 Introduction to Ethan From. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Elizabeth Klett, Houston, Texas, February 2008. Ethan From. By Edith Wharton. Introduction. I had the story, bit by bit, from various people, and, as generally happens in such cases, each time it was a different story. If you know Starkfield, Massachusetts, you know the post office. If you know the post office, you must have seen Ethan From drive up to it, drop the reins on his hollow-backed bay, and drag himself across the brick pavement to the white colonnade. And you must have asked who he was. It was there that, several years ago, I saw him for the first time, and the sight pulled me up sharp. Even then he was the most striking figure in Starkfield, though he was but the ruin of a man. It was not so much his great height that marked him, for the natives were easily singled out by their length longitude from the stockier foreign breed. It was the careless, powerful look he had, in spite of a lameness checking each step like the jerk of a chain. There was something bleak and unapproachable in his face, and he was so stiffened and grizzled, that I took him for an old man, and was surprised to hear that he was not more than fifty-two. I had this from Harmon Gow, who had driven the stage from Bettsbridge to Starkfield in pre-trolley days, and knew the chronicle of all the families on his line. He's looked that way ever since he had his smash-up. And that's twenty-four years ago, come next February—Harmon threw out between reminiscent pauses. The smash-up it was—I gathered from the same informant, which, besides drawing the red gash across Ethan Frome's forehead, had so shortened and warped his right side, that it cost him a visible effort to take the few steps from his buggy to the post-office window. He used to drive in from his farm every day at about noon, and as that was my own hour for fetching my mail, I often passed him in the porch, or stood beside him while we waited on the motions of the distributing hand behind the grating. I noticed that, though he came so punctually, he seldom received anything but a copy of the Bettsbridge Eagle, which he put without a glance into his sagging pocket. At intervals, however, the postmaster would hand him an envelope addressed to Mrs. Zenobia, or Mrs. Zena, Frome, and usually bearing conspicuously in the upper left-hand corner, the address of some manufacture of patent medicine, and the name of his specific. These documents my neighbour would also pocket without a glance, as if too much use to them to wonder at their number and variety, and would then turn away with a silent nod to the postmaster. Everyone in Starkfield knew him, and gave him a greeting tempered to his own grave mean, but his taciturnity was respected, and it was only on rare occasions that one of the older men of the place detained him for a word. When this happened, he would listen quietly, his blue eyes on the speaker's face, and answer in so low a tone that his words never reached me. Then he would climb stiffly into his buggy, gather up the reins in his left hand, and drive slowly away in the direction of his farm. It was a pretty bad smash-up, I questioned Harman, looking after Frome's retreating figure, and thinking how gallantly his lean brown head, with its shock of light hair, must have sat on his strong shoulders before they were bent out of shape. Worse kind, my informant dissented, more enough to kill most men. But the Fromes are tough, Ethan'll likely touch a hundred. Good God! I exclaimed. At the moment, Ethan Frome, after climbing to his seat, had leaned over to assure himself of the security of a wooden box, also with a druggist's label on it, which he had placed in the back of the buggy, and I saw his face as it probably looked when he thought himself alone. That man touched a hundred? He looks as if he was dead and in hell now. Harman drew a slab of tobacco from his pocket, cut off a wedge, and pressed it into the leather pouch of his cheek. Guess he's been in Stockfield too many winters. Most of the smart ones get away. Why didn't he? Somebody had to stay and care for the folks. There won't ever anybody but Ethan. First his father, then his mother, then his wife. And then the smash-up? Harman chuckled sardonically. That's so. He had to stay then. I see. And since then they've had to care for him. Harman thoughtfully passed his tobacco to the other cheek. Oh, as to that. I guess it's always Ethan done the caring. Though Harman Gao developed the tale as far as his mental and moral reach permitted, there were perceptible gaps between his facts, and I had the sense that the deeper meaning of the story was in the gaps. But one phrase stuck in my memory, and served as the nucleus about which I grouped my subsequent inferences. Guess he's been in Stockfield too many winters. Before my own time there was up I had learned to know what that meant. Yet I had come in the degenerate day of trolley, bicycle, and rural delivery, when communication was easy between the scattered mountain villages, and the bigger towns and the valleys, such as Bettsbridge and Shad's Falls, had libraries, theatres, and YMCA halls to which the youth of the hills could descend for recreation. But when winter shut down on Stockfield, and the village lay under a sheet of snow perpetually renewed from the pale skies, I began to see what life there, or rather its negation, must have been in Ethan Frome's young manhood. I had been sent up by my employers on a job connected with the big powerhouse at Corbery Junction, and a long-drawn carpenter's strike had so delayed the work that I found myself anchored at Stockfield, the nearest habitable spot, for the best part of the winter. I chafed at first, and then, under the hypnotizing effect of routine, gradually began to find a grim satisfaction in the life. During the early part of my stay I had been struck by the contrast between the vitality of the climate and the deadness of the community. Day by day, after the December snows were over, a blazing blue sky poured down torrents of light and air on the white landscape, which gave them back in an intenser glitter. One would have supposed that such an atmosphere must quicken the emotions as well as the blood, but it seemed to produce no change, except that of retarding still more the sluggish pulse of Stockfield. When I had been there a little longer, and had seen this phase of crystal clearness followed by long stretches of sunless cold, when the storms of February had pitched their white tents about the devoted village, and the wild cavalry of March winds had charged down to their support, I began to understand why Stockfield emerged from its six-month siege like a starved garrison capitulating without quarter. Twenty years earlier