III
The gray desolation of a March afternoon brooded out over the wide meadows, out over the dim woods beyond, and still on to the half-visible hills in the distance, where it merged itself imperceptibly into a low, lead-colored sky. Though the rain was not falling, everything dripped with the damp. In front of the Waring farmhouse the road, wallowing with fat mud, stretched off in a dirty streak under the glistening limbs of the maples. The door of the house opened and David came out. His mother followed him anxiously.
"David, I hope it isn't bad news," she asked, laying her hand lightly on his shoulder. "Can't you tell me about it?"
"Not now, mother. It's nothing very unexpected; I'll tell you later, but I'd rather wait a little while." He pushed open the gate and stepped out into the road, his heavy boots sinking in to half their height.
The mother watched him with strained attention as he set off towards the barn. There was a sort of savage aimlessness in his gait. His shoulders were bent forward, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, and he looked neither to the one side nor the other of the road. At the barnyard gate he seemed to hesitate a second, then turned in, and the small, gray-haired woman on the step sighed and went back into the house.
David strode deliberately through the yard and out of the gate on the other side—the one that opened on the sloping meadow behind the barn. Not a living thing was in sight. A chill, white fog had slowly settled over the land, obliterating outline and color, toning everything down to a monotonous sameness of appearance—a flat, unrelieved vacancy. David walked on mechanically, unmindful of any destination or definite purpose; a dumb bitterness wrung his heart, and, in comparison with that, all that was external and objective seemed unaccountable. Involuntarily he thrust his hand into his coat and drew out a letter. He had read it twice already.
* * * * *
"My dear David,—I hardly know how I am to tell you what I know I must tell you—and if not now, certainly before many more weeks pass. Let me admit then first of all that you were right in your anticipation of what college life would do for me. It has changed my ways of looking at things more than I can tell you, and things that once seemed very beautiful to me are so no longer. This was inevitable and we need not regret it, for I know that the aggregate enjoyment of life has been increased, at least potentially. You may know that your brother Loren spent part of his Christmas vacation here, and he has just been here again for a flying visit. Need I tell you the result, David? I think you foresaw it long ago, and I cannot of course feel sad that things have come about in this way, though I realize that for a time, at least, it may be hard for you to understand it. But there are many interests we have in common, he and I; I know that you will see sometime that we were made for each other and that you will be happy with us in our great happiness.
"I doubt whether this news will much surprise you, for I know, from the tenor of your latest letters, you have noticed a change and have been suspicious of the truth…."
* * * * *
Ah, yes, he had noticed it and had had suspicions; but to have it come to this, and so suddenly—it was more than he could bear. His throat ached and his hands were wet with perspiration. He looked up into the sky and saw nothing there to help him—nothing but a roofless expanse of drizzling gray fog. Not a bird chirped in the distance. The brook down below him ran on silently without an audible ripple. Everything was silent and motionless. If only a cow would low or a hen would cackle back in the barnyard, life would be a bit more tolerable. It was as if all the world had become soulless and dead.
How he had loved her! … No other thought could find entrance in his mind … and now, it was all over. She belonged to some one else and had left him without a thought, almost, of the pain it was going to bring him. "Hard to understand!" She was wrong: he had understood it from the first, and far better than she. Had he not told her so that afternoon when they sat together in the barn? But understanding it made it no more easy to bear. He wondered whether he could bear it. He seemed so cruelly alone with his sorrow. The silence seemed shouting at him.
Suddenly, without knowing why, he looked back to the barn. A little figure, wrapped in a plaid shawl, was coming towards him: it was his mother. A sharp thrill of tenderness ran through him. "Poor little mother," he said softly, "you are longing to help me," and, somewhat ashamed of the way in which he had left her recently, he turned and walked back to meet her.
"Come with me to the barn," she said, and together they returned, silently, each timid of the other. Entering the building they sat down on the hay, side by side. "Read that, mother," he said, and handed her the letter. She glanced it through, and then, taking his hand in hers, faltered gently, "My poor boy! I can guess what it must mean to you."
He put his head down in her lap and sobbed like a child, while she stroked his hair and face and spoke shy words of sympathy.
"David," she said, "it was for your father and me that you gave up college. Perhaps you think we don't appreciate it, because we never say much. I know what it has cost you and how nobly you have stuck to your duty, and you know that in God's sight whatever may come of it you have done the kindest thing."
"Oh, but mother, that doesn't make it any easier to lose Janet. She was so much to me, and we were going to be so happy together."
"Hush, little boy, you mustn't take it so hard. Perhaps some day you'll see that it was for the best."
The afternoon light was fading and the rain was beginning to fall softly outside. In the dimming light the two continued sitting there together, hardly speaking a word, for what comfort could words bring? And slowly a vague peacefulness began to fall upon his heart under the gentle touch of his mother, and rising, he kissed her silently and went out to his work.
Literary Monthly, 1902.