down there was a sudden drop, then a rise, and afterthat another long delirious
descent. as they took wing for this it seemedto him that they were flying indeed, flying far up into the cloudynight, with starkfield immeasurably below them, falling away likea speck in space... then the big elm shot up ahead, lying in wait for themat the bend of the road, and he said between his teeth: "we can fetchit; i know we can fetch as they flew toward the tree mattie pressedher arms tighter, and her blood seemed to be in his veins. once or twicethe sled swerved a little under them. he slanted his body to keep itheaded for the elm, repeating to himself again and again: "i know we canfetch it"; and little phrases
she had spoken ran through his head and dancedbefore him on the air. the big tree loomed bigger and closer, andas they bore down on it he thought: "it's waiting for us: it seemsto know." but suddenly his wife's face, with twisted monstrous lineaments,thrust itself between him and his goal, and he made an instinctivemovement to brush it aside. the sled swerved in response, but he rightedit again, kept it straight, and drove down on the black projecting mass.there was a last instant when the air shot past him like millions offiery wires; and then the elm...
the sky was still thick, but looking straightup he saw a single star, and tried vaguely to reckon whether it weresirius, or—or—the effort tired him too much, and he closed his heavylids and thought that he would sleep... the stillness was so profoundthat he heard a little animal twittering somewhere near by underthe snow. it made a small frightened cheep like a field mouse, and hewondered languidly if it were hurt. then he understood that it mustbe in pain: pain so excruciating that he seemed, mysteriously,to feel it shooting through his own body. he tried in vain to roll overin the direction of the
sound, and stretched his left arm out acrossthe snow. and now it was as though he felt rather than heard the twittering;it seemed to be under his palm, which rested on something soft andspringy. the thought of the animal's suffering was intolerable tohim and he struggled to raise himself, and could not because a rock, orsome huge mass, seemed to be lying on him. but he continued to finger aboutcautiously with his left hand, thinking he might get hold of the littlecreature and help it; and all at once he knew that the soft thing hehad touched was mattie's hair and that his hand was on her face.
he dragged himself to his knees, the monstrousload on him moving with him as he moved, and his hand went over andover her face, and he felt that the twittering came from her lips... he got his face down close to hers, with hisear to her mouth, and in the darkness he saw her eyes open and heardher say his name. "oh, matt, i thought we'd fetched it," hemoaned; and far off, up the hill, he heard the sorrel whinny, and thought:"i ought to be getting him his feed..." *****
the querulous drone ceased as i entered frome'skitchen, and of the two women sitting there i could not tell whichhad been the speaker. one of them, on my appearing, raised her tallbony figure from her seat, not as if to welcome me—for she threw meno more than a brief glance of surprise—but simply to set about preparingthe meal which frome's absence had delayed. a slatternly calico wrapperhung from her shoulders and the wisps of her thin grey hair were drawnaway from a high forehead and fastened at the back by a broken comb.she had pale opaque eyes which revealed nothing and reflected nothing,and her narrow lips were
of the same sallow colour as her face. the other woman was much smaller and slighter.she sat huddled in an arm-chair near the stove, and when i camein she turned her head quickly toward me, without the least correspondingmovement of her body. her hair was as grey as her companion's, herface as bloodless and shrivelled, but amber-tinted, with swarthyshadows sharpening the nose and hollowing the temples. under her shapelessdress her body kept its limp immobility, and her dark eyes had thebright witch-like stare that disease of the spine sometimes gives.
even for that part of the country the kitchenwas a poor-looking place. with the exception of the dark-eyed woman'schair, which looked like a soiled relic of luxury bought at a countryauction, the furniture was of the roughest kind. three coarse china platesand a broken-nosed milk-jug had been set on a greasy table scored withknife-cuts, and a couple of straw-bottomed chairs and a kitchen dresserof unpainted pine stood meagrely against the plaster walls. "my, it's cold here! the fire must be 'mostout," frome said, glancing about him apologetically as he followed mein.
the tall woman, who had moved away from ustoward the dresser, took no notice; but the other, from her cushionedniche, answered complainingly, in a high thin voice. "it's on'y just beenmade up this very minute. zeena fell asleep and slep' ever so long,and i thought i'd be frozen stiff before i could wake her up and get herto 'tend to it." i knew then that it was she who had been speakingwhen we entered. her companion, who was just coming back tothe table with the remains of a cold mince-pie in a battered pie-dish,set down her unappetising burden without appearing to hear the accusationbrought against her.