the means of resistance must have been far fewer, and the enemy in command of almost all the lines of access between the beleaguered villages, and considering these things I felt the sinister force of Harmon's phrase. Most of the smart ones get away. But if that were the case, how could any combination of obstacles have hindered the flight of a man like Ethan Frome? During my stay at Stockfield I lodged with a middle-aged widow, colloquially known as Mrs. Ned Hale. Mrs. Hale's father had been the village lawyer of the previous generation, and, lawyer Varnum's house, where my landlady still lived with her mother, was the most considerable mansion in the village. It stood at one end of the main street, its classical portico and small-pained windows looking down a flagged path between Norway's spruces to the slim white steeple of the congregational church. It was clear that the Varnum fortunes were at the ebb, but the two women did what they could to preserve a decent dignity, and Mrs. Hale, in particular, had a certain wan refinement not out of keeping with her pale old-fashioned house. In the best parlor, with its black horse-hair and mahogany weakly illuminated by a gurgling carcel lamp, I listened every evening to another and more delicately shaded version of the Starkfield Chronicle. It was not that Mrs. Ned Hale felt, or affected, any social superiority to the people about her, it was only that the accident of a finer sensibility and a little more education had put just enough distance between herself and her neighbors to enable her to judge them with detachment. She was not unwilling to exercise this faculty, and I had great hopes of getting from her the missing fact of Ethan Frome's story, or rather such a key to his character as should coordinate the facts I knew. Her mind was a storehouse of innocuous anecdote, and any question about her acquaintances brought forth a volume of detail. But on the subject of Ethan Frome, I found her unexpectedly reticent. There was no hint of disapproval in her reserve. I merely felt in her an insurmountable reluctance to speak of him, or his affairs, although—yes, I knew them both. It was awful—seeming to be the utmost concession that her distress could make to my curiosity. So marked was the change in her manner. Such depths of sad initiation did it imply, that, with some doubts as to my delicacy, I put the case anew to my village oracle, Harman Gow, but got from my pains only an uncomprehending grunt. Hmm! Ruth Vaughnham was always as nervous as a rat. And come to think of it, she was the first one to see him after they was picked up. It happened right below Loyer Vaughnham's down at the bend of the Corbary Road, just round about the time that Ruth got engaged to Ned Hale. The young folks was all friends, and I guess she just can't bear to talk about it. She's had troubles enough of her own. All the dwellers in Starkfield, as in more notable communities, had had troubles enough of their own to make them comparatively indifferent to those of their neighbours, and though all conceded that Ethan Frome's had been beyond the common measure, no one gave me an explanation of the look in his face, which, as I persisted in thinking, neither poverty nor physical suffering could have put there. Nevertheless, I might have contented myself with the story pieced together from these hints, had it not been for the provocation of Mrs. Hale's silence, and, a little later, for the accident of personal contact with the man. On my arrival at Starkfield, Dennis Edie, the rich Irish grocer, who was the proprietor of Starkfield's nearest approach to a livery stable, had entered into an agreement to send me over daily to Corbary Flats, where I had to pick up my train for the junction. But about the middle of the winter, Edie's horses fell ill of a local epidemic. The illness spread to the other Starkfield stables, and for a day or two I was put to it to find a means of transport. Then Harman Gow suggested that Ethan Frome's bay was still on his legs, and that his owner might be glad to drive me over. I stared at the suggestion. Ethan Frome? But I've never even spoken to him. Why on earth should he put himself out for me? Harman's answer surprised me still more. I don't know as he would, but I know he wouldn't be sorry to earn a dollar. I had been told that Frome was poor, and that the sawmill and the arid acres of his farm yielded scarcely enough to keep his household through the winter, but I had not supposed him to be in such want as Harman's words implied, and I expressed my wonder. Well, matters ain't gone any too well with him, Harman said. When a man's been setting round like a hulk for twenty years or more, seeing things that want doing, it eats into him, and he loses his grit. That Frome farm was always about as bare as a milk-pan when the cat's been round, and you know what one of them old water mills is worth nowadays. When Ethan could sweat over him both from sun up to dark he kinda choked a livin' out of him, but his folks ate up most everything, even then, and I don't see how he makes out now. First his father got a kick out Hayon, and went soft in the brain, and gave away money like Bible texts before he died. Then his mother got queer and dragged along for years as weak as a baby, and his wife, Sina, she's always been the greatest hand at doctoring in the county. Sickness and trouble—that's what Ethan's had his plate full up with, ever since the very first helping. The next morning when I looked out, I saw the hollow-backed bay between the Varnum spruces, and Ethan Frome, throwing back his worn bearskin, made room for me in the sleigh at his side. After that, for a week, he drove me over every morning to Corbary Flats, and on my return in the afternoon met me again, and carried me back through the icy night to Starkfield. The distance each way was barely three miles, but the old bay's pace was slow, and even with firm snow under the runners, we were nearly an hour on the way. Ethan Frome drove in silence, the rain's loosely held in his left hand, his brown-seamed profile, under the helmet-like peak of the cap, relieved against the banks of snow like the bronze image of a hero. He never turned his face to mine, or answered, except in monosyllables, the questions I put, or such slight pleasantries as I ventured. He seemed a part of the mute, melancholy landscape, an incarnation of its frozen woe, with all that was warm and sentient in him fast-bound below the surface, but there was nothing unfriendly in his silence. I simply felt that he lived in a depth of moral isolation too remote for casual access, and I had the sense that his loneliness was not merely the result of his personal plight, tragic as I guessed that to be, but had in it, as Harman Gao had hinted, the