The Straight Path

HE tinkling of the telephone broke into their day-dream. "Aunt Liza's out; you'll have to answer it," she said.

He grumbled his resignation and hurried across the grass and into the living-room of the time-worn New England farmhouse. He paused to wave his hand to the country girl on the bench under the trees, then, still smiling, put the receiver to his ear to meet the crisis wholly unprepared. For he had unlimited youth and enthusiasm and was narrow enough to live with both, to the exclusion of wisdom; so that during his convalescence he had found it easy to forget the foreordained.

When he heard his mother's voice he took it for granted that she was calling him from New York.

"What's gone wrong?" he shouted, to be sure the words would carry.

"I can hear you perfectly well, Freddy. You shouldn't exert yourself so. Nothing's wrong. Claire and I are at the station."

"Why have you come?" he snapped.

"To see about you," she calmly replied.

"About me!" he stumbled. Youth and enthusiasm were carried before the flood of recollection let loose by their presence here. "What can you want to see about me?"

Her voice vibrated to him challengingly. "Is it surprising I should want to know how you are picking up after the fever? It isn't necessary we should discuss that here, at all events. This 'phone is in the middle of a grocery store—quite; and most of the population is enjoying the novelty of seeing it used." There was a pause, then: "Haven't you a decent carriage to send for us? It isn't far, is it?"

"Fully two miles," he replied discouragingly, "and this is September; all the horses are in the fields."

"What are stables for?" she demanded. "If you weren't my only son, I'd turn back. Wait a minute."

He heard a man's voice echoing over the wire, with an offer to drive the ladies all the way to the Ringer's place for fifty cents.

"I've engaged a carriage," she resumed. "Good-bye." and he heard the wire snap dead. He replaced his own receiver reflectively, thrust his hands into his pockets, and, his lips pursed as though he would have whistled his discomfiture, sauntered across the porch and towards the bench. "Should he tell her?" he was asking himself.

She awaited him with a look sounding his delay. It was his custom to shorten as far as possible these moments of separation. She was a slip of a girl, scarcely more than eighteen, with dark hair parted in the middle and waving back to a knot gathered low on her neck. Her almost startlingly innocent eyes made his own for the first time waver, and he decided that, however much she might love him, she could not understand how unthinkingly he had led her and himself into this labyrinth.

"What is it?" she asked, as he returned to his place beside her.

"Nothing of any consequence. I'll tell you about it later." he answered to gain time, in a hope, whose deceit he recognized, that he would be able to think a peaceful way out for both of them.

After a few moments' silence she placed her hand on his. "They're not calling you back, Freddy? You're not strong enough yet."

His glance took in her plain, neat gown, which somehow fitted her charmingly. This unwelcome recall to his old life had not altered the great fact. "My mother is driving from the village—and a friend of hers. It's a little sudden." He viciously spoiled a mole's industry.

She felt his trouble vaguely. "Aren't you glad?"

"I hope I'm always glad to see my mother, but it's surprising; haven't heard from her in three weeks."

"Are you wondering whether to tell her about me?" Perhaps neither of them had put it into words before, but both had accepted it as a foregone conclusion. Her question brought the situation to him barer and more unpleasant than ever. Had he not come here to convalesce; had this crisis not arisen, it is conceivable that up to his wedding day, he would never have felt himself bound to Claire by his careless yielding to his mother's insistence. And now she was coming with Claire. Could it have been Bob Frazer, whose talk had brought them? Frazer had been out the week before, and he, of course, had eyes. But he had accepted it all as a matter of course. Claire had hidden in some remote, corner of his brain for weeks.

"If you think it better not," the girl said, rising. "I know you will do whatever is best. I'll go into the house now."

"Yes, I'd rather see them alone for a minute. I'll bring them in. Good-bye, Kate."

