A Breath of Prairie and other stories

by Will Lillibridge

Chapter IV––A Revelation

Time, unchanging automaton, moved on until late spring. Paradox of nature, the warm brown tints of chilly days gave place under the heat of slanting suns to the cool green of summer. All at once, sudden as though autochthonal, there appeared meadow-larks and blackbirds: dead weeds or man-erected posts serving in lieu of trees as vantage points from which to sing. Ground squirrels whistled cheerily from newly broken fields and roadways. Coveys of quail, tame as barn-yard fowls, played about the beaten paths, and ran pattering in the dust ahead of each passing team. Again, from its winter’s rest, lonely, uncertain as to distance, came the low, booming call of the prairie rooster. Nature had awakened, and the joy of that awakening was upon the land.

Of a morning in May the faded, dust-covered day-coach drew in at the tiny prairie village. A little man alighted. He stood a moment on the 151 platform, his hands deep in his pockets, a big black cigar between his teeth, and looked out over the town. The coloring of the short straggling street was more weather-stained than a year ago, yet still very new, and the newcomer smiled as he looked; a big broad smile that played about his lips, turning up the corners of his brown moustache, showing a flash of white teeth, and lighting a pair of big blue eyes which lay, like a woman’s, beneath heavy lashes. In youth, that smile would have been a grin; but it was no grin now. The man was far from youth, and about the mouth and eyes were deep lines, which told of one who knew of the world.

Slowly the smile disappeared, and as it faded the little man puffed harder at the cigar. Evidently something he particularly wished to explain would not become clear to his mind.

“Of all places,” he soliloquized, “to have chosen––this!”

He started up the street, over the irregular warping sidewalk.

“Hotel, sir-r?” The formula was American, the trilling r’s distinctly German.

The traveller turned at the sound, to make 152 acquaintance with Hans Becher; for it was Hans Becher, very much metamorphosed from the retiring German of a year ago. He made the train regularly now.

The small man nodded and held out his grip; together they walked up the street. In front of the hotel they stopped, and the stranger pulled out his watch.

“Is there a livery here?” he asked.

“Yes; at the street end––the side to the left hand.”

“Thanks. I’ll be back with you this evening.”

Hans Becher stared, open-mouthed, as the man moved off.

“You will not to dinner return?”

The little man stopped, and smiled without apparent reason.

“No. Keep the grip. I expect to lunch,” again he smiled without provocation, “elsewhere. By the way,” he added, as an afterthought, “can you tell me where Mr. Maurice––Ichabod Maurice––lives?”

The German nodded violent confirmation of a direction indicated by his free hand. 153

“Straight out, eight miles. Little house with paint”––strong emphasis on the last––“white paint.”

“Thanks.”

Hans saw the escape of an opportunity.

“They are friends of yours, perhaps?”––he grasped at it.

The little man did not turn, but the smile that seemed almost a habit, sprang to his face.

“Yes, they’re––friends of mine,” he corroborated.

Hans, personification of knowledge, stood bobbing on the doorstep, until the trail of smoke vanished from sight, then brought the satchel inside and set it down hard.

“Her brother has come,” he announced to the wide-eyed Minna.

“Wessen Bruder?” Minna was obviously excited, as attested by the lapse from English.

“Are we not now Americans naturalized?” rebuked Hans, icily. Suddenly he thawed. “Whose brother! The brother of Camilla Maurice, to be sure.”

Minna scrutinized the bag, curiously. 154

“Did he so––inform you?” she questioned unadvisedly.

“It was not necessary. I have eyes.”

Offended masculine dignity clumped noisily toward the door; instinctive feminine diplomacy sprang to the rescue.

“You are so wise, Hans!”

And Peace, sweet Peace, returned to the household of Becher.

Meanwhile the little man had secured a buggy, and was jogging out into the country. He drove very leisurely, looking about him curiously. Of a sudden he threw down his cigar, and sniffed at the air.