profound accumulated cold of many Starkfield winters. Only once or twice was the distance between us bridged for a moment, and the glimpses thus gained confirmed my desire to know more. Once I happened to speak of an engineering job I had been on the previous year in Florida, and of the contrast between the winter landscape about us, and that in which I had found myself the year before. And to my surprise, Frome said suddenly— Yes, I was down there once, and for a good while afterward I could call up the sight of it in winter. But now it's all snowed under. He said no more, and I had to guess the rest from the inflection of his voice, and his sharp relapse into silence. Another day, on getting into my train at the Flats, I missed a volume of popular science—I think it was on some recent discoveries in biochemistry—which I had carried with me to read on the way. I thought no more about it till I got into the sleigh again that evening, and saw the book in Frome's hand. I found it after you were gone, he said. I put the volume into my pocket, and we dropped back into our usual silence. But as we began to crawl up the long hill from Corbery Flats to the Starkfield Ridge, I became aware in the dusk that he had turned his face to mine. There are things in that book that I didn't know the first word about, he said. I wondered less at his words than at the queer note of resentment in his voice. He was evidently surprised and slightly aggrieved at his own ignorance. Does that sort of thing interest you? I asked. It used to. There are one or two rather new things in the book. There have been some big strides lately in that particular line of research. I waited a moment for an answer that did not come. Then I said, if you'd like to look through the book, I'd be glad to leave it with you. He hesitated, and I had the impression that he felt himself about to yield to a stealing tide of inertia. Then— Thank you. I'll take it. He answered shortly. I hoped that this incident might set up some more direct communication between us. Frome was so simple and straightforward that I was sure his curiosity about the book was based on a genuine interest in its subject. Such tastes and acquirements in a man of his condition made the contrast more poignant between his outer situation and his inner needs, and I hoped that the chance of giving expression to the latter might at least unseal his lips. But something in his past history, or in his present way of living, had apparently driven him too deeply into himself for any casual impulse to draw him back to his kind. At our next meeting he made no allusion to the book, and our intercourse seemed fated to remain as negative and one-sided as if there had been no break in his reserve. Frome had been driving me over to the flats for about a week, when one morning I looked out of my window into a thick snowfall. The height of the white waves massed against the garden fence, and along the wall of the church showed that the storm must have been going on all night, and that the drifts were likely to be heavy in the open. I thought it probable that my train would be delayed, but I had to be at the powerhouse for an hour or two that afternoon, and I decided, if Frome turned up, to push through to the flats and wait there till my train came in. I don't know why I put it in the conditional, however, for I never doubted that Frome would appear. He was not the kind of man to be turned from his business by any commotion of the elements, and at the appointed hour his sleigh glided up through the snow like a stage apparition behind thickening veils of gauze. I was getting to know him too well to express either wonder or gratitude at his keeping his appointment, but I exclaimed in surprise as I saw him turn his horse in a direction opposite to that of the Corbary Road. The railroads blocked by a freight train that got stuck in a drift below the flats, he explained, as we jogged off into the stinging whiteness. But look here, where are you taking me then? Straight to the junction, by the shortest way, he answered, pointing up Schoolhouse Hill with his whip. To the junction? In this storm? Why, it's a good ten miles. The bay'll do it if you give him time. You said you had some business there this afternoon. I'll see you get there. He said it so quietly that I could only answer. You're doing me the biggest kind of favour. That's all right. He rejoined. A rest of the Schoolhouse the road forked, and we dipped down a lane to the left, between hemlock boughs bent inward to their trunks by the weight of the snow. I had often walked that way on Sundays, and knew that the solitary roof showing through bare branches near the bottom of the hill was that of from Sawmill. It looked exanimate enough, with its idle wheel looming above the black stream dashed with yellow white spume, and its cluster of sheds sagging under their white load. Frome did not even turn his head as we drove by, and still in silence we began to mount the next slope. About a mile farther, on a road I had never travelled, we came to an orchard of starved apple trees writhing over a hillside among outcroppings of slate that nuzzled up through the snow like animals pushing out their noses to breathe. Beyond the orchard lay a field or two, their boundaries lost under drifts, and above the fields huddled against the white immensities of land and sky, one of those lonely New England farmhouses that make the landscape lonelier. That's my place, said Frome, with a sideways jerk of his lame elbow, and in the distress and depression of the scene I did not know what to answer. The snow had ceased, and a flash of watery sunlight exposed the house on the slope above us in all its plaintive ugliness. The black wreath of a deciduous creeper flapped from the porch, and the thin wooden walls under their worn coat of paint seemed to shiver in the wind that had risen with the ceasing of the snow. The house was bigger in my father's time. I had to take down the L a while back. Frome continued, checking with a twitch of the left rain the bay's evident intention of turning in through the broken down gate. I saw then that the unusually forlorn and stunted look of the house was partly due to the loss of what is known in New England as the L. That long, deep-roofed adjunct usually built at right angles to the main house, and connecting it, by way of storerooms and tool-house, with the woodshed and cow barn. Whether because of its symbolic sense, the image it presented of a life linked with the soil, and enclosing in itself the chief sources of warmth and nourishment, or whether merely because of the consolatory thought that it enables the dwellers in that harsh climate to get to their morning's work without facing the weather, it is certain that the L, rather