He watched her until the screen door had closed behind her, then turned his eyes to the bend in the road around which they must come. In a few minutes they drove through the gate, uncomfortable in a dilapidated two-seated carriage, fringed with torn curtains and adorned with the mud of several storms. He helped his mother, gray-haired and dignified, to the ground, then held out his hand to Claire, a pretty, conventional young woman, who looked as though her family had had for several generations enough money to make them all ladies and gentlemen.

"Well, I've never seen you looking better," Mrs. Randall declared.

"I didn't expect to be so honored," he answered with a half-hearted laugh. "I never supposed, mother, that your solicitude would carry you so far from the beaten paths. And Claire—"

"Freddy, I didn't come to see how many pounds you had gained," his mother said, skirmishing.

"It isn't very clear in my mind what we did come for," Claire put in.

"I thought it best for you to come under the circumstances," she explained.

"Something Bob Frazer said?" he questioned, anxious now to have the battle started.

"Your father always had a way of going to the point. Of course," she went on with an impetuosity that showed how uncertain she was of her ground, "we all know what an utter idiot Bob Frazer is."

"I might question his judgment in this case," he replied, "but I would scarcely call him an idiot."

"We don't believe him naturally—at least, I don't. I thought it best to wait until we had reached the ground, where the silly story could be disproved, before telling your future wife."

He turned to Claire, bowing mockingly.

"Yes, I'm it," she confessed. "Now, what's it all about?"

"Nothing, I'm sure," Mrs. Randall hurried on. "Bobby Frazer's quite crazy."

"Let's move into the shade, and then you can tell me where they've taken him," Claire suggested mildly.

"You'd better come right on into the house," Freddy proposed. "Mrs. Ringer's gone over to the Stillwells' for the day; but Kate's here."

"And who is Kate?" his mother asked. "The help?"

"Scarcely. She's Mrs. Ringer's niece, and—and—"

"And what?"

The fight wasn't going exactly to his taste. Claire's presence and her ignorance of the situation strengthened his mother's position, and she was gathering confidence with each move. He led them onto the veranda, deciding on purely defensive tactics. Mrs. Randall paused, disdainfully surveying the warped clap-boards and the distorted window frames.

"How disreputably picturesque!" she sniffed.

"It's been here for more than a hundred years," he asserted, "and it's never been out of the family."

"Like the owners," she declaimed, "worn out and faintly amusing."

He jerked the screen door open and followed them into the darkened interior. Kate rose from a chair in the chimney corner and advanced uneasily. He glanced from one to the other of the two young women. No sane man, he knew, would hesitate for a moment; but in order to prove his sanity, he would have to violate tradition, fly in the face of his small but powerful world, and—the thought would not leave him—what would she, herself, say?

"Kate, my mother has just been saying that she doesn't like old things, so I've brought her to you."

The girl moved forward as though to offer her hand, but Mrs. Randall's formal bow repelled her. He turned to Claire, but his mother was not letting the opportunity slip. She nodded towards Claire.

"And I," she said, "want to present you to my son's fiancée."

Her avaricious grasp at the chance shocked him. "This is Miss Claire Everett," he amended.

"I didn't know—" she began, but he interrupted her, catching her comforting interpretation of his mother's introduction.

"No, I am the one and only son."

She flushed and after a moment turned pale, but that was all. This time her hand went out and Claire took it.

"I'm awfully glad," Claire drawled. "Have you been helping Freddy get well?"

"I think I have," she answered cheerfully. " And I'm glad to meet you."

Her tone disturbed him more than ever. It suggested the shifting of all her values, the slipping away of youth.

"Of course, you will stay to dinner," she went on, "and you'll want to rest. You must have had an uncomfortable trip; it's such a hot day." Without once glancing at him. she led the way up the stairs. He paced the floor waiting for her return, hoping she would demand an explanation; yet at a loss for a satisfying one. After a time he braved the unwilling piano, playing a hymn—the only thing that occurred to him. Then he took a book, but his eyes sought continually the head of the stairs. Would she never come back? He romantically pictured her suffering, until finally, yielding to his own, he threw discretion to the winds, and, leaning against the newel post, called, at first hesitatingly, then louder, more insistently:

"Kate! Kate!"