“Buffalo grass, I’ll wager! I’ve heard of it,” and in the instinctive action of every newcomer he sniffed again.

Camilla Maurice sat in front of her tiny house, the late morning sun warm about her; one hand supported a book, slanted carefully to avoid the light, the other held the crank of a barrel-churn. As she read, she turned steadily, the monotonous chug! chug! of the tumbling cream drowning all other sounds.

Suddenly the shadow of a horse passed her 155 and a rough livery buggy stopped at her side. She looked up. Instinctively her hand dropped the crank, and her face turned white; then equally involuntarily she returned to her work, and the chug! chug! continued.

“Does Ichabod Maurice,” drawling emphasis on the name, “live here?” asked a voice.

“He does.” Camilla’s chin was trembling; her answer halted abruptly.

The man looked down at her, genuine amusement depicted upon his face.

“Won’t you please stop your work for a moment, Camilla?”

With the name, one hand made swift movement of deprecation. “Pardon if I mistake, but I take it you’re Camilla Maurice?”

“Yes, I’m Camilla Maurice.”

“Quite so! You see, Ichabod and I were old chums together in college––all that sort of thing; consequently I’ve always wanted to meet––”

The woman stood up. Her face still was very white, but her chin did not tremble now.

“Let’s stop this farce,” she insisted. “What is it you wish?” 156

The man in the buggy again made a motion of deprecation.

“I was just about to say, that happening to be in town, and incidentally hearing the name, I wondered if it were possible.... But, pardon, I haven’t introduced myself. Allow me––” and he bowed elaborately. “Arnold, Asa Arnold.... You’ve heard Ichabod mention my name, perhaps?”

The woman held up her hand.

“Again I ask, what do you wish?”

“Since you insist, first of all I’d like to speak a moment with Ichabod.” His face changed suddenly. “For Heaven’s sake, Eleanor, if he must alter his name, why did he choose such a barbaric substitute as Ichabod?”

“Were he here”––evenly––“he’d doubtless explain that himself.”

“He’s not here, then?” No banter in the voice now.

“Never fear”––quickly––“he’ll return.”

A moment they looked into each other’s eyes; challengingly, as they had looked unnumbered times before.

“As you suggest, Eleanor,” said the man, 157 slowly, “this farce has gone far enough. Where may I tie this horse? I wish to speak with you.”

Camilla pointed to a post, and silently went toward the house. Soon the man followed her, stopping a moment to take a final puff at his cigar before throwing it away.

Within the tiny kitchen they sat opposite, a narrow band of warm spring sunshine creeping in at the open door separating them. The woman looked out over the broad prairie, her color a trifle higher than usual, the lids of her eyes a shade nearer together––that was all. The man crossed his legs and waited, looking so small that he seemed almost boyish. In the silence, the drone of feeding poultry came from the back-yard, and the sleepy breathing of the big collie on the steps sounded plainly through the room.

A minute passed. Neither spoke. Then, with a shade of annoyance, the man shifted in his chair.

“I thought, perhaps, you’d have something you wished to say. If not, however––” He paused meaningly. 158

“You said a moment ago, you wished to speak to me.”

“As usual, you make everything as difficult as possible.” The shade of annoyance became positive. “Such being the case, we may as well come to the point. How soon do you contemplate bringing this––this incident to a close?”

“The answer to that question concerns me alone.”

An ordinary man would have laughed; but Asa Arnold was not an ordinary man––not at this time.

“As your husband, I can’t agree with you.”

Camilla Maurice took up his words, quickly.

“You mistake. You’re the husband of Eleanor Owen. I’m not she.”

The man went on calmly, as though there had been no interruption.