than the house itself, seems to be the centre, the actual hearthstone of the New England farm. Perhaps this connection of ideas, which had often occurred to me in my rambles about Starkfield, caused me to hear wistful note in Frome's words, and to see in the diminished dwelling the image of his own shrunken body. We're kinder side-tracked here now," he added, but there was considerable passing before the railroad was carried through to the flats. He roused the lagging bay with another twitch. Then, as if the mere sight of the house had let me too deeply into his confidence for any farther pretence of reserve, he went on slowly. I've always sit down the worst of mother's troubles to that. When she got the rheumatism so bad she couldn't move around, she used to sit up there and watch the road by the hour, and one year, when they were six months mending the Bettsbridge Pike after the floods, and Harmon Gow had to bring his stage round this way, she picked up so that she used to get down to the gate most days to see him. But after the trains begun running nobody ever come by here to speak of, and mother never could get it through her head what had happened, and it prayed on her, right along till she died. As we turned into the Corbery Road the snow began to fall again, cutting off our last glimpse at the house, and Frome's silence fell with it, letting down between us the old veil of reticence. This time the wind did not cease with the return of the snow. Instead it sprang up to a gale which now and then, from a tattered sky, flung pale sweeps of sunlight over a landscape chaotically tossed. But the bay was as good as Frome's word, and we pushed on to the junction through the wild white scene. In the afternoon the storm held off, and the clearness in the west seemed to my inexperienced eye the pledge of a fair evening. I finished my business as quickly as possible, and we set out for Starkfield with a good chance of getting there for supper. But at sunset the clouds gathered again, bringing in earlier night, and the snow began to fall straight and steadily from a sky without wind, in a soft universal diffusion more confusing than the gusts and eddies of the morning. It seemed to be a part of the thickening darkness, to be the winter night itself descending on us layer by layer. The small ray of Frome's lantern was soon lost in this smothering medium, in which even his sense of direction, and the bay's homing instinct, finally ceased to serve us. Two or three times some ghostly landmark sprang up to warn us that we were astray, and then we sucked back into the mist, and when we finally regained our road the old horse began to show signs of exhaustion. I felt myself to blame for having accepted Frome's offer, and after a short discussion I persuaded him to let me get out of the sleigh, and walk along through the snow at the bay's side. In this way we struggled on for another mile or two, and at last reached a point where Frome, peering into what seemed to me formless night, said, That's my gate down yonder. The last stretch had been the hardest part of the way. The bitter cold and the heavy going had nearly knocked the wind out of me, and I could feel the horse's side ticking like a clock under my hand. Look here, Frome, I began. There's no earthly use in your going any farther. But he interrupted me. Nor you, neither. There's been about enough of this for anybody. I understood that he was offering me a night's shelter at the farm, and without answering I turned into the gate at his side, and followed him to the barn, where I helped him to unharness and bed down the tired horse. When this was done he unhooked the lantern from the sleigh, stepped out again into the night, and called to me over his shoulder. This way. Far off above us a square of light trembled through the screen of snow. Staggering along in Frome's wake I floundered toward it, and in the darkness almost fell into one of the deep drifts against the front of the house. Frome scrambled up the slippery steps of the porch, digging away through the snow with his heavily booted foot. Then he lifted his lantern, found the latch, and led the way into the house. I went after him into a low, unlit passage, at the back of which a ladder-like staircase rose into obscurity. On our right, a line of light marked the door of the room which had sent its ray across the night, and behind the door I heard a woman's voice droning querilously. Frome stamped on the worn oil-cloth to shake the snow from his boots, and set down his lantern on a kitchen chair which was the only piece of furniture in the hall. Then he opened the door. Come in, he said, and as he spoke the droning voice grew still. It was that night that I found the clue to Ethan Frome, and began to put together this vision of his story. CHAPTER I The village lay under two feet of snow, with drifts at the windy corners. In a sky of iron the points of the dipper hung like icicles, and Orion flashed his cold fires. The moon had set, but the night was so transparent that the white house fronts between the elms looked gray against the snow. Clumps of bushes made black stains on it, and the basement windows of the church sent shafts of yellow light far across the endless undulations. Young Ethan Frome walked at a quick pace along the deserted street, past the bank and Michael Edie's new brick store, and lawyer Varnum's house with the two black Norway spruces at the gate. Opposite the Varnum Gate, where the road fell away toward the Corbery Valley, the church reared its slim white steeple and narrow peristyle. As the young man walked toward it, the upper windows drew a black arcade along the sidewall of the building, but from the lower openings, on the side where the ground sloped steeply down to the Corbery Road, the light shot its long bars, illuminating many fresh furrows in the track leading to the basement door, and showing, under an adjoining shed, a line of sleighs with heavily blanketed horses. The night was perfectly still, and the air so dry and pure that it gave little sensation of cold. The effect produced on Frome was rather of a complete absence of atmosphere, as though nothing less tenuous than ether intervened between the white earth under his feet and the metallic dome overhead. It's like being in an exhausted receiver, he thought. Four or five years earlier he had taken a year's course at a technological college at Worcester, and dabbled in the laboratory with a friendly professor of physics, and the images supplied by that experience still cropped up at unexpected moments, through the totally different associations of thought in which he had since been living. His father's death, and the misfortunes following it, had put a premature end to Ethan's studies, but though they had not gone