But she made no answer and he tried again, and after that until his mother replied:

"Well, what is it, Freddy?"

"Nothing, nothing," he answered. "It's time for my milk and egg; that's all. I suppose I can get it myself."

"Where are the maids?"

"I didn't know you had brought them," he snapped, and went onto the porch, slamming the door behind him. He tried to find comfort in thoughts of a relapse, but, counting the weeks since he had left the hospital, ended by smiling grimly.

Kate did not reappear until dinner time. The men had taken their baskets to the field, and the four had the room to themselves. Kate said never a word during the meal, for Mrs. Randall's attitude suggested total ignorance of her presence. Claire's conversation suffered from a severe effort; and Freddy tried to confine his interest to his dinner. Oddly enough, it was Irish stew, and Mrs. Randall had no more appetite than the rest of them. It scarcely once distracted her attention from the weighty sentences of which her son was the subject and his future the predicate. Claire, he guessed before the meal was finished, had measured the situation, and he was curious as to her feelings.

Afterwards Kate left them, and his mother with a sigh occupied the sofa.

"What a relief!" she said. "Come here, son, and let's have a cozy chat. Now that this silly story has been disproved, I apologize for ever having taken any stock in it."

"I can't stop, mother."

"Why not? Where are you going?"

"You ought to know how ill I've been. The doctor insists on my taking a brisk walk after meals."

"Then we'll have to see about getting you a new doctor."

"Meantime I shall obey the old." He avoided further expostulation.

She was not in the kitchen, and he hurried through the barnyard. He saw Mrs. Ringer's small daughter, bare-footed and swinging a pail, coming in from the fields.

"Have you seen your cousin Kate?" he called.

She nodded in the direction of the woods, and he ploughed across the first cornfield. He came upon her suddenly through the trees, so that she had no chance of escape. She was seated dejectedly on a fallen log, where a spring had hollowed a deep basin in the clay. Had she been weeping, as he had half expected, he would have felt surer of himself, but after the first glance she kept her eyes on the ground, while he rustled through last year's leaves and stood before her.

Her self-possession routed the dramatic utterances he had prepared on the way from the house. "What are you doing here all alone?" was the best he could muster.

"It is cool here," she answered.

"Now, Kate—" he began.

"Well?"

"This isn't getting anywheres." He waited. "Is it what my mother said?"

She raised her eyes then. "Oh, you have made me so ashamed of myself."

He sat down beside her and started to tear a twig to pieces. "It is I who should be ashamed, and I am; but all this can't make any difference to us."

It makes all the difference," she answered quietly. "I feel as though I had grown old since they came."

"I know, Kate, that you think I'm a sad scoundrel."

"I hope not that. I hope it was just because you were weak. Only—I wish weak people wouldn't drag other people into their weaknesses."

Her voice shook a little, but when he made an effort for her hand, she drew it away.

"You must try to believe me." he said. "I don't minimize the shock to you. If I hadn't been careless and weak, as you say, this couldn't have happened. I wouldn't have had it happen for the world." He faced her squarely. "But now that it has happened, don't you think that it is going to change a thing. No, don't say a word. I'm not trying to comfort you. I'm selfish; it's myself. If I can't persuade you what an utter idiot I've been, I'm a poor sort. Claire and I have never cared a snap of our fingers for each other."

"That's nonsense; then you couldn't be going to marry each other," she calmly stated.

"I hate to tell you this sort of thing, but our families were taking care of all those minor details. So it didn't occur to me to tell you about Claire. I hardly once thought of her. She seemed so foreign to what was between us. I was entering a new world, so perhaps it was purposely that I kept her out. It was so engrossing, so natural, that I took it for granted that everybody would be as pleased as I was."

"It isn't clear at all. I don't see the use of this. You belong to her, anyway."