frome stood hesitatingly before her as sheadvanced; then he looked at me and said: "this is my wife, mis' frome."after another interval he 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 hersatisfaction on seeing me safely restored to her the next morning thati felt my peril had caused me to advance several degrees in her favour. great was her amazement, and that of old mrs.varnum, on learning that
ethan frome's old horse had carried me toand from corbury junction through the worst blizzard of the winter;greater still their surprise when they heard that his master had takenme in for the night. beneath their wondering exclamations i felta secret curiosity to know what impressions i had received from my nightin the frome household, and divined that the best way of breakingdown their reserve was to let them try to penetrate mine. i therefore confinedmyself to saying, in a matter-of-fact tone, that i had been receivedwith great kindness, and that frome had made a bed for me in a roomon the ground-floor which
seemed in happier days to have been fittedup as a kind of writing-room or study. "well," mrs. hale mused, "in such a stormi suppose he felt he couldn't do less than take you in—but i guess itwent hard with ethan. i don't believe but what you're the only strangerhas set foot in that house for over twenty years. he's that proud he don'teven like his oldest friends to go there; and i don't know as any do, anymore, 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 got to think it made 'emfeel worse to see us. and then one thing and another came, and my owntroubles... but i generally make out to drive over there round about newyear's, and once in the summer. only i always try to pick a day whenethan's off somewheres. it's bad enough to see the two women sittingthere—but his face, when he looks round that bare place, just kills me...you see, i can look back and call it up in his mother's day, beforetheir troubles." old mrs. varnum, by this time, had gone upto bed, and her daughter
and i were sitting alone, after supper, inthe austere seclusion of the horse-hair parlour. mrs. hale glancedat me tentatively, as though trying to see how much footing my conjecturesgave her; and i guessed that if she had kept silence till now it wasbecause she had been waiting, through all the years, for some onewho should see what she alone had seen. i waited to let her trust in me gather strengthbefore i said: "yes, it's pretty bad, seeing all three of themthere together." she drew her mild brows into a frown of pain."it was just awful from
the beginning. i was here in the house whenthey were carried up—they laid mattie silver in the room you're in.she and i were great friends, and she was to have been my bridesmaid inthe spring... when she came to i went up to her and stayed all night.they gave her things to quiet her, and she didn't know much till to'rd morning,and then all of a sudden she woke up just like herself, andlooked straight at me out of her big eyes, and said... oh, i don't knowwhy i'm telling you all this," mrs. hale broke off, crying. she took off her spectacles, wiped the moisturefrom them, and put them
on again with an unsteady hand. "it got aboutthe next day," she went on, "that zeena frome had sent mattie offin a hurry because she had a hired girl coming, and the folks here couldnever rightly tell what she and ethan were doing that night coasting,when they'd ought to have been on their way to the flats to ketch the train...i never knew myself what zeena thought—i don't to this day.nobody knows zeena's thoughts. anyhow, when she heard o' the accident shecame right in and stayed with ethan over to the minister's, where they'dcarried him. and as soon as the doctors said that mattie could be moved,zeena sent for her and took
her back to the farm." "and there she's been ever since?" mrs. hale answered simply: "there was nowhereelse for her to go;" and my heart tightened at the thought of the hardcompulsions of the poor. "yes, there she's been," mrs. hale continued,"and zeena's done for her, and done for ethan, as good as she could.it was a miracle, considering how sick she was—but she seemed to be raisedright up just when the call came to her. not as she's ever given up doctoring,and she's had sick spells right along; but she's had the strengthgiven her to care for
those two for over twenty years, and beforethe accident came she thought she couldn't even care for herself." mrs. hale paused a moment, and i remainedsilent, plunged in the vision of what her words evoked. "it's horrible forthem all," i murmured. "yes: it's pretty bad. and they ain't anyof 'em easy people either. mattie was, before the accident; i never knewa sweeter nature. but she's suffered too much—that's what i alwayssay when folks tell me how she's soured. and zeena, she was always cranky.not but what she bears with mattie wonderful—i've seen that myself.but sometimes the two
of them get going at each other, and thenethan's face'd break your heart... when i see that, i think it's himthat suffers most... anyhow it ain't zeena, because she ain't got thetime... it's a pity, though," mrs. hale ended, sighing, "that they're allshut up there'n that one kitchen. in the summertime, on pleasant days,they move mattie into the parlour, or out in the door-yard, andthat makes it easier... but winters there's the fires to be thought of;and there ain't a dime to spare up at the fromes.'" mrs. hale drew a deep breath, as though hermemory were eased of its
long burden, and she had no more to say; butsuddenly an impulse of complete avowal seized her. she took off her spectacles again, leanedtoward me across the bead-work table-cover, and went on with lowered voice:"there was one day, about a week after the accident, when they all thoughtmattie couldn't live. well, i say it's a pity she did. i said itright out to our minister once, and he was shocked at me. only he wasn'twith me that morning when she first came to... and i say, if she'dha' died, ethan might ha' lived; and the way they are now, i don't see'sthere's much difference
between the fromes up at the farm and thefromes down in the graveyard; 'cept that down there they're all quiet, andthe women have got to hold their tongues." end of ethan fromeby edith wharton �