far enough to be of much practical use, they had fed his fancy, and made him aware of huge cloudy meanings behind the daily face of things. As he strode along through the snow, the sense of such meanings glowed in his brain and mingled with the bodily flush produced by his sharp tramp. At the end of the village he paused before the darkened front of the church. He stood there a moment, breathing quickly, and looking up and down the street, in which not another figure moved. The pitch of the Corbary Road, below Lawyer Varnham Spruce's, was the favourite coasting ground of Starkfield, and on clear evenings the church corner rang till late with the shouts of the coasters. But tonight, not a sled darkened the whiteness of the long declivity. The hush of midnight lay on the village, and all its waking life was gathered behind the church windows, from which strains of dance music flowed with the broad bands of yellow light. The young man, skirting the side of the building, went down the slope toward the basement door. To keep out of range of the revealing rays from within, he made a circuit through the untrodden snow, and gradually approached the farther angle of the basement wall. Thence, still hugging the shadow, he edged his way cautiously forward to the nearest window, holding back his straight, spare body, and craning his neck till he got a glimpse of the room. Seen thus, from the pure and frosty darkness in which he stood, it seemed to be seething in a mist of heat. The metal reflectors of the gas jets sent crude waves of light against the whitewashed walls, and the iron flanks of the stove at the end of the hall looked as though they were heaving with volcanic fires. The floor was thronged with girls and young men. Down the side wall facing the window stood a row of kitchen-shares, from which the older women had just risen. And the musicians, a fiddler and the young lady who played the harmonium on Sundays, were hastily refreshing themselves at one corner of the supper-table, which aligned its devastated pie-dishes and ice-cream saucers on the platform at the end of the hall. The guests were preparing to leave, and the tide had already set towards the passage where coats and wraps were hung, when a young man with a sprightly foot and a shock of black hair shot into the middle of the floor and clapped his hands. The signal took instant effect. The musicians hurried to their instruments. The dancers, some already half-muffled for departure, fell into line down each side of the room. The older spectators slipped back to their chairs, and the lively young man, after a diving about here and there in the throng, drew forth a girl who had already wound a cherry-colored fascinator about her head, and leading her up to the end of the floor, whirled her down at its length to the bounding tune of a Virginia reel. Frome's heart was beating fast. He had been straining for a glimpse of the dark head under the cherry-colored scarf, and it vexed him that another eye should have been quicker than his. The leader of the reel, who looked as if he had Irish blood in his veins, danced well, and his partner caught his fire. As she passed down the line, her light figure swinging from hand to hand in circles of increasing swiftness, the scarf flew off her head and stood out behind her shoulders, and Frome, at each turn, caught sight of her laughing, panting lips, the cloud of dark hair about her forehead, and the dark eyes which seemed the only fixed points in a maze of flying lines. The dancers were going faster and faster, and the musicians, to keep up with them, belabored their instruments like jockeys lashing their mounts on the home stretch, yet it seemed to the young man at the window that the reel would never end. Now and then he turned his eyes from the girl's face to that of her partner, which, in the exhilaration of the dance, had taken on a look of almost impudent ownership. Dennis Edie was the son of Michael Edie, the ambitious Irish grocer, whose suppleness and effrontery had given Starkfield its first notion of smart business methods, and whose new brick store testified to the success of the attempt. His son seemed likely to follow in his steps, and was meanwhile applying the same arts to the conquest of the Starkfield maidenhood. Hitherto Ethan Frome had been content to think him a mean fellow, but now he positively invited a horse-whipping. It was strange that the girl did not seem aware of it, that she could lift her rapt face to her dancers and drop her hands into his, without appearing to feel the offence of his look and touch. Frome was in the habit of walking into Starkfield to fetch home his wife's cousin, Matty Silver, on the rare evenings when some chance of amusement drew her to the village. It was his wife who had suggested, when the girl came to live with them, that such opportunities should be put in her way. Matty Silver came from Stamford, and when she entered the Frome's household to act as her cousin Zena's aide, it was thought best, as she came without pay, not to let her feel too sharp a contrast between the life she had left and the isolation of a Starkfield farm. But for this, as Frome sardonically reflected, it would hardly have occurred to Zena to take any thought for the girl's amusement. When his wife first proposed that they should give Matty an occasional evening out, he had inwardly demurred at having to do the extra two miles to the village and back after his hard day on the farm, but not long afterward he had reached the point of wishing that Starkfield might give all its nights to revelry. Matty Silver had lived under his roof for a year, and from early morning till they met at supper he had frequent chances of seeing her, but no moments in her company were comparable to those when, her arm and his, and her light step flying to keep time with his long stride, they walked back through the night to the farm. He had taken to the girl from the first day, when he had driven over to the flats to meet her, and she had smiled and waved to him from the train, crying out, You must be Ethan! as she jumped down with her bundles, while he reflected, looking over her slight person. She don't look much on housework, but she ain't a fretter anyhow. But it was not only that the coming to his house of a bit of hopeful young life was like the lighting of a fire on a cold hearth. The girl was more than the bright serviceable creature he had thought her. She had an eye to see, and an ear to hear. He could show her things, and tell her things, and taste the bliss of feeling that all he imparted left long reverberations and echoes he could wake at will. It was during their night walks back to the farm that he felt most intensely the sweetness of this communion. He had always been more sensitive