“I don’t want to be hard on you, Eleanor. I don’t think I have been hard on you. A year has passed, and I’ve known you were here from the first day. But this sort of thing can’t go on indefinitely; there’s a limit, even to good nature. I ask you again, when are you coming back?” 159

The woman looked at her companion, for the first time steadily. Even she, who knew him so well, felt a shade of wonder at the man who could adjust all the affairs of his life in the same voice with which he ordered his dinner. Before, she had always thought this attitude of his pure affectation. Now she knew better, knew it mirrored the man himself. He had done this thing. Knowing her whereabouts all the time, he had allotted her the past year, as an employer would grant a holiday to an assistant. Now he asked her to return to the old life, as calmly as one returns in the fall to the city home after an outing! Only one man in the world could have done that thing, and that man was before her––her husband by law––Asa Arnold!

The wonder of it all crept into her voice.

“I’m not coming back, can’t you understand? I’m never coming back,” she repeated.

The man arose and stood in the doorway.

“Don’t say that,” he said very quietly. “Not yet. I won’t begin, now, after all these years to make protestations of love. The thing called Love we’ve discussed too often already, 160 and without result. Anyway, that’s not the point. We never pretended to be lovers, even when we were married. We were simply useful, very useful to each other.”

Camilla started to interrupt him, but, preventing, he held up his hand.

“We talked over a certain possibility––one now a reality––before we were married.” He caught the look upon her face. “I don’t say it was ideal. It simply was,” he digressed slowly in answer, then hurried on: “That was only five years ago, Eleanor, and we were far from young.” He looked at her, searchingly. “You’ve not forgotten the contract we drew up, that stood above the marriage obligation, above everything, supreme law for you and me?” Instinctively his hand went to an inner pocket, where the rustle of a paper answered his touch. “Remember; it’s not a favor I ask of you, but the fulfilment of your own word. Think a moment before you say you’ll never return.”

Camilla Maurice found an answer very difficult. Had he been angry, or abusive, it would have been easy; but as it was–– 161

“You overlook the fact of change. A lifetime isn’t required for that.”

“I overlook nothing.” The man went back to his chair. “You remember, as well as I, that we considered the problem of change––and laughed at it. I repeat, we’re no longer in swaddling clothes.”

“Be that as it may, I tell you the whole world looks different to me now.” The speaker struggled bravely, but the ghastliness of such a discussion wore on her nerves, and her face twitched. “No power on earth could make me keep that contract since I’ve changed.”

The suggestion of a smile played about the man’s mouth.

“You’ve succeeded, perhaps, in finding that for which we searched so long in vain, an æsthetic, non-corporeal love?”

“I refuse to answer a question which was intended as an insult.”

The words out of her mouth, the woman regretted them.

“Though quick yourself to take offence, you seem at no great pains to avoid giving affront to another.” The man voiced the reprimand 162 without the twitch of an eyelid, and finished with another question: “Have you any reason for doing as you’ve done, other than the one you gave?”

“Reason! Reason!” Camilla Maurice stared again. “Isn’t it reason enough that I love him, and don’t love you? Isn’t it sufficient reason to one who has lived until middle life in darkness that a ray of light is in sight? Of all people in the world, you’re the one who should understand the reason best!”

“Would any of those arguments be sufficient to break another contract?”

“No, but one I didn’t mention would. Even when I lived with you, I was of no more importance than a half-dozen other women.”

“You didn’t protest at time of the agreement. You knew then my belief and,” Arnold paused meaningly, “your own.”

A memory of the past came to the woman; the dark, lonely past, which, even yet, after so many years, came to her like a nightmare; the time when she was a stranger in a strange town, without joy of past or hope of future; most 163 lonely being on God’s earth, a woman with an ambition––and without friends.

“I was mad––I see it now––lonely mad. I met you. Our work was alike, and we were very useful to each other.” One white hand made motion of repugnance at the thought. “I was mad, I say.”

“Is that your excuse for ignoring a solemn obligation?” Arnold looked her through. “Is that your excuse for leaving me for another, without a word of explanation, or even the conventional form of a divorce?”

“It was just that explanation––this––I wished to avoid. It’s hard for us both, and useless.”

“Useless!” The man quickly picked up the word. “Useless! I don’t like the suggestion of that word. It hints of death, and old age, and hateful things. It has no place with the living.”