"I don't, and nothing could make me now, no matter what happens. You see, dear, I've never known Claire very well. When my mother told me she wanted me to marry her, I laughed. 'What will Claire say?' I asked. 'Claire's a good, sensible girl,' she said. Then I got angry, and mother wept until I said 'yes.' She assured me that I needn't bother about it for a long time, and I haven't bothered about it once since. I told Claire I wasn't going to lose any sleep over it, and that she'd better not either. She answered that insomnia was hereditary in her family, so she wouldn't have any illusions in any case. Now, Kate, haven't I a right? Is there any social code that insists on my making three persons utterly miserable for all their lives?"

"If there is, it isn't a good one," she answered.

"You understand, don't you?"

"Not quite, and I can't see why I should, truly." There were tears in her eyes now, and, leaning over, he put his arms about her and kissed her.

"There is no reason why you should, since you can't doubt the important thing. I will take care of the rest. All I want to know is that you will help."

"I guess I will help," she said slowly. "I think I'd better."

"Do you mean to tell me," she said, "that you walked all the way from the house without your hat?"

"I wasn't thinking of hats," he laughed.

"Then I'll have to make you one. You might have a relapse."

"I rather hoped for it this morning; and not once to-day have I taken the customary milk and egg."

She tied a knot in each corner of his handkerchief and, rising, placed it on his head.

"Now," he said, " let's go face the music."

She paused at the barnyard gate. "You had such a glorious future," she said plaintively.

"And I hadn't done a thing to deserve it. This is justice!"

"Please be serious. I'm sorry you are going to disappoint your mother."

"I hope before long that she will see it was the only thing. I'm going to try to show her now."

He walked boldly in at the front door. Mrs. Randall's face was red, and Claire as soon as she saw him got to her feet. He felt that he was interrupting combatants, not conspirators. His mother sat up.

"For heaven's sake, Freddy, where did you get that thing on your head?"

"Kate put it there," he said simply.

Claire smothered a laugh and went onto the veranda.

"This has gone quite far enough," his mother said. "I want you to pack your trunk. You are coming hack to the city with me."

"No, I'm not, mother."

"You're quite strong enough; if you're not, you can go somewheres else."

"That isn't it at all. It's simply the Declaration of Independence."

"I won't have it," she said. "That hopeless creature!"

"You mustn't say those things about her."

"Your sense of honor must prevent you."

"If it did it would be a mistaken sense of honor. Just this problem doesn't come to every man. If it did he would have one honorable course, and that's the one I'm taking. Now you may say whatever you please, but I have nothing more to say."

He found Kate and Claire together on the bench under the trees. The girl had picked up a garden trowel which she had been using that morning, as though glorying in her bondage to the soil; but she was much interested in something Claire was saying. As he came up Claire smiled.

"It's all right, Freddy" she said. "You believe it, and I guess it's true. You couldn't have done anything else. Is the debate all over?"

"Yes," he answered, "and the parental melodrama has been played out. Not a cent."

"What will you do?"

"I've got something, and I'll go to work. Maybe that's better, too."

A little later the unexpected climax came. They were waiting for the carriage to take the two visitors to the station. Mrs. Randall was nursing her sorrow alone at one end of the veranda, and the others were talking pleasantly by the door, when a big touring car turned in at the gate. Kate with an exclamation of surprise ran across the grass to meet it. Mrs. Randall watched the tall, middle-aged man at the wheel stop the engine, and, jumping to the ground, lean over and kiss the girl; watched it with a sickening feeling of gratitude. She joined the others. "I knew she reminded me of somebody," she said feebly.

"And now," Claire asked, "you can bear up under my broken heart?"

But Mrs. Randall turned for the greeting of the newcomer. "I remember now," she said, "you told me last winter she would finish school this year. But why have you kept her away from us all?"

"Look at her," he answered. "Don't you see? I have raised her the best I could without her mother."

Mrs. Randall went to Claire and wept. "Oh. Kate!" she moaned, "why didn't you tell us?"

"I thought it was just myself," Kate said. "I didn't know it made any difference."

"And it didn't," Freddy answered stoutly; "not the least in the world."