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Portion of Labor

<h3 align="center">Chapter XXVII</h3> Ellen's first impulse, when she really began to love Robert Lloyd, was not yielding, but flight; her first sensation, not happiness, but shame. When he left her that night she realized, to her unspeakable dismay and anger, that he had not left her, that he would never in her whole life, or at least it seemed so, leave her again. Everywhere she looked she saw his face projected by her memory before her with all the reality of life. His face came between her and her mother's and father's, it came between her and her thoughts of other faces. When she was alone in her chamber, there was the face. She blew out the lamp in a panic of resentment and undressed in the dark, but that made no difference. When she lay in bed, although she closed her eyes resolutely, she could still see it. “I won't have it; I won't have it,” she said, quite aloud in her shame and rebellion. “I won't have it. What does this mean?” In spite of herself the sound of his voice was in her ears, and she resented that; she fought against the feeling of utter rapture which came stealing over her because of it. She felt as if she wanted to spring out of bed and run, run far away into the freedom of the night, if only by so doing she could outspeed herself. Ellen began to realize the tyranny of her own nature, and her whole soul arose in revolt. But the girl could no more escape than a nymph of old the pursuit of the god, and there was no friendly deity to transform her into a flower to elude him. When she slept at last she was overtaken in the innocent passion of dreams, and when she awoke it was, to her angry sensitiveness, not alone. When she went down-stairs all her rosy radiance of the night before was eclipsed. She looked pale and nervous. She recoiled whenever her mother began to speak. It seemed to her that if she said anything, and especially anything congratulatory about Robert Lloyd, she would fly at her like a wild thing. Fanny kept looking at her with loving facetiousness, and Ellen winced indescribably; still, she did not say anything until after breakfast, when Andrew had gone to work. Andrew was unusually sober and preoccupied that morning. When he went out he passed close to Ellen, as she sat at the table, and tilted up her face and kissed her. “Father's blessin',” he whispered, hoarsely, in her ear. Ellen nestled against him. This natural affection, before which she need not fly nor be ashamed, which she had always known, seemed to come before her like a shield against all untried passion. She felt sheltered and comforted. But Andrew passed Eva Tenny coming to the house on his way out of the yard, and when she entered Fanny began at once: “Who do you s'pose came home with Ellen last night?” said she. She looked at Eva, then at Ellen, with a glance which seemed to uncover a raw surface of delicacy. Ellen flushed angrily. “Mother, I do wish—” she began; but Fanny cut her short. “She's pretendin' she don't like it,” she said, almost hilariously, her face glowing with triumph, “but she does. You ought to have seen her when she came in last night.” “I guess I know who it was,” said Eva, but she echoed her sister's manner half-heartedly. She was looking very badly that morning, her face was stained, and her eye hard with a look as if tears had frozen in them. She had come in a soiled waist, too, without any collar. “For Heaven's sake, Eva Tenny, what ails you?” Fanny cried. Eva flung herself for answer on the floor, and fairly writhed. Words were not enough expression for her violent temperament. She had to resort to physical manifestations or lose her reason. As she writhed, she groaned as one might do who was dying in extremity of pain. Ellen, when she heard her aunt's groans, stopped, and stood in the entry viewing it all. She thought at first that her aunt was ill, and was just about to call out to know if she should go for the doctor, all her grievances being forgotten in this evidently worse stress, when her mother fairly screamed again, stooping over her sister, and trying to raise her. “Eva Tenny, you tell me this minute what the matter is.” Then Eva raised herself on one elbow, and disclosed a face distorted with wrath and woe, like a mask of tragedy. “He's gone! he's gone!” she shrieked out, in an awful, shrill voice, which was like the note of an angry bird. “He's gone!” “For God's sake, not—Jim?” “Yes, he's gone! he's gone! Oh, my God! my God! he's gone!” All at once the little Amabel appeared, slipping past Ellen