than the people about him to the appeal of natural beauty. His unfinished studies had given form to this sensibility, and even in his unhappiest moments field and sky spoke to him with a deep and powerful persuasion. But hitherto the emotion had remained in him as a silent ache, veiling with sadness the beauty that evoked it. He did not even know whether anyone else in the world felt as he did, or whether he was the sole victim of this mournful privilege. Then he learned that one other spirit had trembled with the same touch of wonder, that at his side, living under his roof and eating his bread, was a creature to whom he could say, that's a Ryan down yonder, the big fellow to the right is Aldebaran, and the bunch of little ones, like bees swarming, they're the Pleiades, or whom he could hold and trance before a ledge of granite thrusting up through the fern while he unrolled the huge panorama of the Ice Age and the long, dim stretches of succeeding time. The fact that admiration for his learning mingled with Matty's wonder at what he taught was not the least part of his pleasure. And there were other sensations, less definable but more exquisite, which drew them together with a shock of silent joy. The cold red of sunset behind winter hills, the flight of cloud flocks over slopes of golden stubble, or the intensely blue shadows of hemlocks on sunlit snow. When she said to him once, It looks just as if it was painted. It seemed to Ethan that the art of definition could go no farther, and that words had at last been found to utter his secret soul. As he stood in the darkness outside the church, these memories came back with the poignancy of vanished things. Watching Matty whirl down the floor from hand to hand, he wondered how he could ever have thought that his dull talk interested her. To him, who was never gay but in her presence, her gaiety seemed plain proof of indifference. The face she lifted to her dancers was the same which, when she saw him, always looked like a window that has caught the sunset. He even noticed two or three gestures, which, in his fatuity, he had thought she kept for him. A way of throwing her head back when she was amused as if to taste her laugh before she let it out, and a trick of sinking her lids slowly when anything charmed or moved her. The sight made him unhappy, and his unhappiness roused his latent fears. His wife had never shown any jealousy of Matty, but of late she had grumbled increasingly over the housework, and found oblique ways of attracting attention to the girls in efficiency. Zina had always been what Starkfield called sickly, and From had to admit that, if she were as ailing as she believed, she needed the help of a stronger arm than the one which lay so lightly in his during the night walks to the farm. Matty had no natural turn for housekeeping, and her training had done nothing to remedy the defect. She was quick to learn, but forgetful and dreamy, and not disposed to take the matter seriously. Ethan had an idea that if she were to marry a man she was fond of, the dormant instinct would awake, and her pies and biscuits become the pride of the county. But domesticity in the abstract did not interest her. At first she was so awkward that he could not help laughing at her, but she laughed with him, and that made them better friends. He did his best to supplement her unskilled efforts, getting up earlier than usual to light the kitchen fire, carrying in the wood overnight, and neglecting the mill for the farm that he might help her about the house during the day. He even crept down on Saturday nights to scrub the kitchen floor after the women had gone to bed, and Zena one day had surprised him at the churn and had turned away silently with one of her queer looks. Of late there had been other signs of her disfavor, as intangible but more disquieting. One cold winter morning, as he dressed in the dark, his candle flickering in the draft of the ill-fitting window, he had hurt her speak from the bed behind him. The doctor don't want I should be left without anybody to do for me," she said in her flat wine. He had supposed her to be asleep, and the sound of her voice had startled him, though she was given to abrupt explosions of speech after long intervals of secretive silence. He turned and looked at her where she lay indistinctly outlined under the dark calico quilt, her high-boned face taking a grayish tinge from the whiteness of the pillow. Nobody to do for you," he repeated. If you say you can't afford a hired girl when Matty goes. Froome turned away again, and taking up his razor stooped to catch the reflection of his stretched cheek in the blotched looking-glass above the wash-stand. Why on earth should Matty go? Well, when she gets married, I mean. His wife's drawl came from behind him. Oh, she'd never leave us as long as you needed her," he returned, scraping hard at his chin. I wouldn't ever have it said that I stood in the way of a poor girl like Matty marrying a smart fellow like Dennis E.D. Zena answered, in a tone of plaintive self-effacement. Ethan, glaring at his face in the glass, threw his head back to draw the razor from ear to chin. His hand was steady, but the attitude was an excuse for not making an immediate reply. Then the doctor don't want I should be left without anybody," Zena continued. He wanted I should speak to you about a girl he's heard about that might come. Ethan laid down the razor and straightened himself with a laugh. Dennis E.D., if that's all, I guess there's no such hurry to look round for a girl. Well, I'd like to talk to you about it," said Zena obstinately. He was getting into his clothes and fumbling haste. All right, but I haven't got the time now. I'm late as it is," he returned, holding his old silver turnip watch to the candle. Zena, apparently accepting this as final, lay watching him in silence while he pulled suspenders over his shoulders and jerked his arms into his coat. As he went toward the door, she said, suddenly and incisively, I guess you're always late. Now you shave every morning. That thrust had frightened him more than any vague insinuations about Dennis E.D. It was a fact that since Maddie Silver's coming he had taken to shaving every day, but his wife always seemed to be asleep when he left her side in the winter darkness, and he had stupidly assumed that she would not notice any change in his appearance. Once or twice in the past he had been faintly disquieted by Zenobia's way of letting things happen without seeming to remark them, and then weeks afterward in a casual phrase revealing that she had all along taken her notes and drawn her inferences. Of late, however, there had been no room in his thoughts for such vague apprehensions. Zena herself, from an oppressive reality, had faded into