He drew a paper from his pocket, slowly, and spread it on his knee.

“Pardon me for again recalling past history, Eleanor; but to use a word that is dead!... You must have forgotten––” The writing, a 164 dainty, feminine hand, was turned toward her, tauntingly, compellingly.

The man waited for some response; but Camilla Maurice was silent. That bit of paper, the shadow of a seemingly impossible past, made her, for the time, question her identity, almost doubt it.

Five years ago, almost to the day, high up in a city building, in a dainty little room, half office, half atelier, a man and a woman had copied an agreement, each for the other, and had sworn an oath ever to remain true to that solemn bond.... She had brought nothing to him, but herself; not even affection. He, on the other hand, had saved her from a life of drudgery by elevating her to a position where, free of the necessity of struggling for a bare existence, she might hope to consummate the fruition of at least a part of her dreams. On her part....

“Witnesseth: The said Eleanor Owen is at liberty to follow her own inclinations as she may see fit; she is to remain free of any and all responsibilities and restrictions such as customarily 165 attach to the supervision of a household, excepting as she may elect to exercise her wifely prerogatives; being absolutely free to pursue whatsoever occupation or devices she may desire or choose, the same as if she were yet a spinster....

“In Consideration of Which: The said Eleanor Owen agrees never so to comport herself that by word or conduct will she bring ridicule.... dishonor upon the name....”

Recollection of it all came to her with a rush; but the words ran together and swam in a maddening blur––the roar from the street below, dull with distance; the hum of the big building, with its faint concussions of closing doors; the air from the open window, not like the sweet prairie air of to-day, but heavy, smoky, typical breath of the town, yet pregnant with the indescribable throb of spring, impossible to efface or to disguise! The compelling intimacy and irrevocability of that memory overwhelmed her, now; a dark, evil flood that blotted out the sunshine of the present. 166

The paper rustled, as the man smoothed it flat with his hand.

“Shall I read?” he asked.

The woman’s face stood clear––cruelly clear––in the sunlight; about her mouth and eyes there was an expression which, from repetition, we have learned to associate with the circle surrounding a new-made grave: an expression hopelessly desperate, desperately hopeless.

Of a sudden her chin trembled and her face dropped into her hands.

“Read, if you wish”; and the smooth brown head, with its thread of gray, trembled uncontrollably.

“Eleanor!” with a sudden vibration of tenderness in his voice. “Eleanor,” he repeated.

But the woman made no response.

The man had taken a step forward; now he sat down again, looking through the open doorway at the stretch of green prairie, with the road, a narrow ribbon of brown, dividing it fair in the middle. In the distance a farmer’s wagon was rumbling toward town, a trail of fine dust, like smoke, suspended in the air behind. It rattled past, and the big collie on 167 the step woke to give furious chase in its wake, then returned slowly, a little conscious under the stranger’s eye, to sleep as before. Asa Arnold sat through it all, still as one devitalized; an expression on his face no man had ever seen before; one hopeless, lonely, akin to that of the woman.

“Read, if you wish,” repeated Camilla, bitterly.

For a long minute her companion made no motion.

“It’s unnecessary,” he intoned at last. “You know as well as I that neither of us will ever forget one word it contains.” He hesitated and his voice grew gentle. “Eleanor, you know I didn’t come here to insult you, or to hurt you needlessly;––but I’m human. You seem to forget this. You brand me less than a man, and then ask of me the unselfishness of a God!”

Camilla’s white face lifted from her hands.

“I ask nothing except that you leave me alone.”

For the first time the little man showed his teeth.

“At last you mention the point I came here 168 to arrange. Were you alone, rest assured I shouldn’t trouble you.”

“You mean––”

“I mean just this. I wouldn’t be human if I did what you ask––if I condoned what you’ve done and are still doing.” He was fairly started now, and words came crowding each other; reproachful, tempestuous.