silently. She stood watching her mother. She was vibrating from head to foot as if strung on wires. She was not crying, but she kept catching her breath audibly; her little hands were twitching in the folds of her frock; she winked rapidly, her lids obscuring and revealing her eyes until they seemed a series of blue sparks. She was no paler than usual—that was scarcely possible—but her skin looked transparent, pulses were evident all over her face and her little neck. “You don't mean he's gone with—?” gasped Fanny. Suddenly Eva raised herself with a convulsive jerk from the floor to her feet. She stood quite still. “Yes, he has gone,” she said, and all the passion was gone from her voice, which was much more terrible in its calm. “You don't mean with—?” “Yes; he has gone with Aggie.” Eva spoke in a voice like a deaf-mute's, quite free from inflections. There was something dreadful about her rigid attitude. Little Amabel looked at her mother's eyes, then cowered down and began to cry aloud. Ellen came in and took her in her arms, whispering to her to soothe her. She tried to coax her away, but the child resisted violently, though she was usually so docile with Ellen. Eva did not seem to notice Amabel's crying. She stood in that horrible inflexibility, with eyes like black stones fixed on something unseeable. Fanny clutched her violently by the arm and shook her. “Eva Tenny,” said she, “you behave yourself. What if he has run away? You ain't the first woman whose husband has run away. I'd have more pride. I wouldn't please him nor her enough. If he's as bad as that, you're better off rid of him.” Eva turned on her sister, and her calm broke up like ice under her fire of passion. “Don't you say one word against him, not one word!” she shrieked, throwing off Fanny's hand. “I won't hear one word against my husband.” Then little Amabel joined in. “Don't you say one word against my papa!” she cried, in her shrill, childish treble. Then she sobbed convulsively, and pushed Ellen away. “Go away!” she said, viciously, to her. She was half mad with terror and bewilderment. “Don't you say one word against Jim,” said Eva again. “If ever I hear anybody say one word against him I'll—” “You don't mean you're goin' to stan' up for him, Eva Tenny?” “As long as I draw the breath of life, and after, if I know anything,” declared Eva. Then she straightened herself to her full height, threw back her shoulders, and burst into a furious denunciation like some prophetess of wrath. The veins on her forehead grew turgid, her lips seemed to swell, her hair seemed to move as she talked. The others shrank back and looked at her; even little Amabel hushed her sobs and stared, fascinated. “Curses on the grinding tyranny that's brought it all about, and not on the poor, weak man that fell under it!” she cried. “Jim ain't to blame. He's had bigger burdens put on his shoulders than the Lord gave him strength to bear. He had to drop 'em. Jim has tried faithful ever since we were married. He worked hard, and it wa'n't never his fault that he lost his place, but he kept losin' it. They kept shuttin' down, or dischargin' him for no reason at all, without a minute's warnin'. An' it wa'n't because he drank. Jim never drank when he had a job. He was just taken up and put down by them over him as if he was a piece on a checker-board. He lost his good opinion of himself when he saw others didn't set any more by him than to shove him off or on the board as it suited their play. He began to think maybe he wa'n't a man, and then he began to act as if he wasn't a man. And he was ashamed of his life because he couldn't support me and Amabel, ashamed of his life because he had to live on my little earnin's. He was ashamed to look me in the face, and ashamed to look his own child in the face. It was only night before last he was talkin' to me, and I didn't know what he meant then, but I know now. I thought then he meant something else, but now I know what he meant. He sat a long time leanin' his head on his hands, whilst I was sewin' on wrappers, after Amabel had gone to bed, and finally he looks up and says, ‘Eva, you was right and I was wrong.’ “‘What do you mean, Jim?’ says I. “‘I mean you was right when you thought we'd better not get married, and I was wrong,’ says he; and he spoke terrible bitter and sad. I never heard him speak like it. He sounded like another man. I jest flung down my sewin' and went over to him, and leaned his poor head against my shoulder. ‘Jim,’ says I, ‘I 'ain't never regretted it.’ And God knows I spoke the truth, and I speak the truth when I say it now. I 'ain't never regretted it, and I don't regret it now.” Eva said the last with a look as if she were hurling defiance, then she went on in the same high, monotonous key above the ordinary key of life. “When I says that, he jest gives a great sigh and sort of pushes me away and gets up. ‘Well, I have,’ says he; ‘I have, and sometimes I think the best thing I can do is to take myself out of the way, instead of sittin' here day after day and seein' you wearin' your fingers to the bone to support me, and seein' my child, an' bein' ashamed to look her in the face. Sometimes I think you an' Amabel would be a damned sight better off without me than with me, and I'm done for anyway, and it don't make much difference what I do next.’ “‘Jim Tenny, you jest quit talkin' in such a way as this,’ says I, for I thought he meant to make away with himself, but that wa'n't what he meant. Aggie Bemis had been windin' her net round him, and he wa'n't nothin' but a man, and all discouraged, and he gave in. Any man would in his place. He ain't to blame. It's the tyrants that's over us all that's to blame.” Eva's voice shrilled higher. “Curse them!” she shrieked. “Curse them all!—every rich man in this gold-ridden country!” “Eva Tenny, you're beside yourself,” said Fanny, who was herself white to her lips, yet she viewed her sister indignantly, as one violent nature will view another when it is overborne and carried away by a kindred passion. “Wonder if you'd be real calm in my place?” said Eva; and as she spoke the dreadful impassibility of desperation returned upon her. It was as if she suffered some chemical change before their eyes. She became silent and seemed as if she would never speak again. “You hadn't ought to talk so,” said Fanny, weakly, she was so terrified. “You ought to think of poor little Amabel,” she added. With that, Eva's dreadful, expressionless eyes turned towards Amabel, and she held out her hand to her, but the child fairly screamed with terror and clung to Ellen. “Oh, Aunt Eva, don't look at her so, you frighten her,” Ellen said, trembling, and leaning her cheek against Amabel's little, cold, pale one. “Don't cry, darling,” she whispered. “It is just because poor mother feels so badly.” “I am afraid of my mamma, and I want papa!” screamed Amabel, quivering, and stiffening her slender back. Eva continued to keep her eyes fixed upon her, and to hold out that commanding hand. Fanny went close to her, seized her by both shoulders, and shook her violently. “Eva Tenny, you behave yourself!” said she. “There ain't no need of your acting this way if your man has run away with another woman, and as for that child goin' with you, she sha'n't go one step with any woman that looks and acts as you do. Actin' this way over a good-for-nothin' fellow like Jim Tenny!” Again that scourge of the spirit aroused Eva to her normal state. She became a living, breathing, wrathful, loving woman once more. “Don't you dare say a word against Jim!” she cried out; “not one word, Fanny Brewster; I won't hear it. Don't you dare say a word!” “Don't you say a word against my papa!” shrilled Amabel. Then she left Ellen and ran to her mother, and clung to her. And Eva caught her up, and hugged the little, fragile thing against her breast, and pounced upon her with kisses, with a fury as of rage instead of love. “She always looked like Jim,” she sobbed out; “she always did. Aggie Bemis shall never get her. I've got her in spite of all the awful wrong of life; it's the good that had to come out of it whether or no, and God couldn't help Himself. I've got this much. She always looked like Jim.” Eva set Amabel down and began leading her out of the room. “You ain't goin'?” said Fanny, who had herself begun to weep. “Eva, you ain't goin'? Oh, you poor girl!” “Don't!—you said that like Jim,” Eva cried, with a great groan of pain. “Eva, you ain't goin'? Wait a little while, and let me do somethin' for you.” “You can't do anything. Come, Amabel.” Eva and Amabel went away, the child rolling eyes of terror and interrogation at them, Eva impervious to all her sister's pleading. When Andrew heard what had happened, and Fanny repeated what Eva had said, his blame for Jim Tenny was unqualified. “I've had a hard time enough, knocked about from pillar to post, and I know what she means when she talks about a checker-board. God knows I feel myself sometimes as if I wasn't anything but a checker-piece instead of a man,” he said, “but it's all nonsense blamin' the shoe-manufacturers for his runnin' away with that woman. A man