an unsubstantial shade. All his life was lived in the sight and sound of Maddie Silver, and he could no longer conceive of its being otherwise. But now, as he stood outside the church, and saw Maddie spinning down the floor with Dennis E.D., a throng of disregarded hints and menaces wove their cloud about his brain. CHAPTER II As the dancers poured out of the hall, from drawing back behind the projecting storm door, watched the segregation of the grotesquely muffled groups in which a moving lantern ray now and then lit up a face flushed with food and dancing, the villagers, being afoot, were the first to climb the slope to the main street, while the country neighbours packed themselves more slowly into the slays under the shed. "'Ain't you riding, Maddie?' a woman's voice called back from the throng about the shed, and Ethan's heart gave a jump. From where he stood he could not see the persons coming out of the hall till they had advanced a few steps beyond the wooden sides of the storm door. But through its cracks he heard a clear voice answer. "'Mercy, no! Not on such a night!' She was there, then, close to him, only a thin board between. In another moment she would step forth into the night, and his eyes, accustomed to the obscurity, would discern her as clearly as though she stood in daylight. A wave of shyness pulled him back into the dark angle of the wall, and he stood there in silence instead of making his presence known to her. It had been one of the wonders of their intercourse that from the first time, she, the quicker, finer, more expressive, instead of crushing him by the contrast, had given him something of her own ease and freedom. But now he felt as heavy and loutish as in his student days, when he had tried to jolly the Worcester girls at a picnic. He hung back, and she came out alone and paused within a few yards of him. She was almost the last to leave the hall, and she stood looking uncertainly about her as if wondering why he did not show himself. Then a man's figure approached, coming so close to her that under their formless wrappings they seemed merged in one dim outline. "'Gentlemen friend, gone back on you? Say, Matt, that's tough. No, I wouldn't be mean enough to tell the other girls. I ain't as low down as that.' How Frome hated his cheap banter. "'But look here! Ain't it lucky I got the old man's cutter down there waiting for us?' Frome heard the girl's voice, gaily incredulous. "'What on earth's your father's cutter doing down there?' "'Why, waiting for me to take a ride. I got the wrong colt, too. I kind of knew I'd want to take a ride to-night.' Edie, in his triumph, tried to put a sentimental note into his bragging voice. The girl seemed to waver, and Frome saw her twirl the end of her scarf irresolutely about her fingers. Not for the world would he have made a sign to her, though it seemed to him that his life hung on her next gesture. "'Hold on a minute while I unhitch the colt,' Dennis called to her, springing towards the shed. She stood perfectly still, looking after him, in an attitude of tranquil expectancy, torturing to the hidden watcher. Frome noticed that she no longer turned her head from side to side, as though peering through the night for another figure. She let Dennis Edie lead out the horse, climb into the cutter, and fling back the bearskin to make room for her at his side. Then, with a swift motion of flight, she turned about and darted up the slope toward the front of the church. "'Good-bye! Hope you'll have a lovely ride,' she called back to him over her shoulder. Dennis laughed, and gave the horse a cut that brought him quickly abreast of her retreating figure. "'Come along! Get in quick! It's a slippery as thunder on this turn,' he cried, leaning over to reach out a hand to her. She laughed back at him. Good-night! I'm not getting in!' By this time they had passed beyond Frome's earshot, and he could only follow the shadowy pantomime of their silhouettes as they continued to move along the crest of the slope above him. He saw Edie, after a moment, jump from the cutter and go toward the girl with the reins over one arm, the other he tried to slip through hers, but she eluded him nimbly, and Frome's heart, which had swung out over a black void, trembled back to safety. A moment later he heard the jingle of departing sleigh bells, and discerned a figure advancing alone toward the empty expanse of snow before the church. In the black shade of the varnum spruces he caught up with her, and she turned back with a quick, "'Oh!' "'Think I'd forgotten you, Matt,' he asked with sheepish glee. She answered seriously, "'I thought maybe you couldn't come back for me.' "'Couldn't? What on earth could stop me?' I knew Zena wasn't feeling any too good to-day. "'Oh! She's in bed long ago.'" He paused, a question struggling in him. Then you meant to walk home all alone. "'Oh! I ain't afraid,' she laughed. They stood together in the gloom of the spruces, an empty world glimmering about them wide and gray under the stars. He brought his question out. "'If you thought I hadn't come, why didn't you ride back with Dennis Edie?' "'Why, where were you? How did you know? I never saw you.' Her wonder and his laughter ran together like spring rills in a thaw. Ethan had the sense of having done something arch and ingenious. To prolong the effect he groped for a dazzling phrase, and brought out in a growl of rapture. Come along. He slipped an arm through hers, as Edie had done, and fancied it was faintly pressed against her side. But neither of them moved. It was so dark under the spruces that he could barely see the shape of her head beside his shoulder. He longed to stoop his cheek and rub it against her scarf. He would have liked to stand there with her all night in the blackness. She moved forward a step or two, and then paused again above the dip of the corbery road. Its icy slope, scored by innumerable runners, looked like a mirror scratched by travellers at an inn. "'There was a whole lot of them coasting before the moon set,' she said. "'Would you like to come in and coast with them some night?' he asked. "'Would you, Ethan? It would be lovely. We'll come to-morrow, if there's a moon.' She lingered, pressing closer to his side. Ned Hale and Ruth Varnham came just as near running to the big elm at the bottom. We were all sure they were killed.' Her shiver ran down his arm. "'Wouldn't it have been too awful? They're so happy.' "'Oh, Ned ain't much at steering. I guess I can take you down all right,' he said disdainfully. He was aware that he was talking big, like Dennis Eady, but his reaction of joy had unsteadied him, and the inflection with which she had said of the engaged couple, They're So Happy, made the words sound as if she had been thinking of herself and