“Didn’t you ever stop to think of the past––think what you’ve done, Eleanor?” He paused without giving her an opportunity to answer. “Let me tell you, then. You’ve broken every manner of faith between man and woman. If you believe in God, you’ve broken faith with Him as well. Don’t think for a moment I ever had respect for marriage as a divine institution, but I did have respect for you, and at your wish we conformed. You’re my wife now, by your own choosing. Don’t interrupt me, please. I repeat, God has no more to do with ceremonial marriage now than he had at the time of the Old Testament and polygamy. It’s a man-made bond, but an obligation nevertheless, and as such, at the foundation of all good faith between man and 169 woman. It’s this good faith you’ve broken.” A look of bitterness flashed over his face.

“Still, I could excuse this and release you at the asking, remaining your friend, your best friend as before; but to be thrown aside without even a ‘by your leave,’ and that for another man––” He hesitated and finished slowly:

“You know me well enough, Eleanor, to realize that I’m in earnest when I say that while I live the man has yet to be born who can take something of mine away from me.”

Camilla gestured passionately.

“In other words: while growling hard at the dog who approached your bone, you have no hesitation in stealing from another!” The accumulated bitterness of years of repression spoke in the taunt.

Across the little man’s face there fell an impenetrable mask, like the armor which dropped about an ancient ship of war before the shock of battle.

“I’m not on trial. I’ve not changed my name––” he nodded significantly toward the view beyond the open door,––“and sought seclusion.” 170

Again the bitterness of memory prompted Camilla to speak the harshest words of her life.

“No, you hadn’t the decency. It was more pleasure to thrust your shame daily in my face.”

Arnold’s color paled above the dark beard line; but the woman took no heed.

“Why did you wait a year,” continued the bitter voice, “to end in––this? If it must have been––why not before?”

“I repeat, I’m not on trial. If you’ve anything to say, I’ll listen.”

Something new in the man’s face caught Camilla’s attention, softened the tone of her voice.

“I’ve only this to say. You’ve asked for an explanation and a promise; but I can give you neither. If there ever comes a time when I feel they’re due you, and I’m able to comply, I’ll give them both gladly.” The absent look of the past returned to her eyes. “Even if I wished, I couldn’t give you an explanation now. I can’t make myself understand the contradiction. Somehow, knowing you so long, your beliefs crept insistently into my loneliness. It seems hideous now, but I was honest then. I believed them, too. I don’t blame you; I only pity you. 171 You were the embodiment of protest against the established, of the non-responsibility of the individual, of skepticism in everything. Your eternal ‘why’ covered my horizon. Every familiar thing came to bear a question I couldn’t answer. My whole life seemed one eternal doubt. One thing I’d never known, and I questioned it most of all; the one thing I know now to be the truth,––the greatest truth in the world.” For an instant the present crowded the past from Camilla’s mind, but only for an instant. “Whatever I was at the time, you’d made me––with your deathless ‘why.’ When I signed the obligation of that day, I believed it was of my own free will; but I know now it was you who wrote it for both of us––you, with your perpetual interrogation. I don’t accuse you of doing this deliberately, maliciously. We were both deceived; but none the less the fact remains.” A shadow, almost of horror, passed over her face.

“Time passed, and though you didn’t know, I was in Hell. Reason told me I was right. Instinct, something, called me a drag. I tried to compromise, and we were married. Then, for 172 the first time, came realization. We were the best of friends,––but only friends.”

“You wonder how I knew. I didn’t tell you then. I couldn’t. I could only feel, and that not clearly. The shadow of your ‘why’ was still dark upon me. What I vaguely felt then, though, I know now; as I recognize light or cold or pain.” Her voice assumed the tone of one who speaks of mysteries; slow, vibrant. “In every woman’s mind the maternal instinct should be uppermost; before everything, before God,––unashamed, inevitable. It’s unmistakably the distinction of a good woman from a bad. The choosing of the father of her child is a woman’s unfailing test of love.”

The face of the man before her dropped into his hands, but she did not notice.

