“Another year,” sighed Amos Adams, and the wind blew through the gaunt branches of the cottonwood trees in the yard, and far down in the valley came the moaning as of many waters, and the wind played its harmonies in the 156woodlot. The old man repeated the words: “Another year,” and asked himself how many more years he would have to wait and listen to the sighing of the moaning waters that washed around the world. And Kenyon Adams, lying flushed and tousled and tired upon a couch near by, heard the waters in his dreams and they made such music that his thin, little face moved in an eyrie smile.
“Mag,” said a pale, nervous girl with dead, sad eyes as she looked around at the new furniture in the new house, and avoided the rim of soft light that came from the electric under the red shade, “did you think I was cheeky to ask you all those questions over the ’phone–about where Henry was to-night, and what you’d be doing?” The hostess said: “Why, no, Violet, no–I’m always glad to see you.”
There was a pause, and the girl exclaimed: “That’s what I come out for. I couldn’t stand it any longer. Mag, what in God’s name have I done? Didn’t you see me the other day on Market Street? You were looking right at me. It’s been nearly a year since we’ve talked. You used to couldn’t get along a week without a good talk; but now–say, Mag, what’s the matter? what have I done to make you treat me like this?” There was a tremor in the girl’s voice. She looked piteously at the wife, radiant in her red house gown. The hostess spoke. “Look here, Violet Mauling, I did see you on Market Street, and I did cut you dead. I knew it would bring you up standing and we’d have this thing out.”
The girl looked her question, but flushed. Then she said, “You mean the old man?”
“I mean the old man. It’s perfectly scandalous, Violet; didn’t you get your lesson with Van Dorn?” returned the hostess. “The old man won’t marry you–you don’t expect that, do you?” The girl shook her head. The woman continued, “Well, then drop it. You can’t afford to be seen with him.”
“Mag,” returned the visitor, “I tell you before God I can’t afford not to. It’s my job. It’s all I’ve got. Mamma hasn’t another soul except me to depend on. And he’s harmless–the old coot’s as harmless as a child. Honest and true, Mag, if I ever told the truth that’s it. He just 157stands around and is silly–just makes foolish breaks to hear himself talk–that’s all. But what can I do? He keeps me in the company store, and Heaven knows he doesn’t kill himself paying me–only $8 a week, as far as that goes, and then he talks and talks and talks about Judge Van Dorn, and snickers and drops his front false teeth–ugh!–and drivels. But, Mag, he’s harmless as a baby.”
“Well,” returned the hostess, “Henry says every one is talking about it, and you’re a common scandal, Violet Mauling, and you ought to know it. I can’t hold you up, as you well know–no one can.”
Then there followed a flood of tears, and after it had subsided the two women were sitting on a couch. “I want to tell you about Tom Van Dorn, Mag–you never understood. You thought I used to chase him. God knows I didn’t, Mag–honest, honest, honest! You knew as well as anything all about it; but I never told you how I fought and fought and all that and how little by little he came closer and closer, and no one ever will know how I cried and how ashamed I was and how I tried to fight him off. That’s the God’s truth, Mag–the God’s truth if you ever heard it.”
The girl sobbed and hid her face. “Once when papa died he sent me a hundred dollars through Mr. Brotherton, and mamma thought it came from the Lodge; but I knew better. And, O Mag, Mag, you’ll never know how I felt to bury papa on that kind of money. And I saved for nearly a year to pay it back, and of course I couldn’t, for he kept getting me expensive things and I had to get things to go with ’em and went in debt, and then when I went there in the office it was all so–so close and I couldn’t fight, and he was so powerful–you know just how big and strong, and–O Mag, Mag, Mag–you’ll never know how I tried–but I just couldn’t. Then he made me court reporter and took me over the district.” The girl looked up into the great, soft, beautiful eyes of Margaret Fenn, and thought she saw sympathy there. That was a common mistake; others made it in looking at Margaret’s eyes. The girl felt encouraged. She came closer to her one-time friend. “Mag,” she said, “they lied awfully about how I lost my job. They said Mrs. Van Dorn made a row. Honest, Mag, there’s nothing 158to that. She never even dreamed anything was–well–was–don’t you know. She wasn’t a bit jealous, and is as nice as she can be to me right now. It was this way. You know when I sent mamma away last May for a visit, and the Van Dorns asked me over there to stay?” Mrs. Fenn nodded. “Well,” continued Violet, “one day in court–you know when they were trying that bond case–the city bonds and all–well, the Judge scribbled a note on his desk and handed it to me. It said my room door creaked, and not to shut it.” She stopped and put her head in her hand and rocked her body. “I know, Mag, it was awful, but some way I just couldn’t help it. He is so strong, and–you know, Mag, how we used to say there’s some men when they come about you just make you kind of flush all over and weak–well, he’s that way. And, anyway, like a fool I dropped that note and one of the jurors–a farmer from Union township–picked it up and took it straight to Doctor Jim.”
The girl hid her face in her friend’s dress. “It was awful.” She spoke without looking up. “But, O Mag–Doctor Jim was fine–so gentle, so kind. The Judge thought he would cuss around a lot, but he didn’t–not even to him–the Judge said. And the Doctor came to me as bashful and–as–well, your own father couldn’t have been better to you. So I just quit, and the Judge got me the job in the Company store and the Doctor drops in and she–yes, Mag, the Judge’s wife comes with the Doctor sometimes, and now it’s been five months to-day since I left the court reporter’s work and I have hardly seen the Judge to speak to him since. But they all know, I guess, but mamma, and I sometimes think folks try to talk to her; and that old man Sands comes snooping and snickering around like an old dog hunting a buried bone, and he’s my job, and I don’t know what to do.”