has got to use what little freedom he's got right. It ain't any excuse for Jim Tenny that he's been out of work and got discouraged. He's a good-for-nothing cur, an' I'd like to tell him so.” “It won't do for you to talk to Eva that way,” said Fanny. They were all at the supper-table. Ellen was listening silently. “She does right to stand up for her husband, I suppose,” said Andrew, “but anybody's got to use a little sense. It don't make it any better for Jim, tryin' to shove blame off his shoulders that belongs there. The manufacturers didn't make him run off with another woman and leave his child. That was a move he made himself.” “But he wouldn't have made that move if the manufacturers hadn't made theirs,” Ellen said, unexpectedly. “That's so,” said Fanny. Andrew looked uneasily at Ellen, in whose cheeks two red spots were burning, and whose eyes upon his face seemed narrowed to two points of brightness. “There's nothing for you to worry about, child,” he said. All this was before the dressmaker, who listened with no particular interest. Affairs which did not directly concern her did not awaken her to much sharpness of regard. She had been forced by circumstances into a very narrow groove of life, a little foot-path as it were, fenced in from destruction by three dollars a day. She could not, view it as keenly as she might, see that Jim Tenny's elopement had anything whatever to do with her three dollars per day. She, therefore, ate her supper. At first Andrew had looked warningly at Fanny when she began to discuss the subject before the dressmaker, but Fanny had replied, “Oh, land, Andrew, she knows all about it now. It's all over town.” “Yes, I heard it this morning before I came,” said the dressmaker. “I think a puff on the sleeves of the silk waist will be very pretty, don't you, Mrs. Brewster?” Ellen looked at the dressmaker with wonder; it seemed to her that the woman was going on a little especial side track of her own outside the interests of her kind. She looked at her pretty new things and tried them on, and felt guilty that she had them. What business had she having new clothes and going to Vassar College in the face of that misery? What was an education? What was anything compared with the sympathy which love demanded of love in the midst of sorrow? Should she not turn her back upon any purely personal advantage as she would upon a moral plague? When Ellen's father said that to her at the supper-table she looked at him with unchildlike eyes. “I think it is something for me to worry about, father,” she said. “How can I help worrying if I love Aunt Eva and Amabel?” “It's a dreadful thing for Eva,” said Fanny. “I don't see what she is going to do. Andrew, pass the biscuits to Miss Higgins.” “It seems to me that the one that is the farthest behind anything that happens on this earth is the one to blame,” said Ellen, reverting to her line of argument. “I don't know but you've got to go back to God, then,” said Andrew, soberly, passing the biscuits. Miss Higgins took one. “No, you haven't,” said Ellen—“you haven't, because men are free. You've got to stop before you get to God. When a man goes wrong, you have got to look and see if he is to blame, if he started himself, or other men have been pushing him into it. It seems to me that other men have been pushing Uncle Jim into it. I don't think factory-owners have any right to discharge a man without a good reason, any more than he has a right to run the shop.” “I don't think so, either,” said Fanny. “I think Ellen is right.” “I don't know. It is all a puzzle,” said Andrew. “Something's wrong somewhere. I don't know whether it's because we are pushed or because we pull. There's no use in your worrying about it, Ellen. You've got to study your books.” Andrew said this with a look of pride at Ellen and sidelong triumph at the dressmaker to see if she rightly understood the magnitude of it all, of the whole situation of making dresses for this wonderful young creature who was going to Vassar College. “I don't know but this is more important than books,” said Ellen. “Oh, maybe you'll find out something in your books that will settle the whole matter,” said Andrew. Ellen was not eating much supper, and that troubled him. Andrew always knew just how much Ellen ate. “I don't know what Aunt Eva and poor little Amabel will do,” said she. Ellen's lip quivered. “Pass the cake to Miss Higgins,” said Fanny, sharply, to Andrew. She gave him a significant wink as she did so, not to talk more about it. “Try some of that chocolate cake, Miss Higgins.” “Thank you,” said