“Gropingly I felt this, and the knowledge came almost as an inspiration. It gave a clue to––”

“Stop!” The man’s eyes blazed, as he leaped from his chair. “Stop!”

He took a step forward, his hand before him, his face twitching uncontrollably. The collie 173 on the step awoke, and seeing his mistress threatened, growled ominously.

“Stop, I tell you!” Arnold choked for words. This the man of “why,” whom nothing before could shake!

Camilla paled as her companion arose, and the dog, bristling, came inside the room.

“Get out!” blazed the man, with a threatening step, and the collie fled.

The interruption loosed words which came tumbling forth in a torrent, as Arnold returned to face her.

“You think I’m human, and yet tell me that to my face?” His voice was terrible. “You women brand men cruel! No man on earth would speak as you have spoken to a woman he’d lived with for four years!” The sentences crowded over each other, like water over a fall––his eyes flashing like a spray.

“I told you before, I’m not on trial; that it was not my place to defend. I don’t do so now; but since you’ve spoken, I’ll answer your question. You ask why I didn’t come a year ago, hinting that I wanted to be more cruel. God! the blindness and injustice of you women! Because 174 we men don’t show––Bah!... I was paying my own price. We weren’t living by the marriage vow; it was but a farce. Our own contract was the vital thing, and it had said––But I won’t repeat. God, it was bitter! But I thought you’d come back. I loved you still.” He paused for words, breathing hard.

“You say, I’ll never know what love is. Blind! I’ve always loved you until this moment, when you killed my love. You say I was untrue. It’s false. I swear it before––you, as you were once,––when you were my god. Had you trusted me, as I trusted you, there’d have been no thought of unfaithfulness in your mind.”

The woman sank back in the chair, her face covered, her whole body trembling; but Asa Arnold went on like the storm.

“Yes, I was ever true to you. From the first moment we met, and against my own beliefs. You didn’t see. You expected me to protest it daily: to repeat the tale as a child repeats its lesson for a comfit. Blind, I say, blind! You’ll charge that I never told you that I loved you. You wouldn’t have believed me, even had I 175 done so. Besides, I didn’t realize that you doubted, until the time when you were learning––” he walked jerkily across the room and took up his hat,––“learning the thing you threw in my face.” He started to leave, but stopped in the doorway, without looking back. “You tell me you’ve suffered. For the first time in my life I say to another human being: I hope so.” He turned, unsteadily, down the steps.

“Wait,” pleaded the woman. “Wait!”

The man did not stop, or turn.

Camilla Maurice sank back in the chair, weak as one sick unto death, her mind a throbbing, whirling chaos,––as of a patient under an anæsthetic. Something she knew she ought to do, intended doing, and could not. She groped desperately, but overwhelming, insistent, there had developed in her a sudden, preventing tumult––in paradox, a confusion in rhythm––like the beating of a great hammer on an anvil, only incredibly more swift than blows from human hands. Over and over again she repeated to herself the one word: “wait,” “wait,” “wait,” but mechanically now, without thought 176 as to the reason. Then, all at once, soft, all-enfolding, kindly Nature wrapped her in darkness.

She awoke with the big collie licking her hand, and a numbness of cramped limbs that was positive pain. A long-necked pullet was standing in the doorway, with her mouth open; others stood wondering, beyond. The sun had moved until it no longer shone in at the tiny south windows, and the shadow of the house had begun to lengthen.

Camilla stood up in the doorway; uncertain, dazed. A great lump was on her forehead, which she stroked absently, without surprise at its presence. She looked about the yard, and, her breath coming more quickly, at the prairie. A broad green plain, parted by the road squarely in the centre, smiled at her in the sunlight. That was all. She stepped outside and shaded her eyes with her hand. Not a wagon nor a human being was in sight.

Again the weakness and the blackness came stealing over her; she sank down on the doorstep. 177

“O God, what have I done!” she wailed.

The hens returned to their search for bugs; but the big collie stayed by her side, whimpering and fondling her hand. 178