The sun was just sinking behind a broken bank of heavy, blue-gray clouds. On the inner surfaces through which streamed its last rays patches of blood-red lining showed. A lurid glow was thinly suffused over the stretch of land between, against which were outlined the gray top branches of trees, moving fitfully to and fro. She stood for a few moments, waiting, listening for Mrs. Mosby. The shadows deepened and lengthened; they came creeping over the grass toward her, in their van the fading glow. All at once, as it were out of the twilight, the sunlight settled momentarily on the field at the bottom of the hill before her. Stark upright and in serried rows stretched the waste of last year's cornfield, the withered stalks touched with a passing glory, standing quite proudly erect and then—blue-gray darkness. A mellow waste delivering a valedictory! Next year it would doubtless be ploughed up—prepared for a crop. Over beyond the crest of hills clouds were gathering like a smoke pall. She wondered if the factory chimneys were sending their beacons that far. There were forty miles between the two worlds.
A voice spoke behind her, a strange, unknown voice. She turned and went back to the bedside. Joe lay staring straight before him and his lips were moving stiffly. The words came muffled and indistinct: "Tell you—got to have more money 'n that, Mr. Heston. 'Tisn't a question of just gettin' by. A man's got to get ahead." And then there was an unintelligible muttering. And then suddenly the voice rose, clear, querulous, and high-pitched: "Well you can go to hell with it. Needn't think you're doin' us a favour—payin' us a living—just because you've got it all. No, sir! I can go back home. Can live there without havin' to thank you!" The voice died away.
She hung on the echo, shaken to the depths of her. Like a disembodied voice it had come out of the great silence. What was it all about? Who was Mr. Heston?
Then in a flash it all came clear to her. The mists arose from the past and before her stood envisioned all in the proper relationship: herself, Claybrook, and Joe; Bloomfield, the city, all of mankind.
Life was, after all, but one shrewd bargain; success a process of getting more than one gave; the survivors, shrewd bargainers, shouldering, edging, metamorphosed by a modern Circe, their forefeet and muzzles thrust eager and deep into the magic swill of her trough; and the others—creatures like Joe—untouched by the sorcery, going without and suffering discredit. Militant, her spirit rose in revolt. Was there no escape from the dilemma? She felt dried up, parched, athirst for something; her throat contracted in a burning ache.
She sat down on the edge of the bed and took his hand. She sat in silence with a great pain in her heart. Over beyond the window sill the glow was dying, and the gathering pall was rising and coming nearer. Like a blanket the relentless world the cog-world of personal interests, regulations, and restrictions—was coming, gathering up its wastage into its blue-gray depths.
Joe was speaking again. His voice was suddenly clearer.
"I wonder," he was saying, "if you'd mind goin' for Zeke Thompson and sendin' him up to me? I want him to go somewhere for me. And will you—will you call up Mr. Clausen of the Pulvia Company and tell him I'll get back on the job soon's I can? To-morrow'll do to call him up."
"Surely I will, Joe," she replied.
The door opened softly from the hall and Mrs. Mosby appeared, shading a lamp with her hand. "Keep your seat." she exclaimed as Mary Louise rose to her feet. "I'm just getting ready to bring him his supper." Then she went back out again.