Miss Higgins, unexcitedly. Andrew had his own cause of worry, and finally reverted to it, eating his food with no more conception of the savor than if it were in another man's mouth. He was sorry enough for his wife's sister, and recognized it as an added weight to his own burden, but just at present all he could think of was the question if Miss Higgins would ask for her pay again that night. He had not a dollar in his pocket. He had been dunned that afternoon by the man who had lent the money to buy Ellen's watch, there were two new dunning letters in his pocket, and now if that keen little dressmaker, who fairly looked to him like a venomous insect, as she sat eating rather voraciously of the chocolate cake, should ask him again for the three dollars due her that night! He would not have cared so much, if it were not for the fact that she would ask him before his wife and Ellen, and the question about the money in the savings-bank, which was a species of nightmare to him, would be sure to come to the front. Suddenly it struck Andrew that he might run away, that he might slip out after supper, and either go into his mother's house or down the street. He finally decided on the former, since he reasoned, with a pitiful cunning, that if he went down the street he would have to take off his slippers and put on his shoes, and that would at once betray him and lead to the possible arrest of his flight. So after supper, while Miss Higgins was trying a waist on Ellen, and Fanny was clearing the table, Andrew, bareheaded and in his slippers, prepared to carry his plan into execution. He got out without being seen, and hurried around the rear of the house, out of view from the sitting-room windows, resolving on the way that in order to avert the danger of a possible following him to the sanctuary of his mother's house, he had perhaps better slip down into the orchard behind it and see if the porter apples were ripe. But when, stooping as if beneath some invisible shield, and moving with a low glide of secrecy, he had gained the yard between the two houses, the yard where the three cherry-trees stood, he heard Fanny's high, insistent voice calling him, and knew that it was all over. Fanny had her head thrust out of her bedroom window. “Andrew! Andrew!” she called. Andrew stopped. “What is it?” he asked, in a gruff voice. He felt at that moment savage with her and with fate. He felt like some badgered animal beneath the claws and teeth of petty enemies which were yet sufficient to do him to death. He felt that retreat and defence were alike impossible and inglorious. He was aware of a monstrous impatience with it all, which was fairly blasphemy. “What is it?” he said, and Fanny realized that something was wrong. “Come here, Andrew Brewster,” she said, from the bedroom window, and Andrew pressed close to the window through a growth of sweetbrier which rasped his hands and sent up a sweet fragrance in his face. Andrew tore away the clinging vines angrily. “Well, what is it?” he said again. “Don't spoil that bush, Ellen sets a lot by it,” said Fanny. “What makes you act so, Andrew Brewster?” Then she lowered her voice. “She wants to know if she can have her pay to-night,” she whispered. “I 'ain't got a cent,” replied Andrew, in a dogged, breathless voice. “You 'ain't been to the bank to-day, then?” “No, I 'ain't.” Fanny still suspected nothing. She was, in fact, angry with the dressmaker for insisting upon her pay in such a fashion. “I never heard of such a thing as her wantin' to be paid every night,” she whispered, angrily, “and I'd tell her so, if I wasn't afraid she'd think we couldn't pay her. I'd never have had her; I'd had Miss Patch, if I'd know she'd do such a mean thing, but, as it is, I don't know what to do. I 'ain't got but a dollar and seventy-three cents by me. You 'ain't got enough to make it up?” “No, I 'ain't.” “Well, all is, I've got to tell her that it ain't convenient for me to pay her to-night, and she shall have it all together to-morrow night, and to-morrow you'll have to go to the bank and take out the money, Andrew. Don't forget it.” “Well,” said Andrew. Fanny retreated, and he heard her high voice explaining to Miss Higgins. He tore his way through the clinging sweetbrier bushes and ran with an unsteady, desperate gait down to the orchard behind his mother's home, and flung himself at full length in the dewy grass under the trees with all the abandon, under stress of fate, of a child. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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