him. "'The elm is dangerous, though. It ought to be cut down,' she insisted. "'Would you be afraid of it, with me?' "'I told you. I ain't the kind to be afraid,' she tossed back almost indifferently, and suddenly she began to walk on with a rapid step. These alterations of mood were the despair and joy of Ethan From. The motions of her mind were as incalculable as the flit of a bird in the branches. The fact that he had no right to show his feelings, and thus provoke the expression of hers, made him attach a fantastic importance to every change in her look and tone. Now he thought she understood him, and feared. Now he was sure she did not, and disbared. Tonight the pressure of accumulated misgivings sent the scale drooping towards despair, and her indifference was the more chilling after the flush of joy into which she had plunged him by dismissing Dennis Eady. He mounted Schoolhouse Hill at her side, and walked on in silence till they reached the lane leading to the sawmill. Then the need of some definite assurance grew too strong for him. "'You'd have found me right off if he hadn't gone back to have that last reel with Dennis,' he brought out awkwardly. He could not pronounce the name without a stiffening of the muscles of his throat. "'Why, Ethan, how could I tell you were there?' "'I suppose what folks say is true,' he jerked out at her, instead of answering. She stopped short, and he felt in the darkness that her face was lifted quickly to his. "'Why, what do folks say?' "'It's natural enough you should be leaving us,' he floundered on, following his thought. "'Is that what they say?' she mocked back at him. Then, with a sudden drop of her sweet treble, "'You mean that Xena ain't suited with me any more,' she faltered. Their arms had slipped apart, and they stood motionless, each seeking to distinguish the other's face. "'I know I ain't anything like as smart as I ought to be,' she went on, while he vainly struggled for expression. There's lots of things a hired girl could do that come awkward to me still, and I haven't got much strength in my arms. But if she'd only tell me, I'd try. You know she hardly ever says anything, and sometimes I can see she ain't suited, and yet I don't know why.' She turned on him with a sudden flash of indignation. "'You'd ought to tell me, Ethan From, you'd ought to, unless you want me to go to.' Unless he wanted her to go to. The cry was balmed to his raw wound. The iron heavens seemed to melt and rain down sweetness. Again he struggled for the all-expressive word, and again his arm in hers, found only a deep, come along. They walked on in silence through the blackness of the hemlock-shaded lawn, where Ethan's sawmill gloomed through the night, and out again into the comparative clearness of the fields. On the farther side of the hemlock-belt the open country rolled away before them, grey and lonely under the stars. Sometimes their way led them under the shade of an overhanging bank, or through the thin obscurity of a clump of leafless trees. Here and there a farmhouse stood far back among the fields, mute and cold as a gravestone. The night was so still that they heard the frozen snow crackle under their feet. The crash of a loaded branch falling far off in the woods reverberated like a musket-shot, and once a fox barked, and Maddie shrank closer to Ethan and quickened her steps. At length they sided the group of larches at Ethan's gate, and as they drew nearer at the sense that the walk was over brought back his words. Then you don't want to leave us, Matt. He had to stoop his head to catch her stifled whisper, Where'd I go, if I did? The answer sent a pang through him, but the tones effused him with joy. He forgot what else he'd meant to say, and pressed her against him so closely that he seemed to feel her warmth in his veins. You ain't crying, are you, Matt? No, of course I'm not, she quavered. They turned in at the gate and passed under the shaded knoll, where, enclosed in a low fence, the frome gravestones slanted at crazy angles through the snow. Ethan looked at them curiously. For years that quiet company had mocked his restlessness, his desire for change and freedom. We never got away. How should you? seemed to be written on every headstone, and whenever he went in or out of his gate he thought with a shiver, I shall just go on living here till I join them. But now all desire for change had vanished, and the sight of the little enclosure gave him a warm sense of continuous and stability. I guess we'll never let you go, Matt, he whispered, as though even the dead, lovers once, must conspire with him to keep her, and brushing by the graves he thought, we'll always go on living here together, and some day she'll lie there beside me. He let the vision possess him as they climbed the hill to the house. He was never so happy with her as when he abandoned himself to these dreams. Halfway up the slope Mattie stumbled against some unseen obstruction, and clutched his sleeve to steady herself. The wave of warmth that went through him was like the prolongation of his vision. For the first time he stole his arm about her, and she did not resist. They walked on as if they were floating on a summer stream. Zina always went to bed as soon as she had had her supper, and the shutterless windows of the house were dark. A dead cucumber vine dangled from the porch like the crepe streamer tied to the door for a death, and the thought flashed through Ethan's brain, if it was there for Zina. Then he had a distinct sight of his wife lying in their bedroom asleep, her mouth slightly open, her false teeth in a tumbler by the bed. They walked around to the back of the house between the rigid gooseberry bushes. It was Zina's habit, when they came back late from the village, to leave the key of the kitchen door under the mat. Ethan stood before the door, his head heavy with dreams, his arms still about Matty. Mat, he began, not knowing what he meant to say. She slipped out of his hold without speaking, and he stooped down and felt for the key. It's not there, he said, straightening himself for the start. They strained their eyes at each other through the icy darkness. Such a thing had never happened before. Maybe she's forgotten it, Matty said in a tremulous whisper, but both of them knew that it was not like Zina to forget. It might have fallen off into the snow, Matty continued, after a pause during which they had stood intently listening. It must have been pushed off, then, he rejoined in the same tone. Another wild thought tore through him. What if Tramps had been there? What if—? Again he listened, fancing he heard a distant sound in the house. Then he felt in his pocket for a match, and kneeling down passed its light slowly over the rough edges of snow about the doorstep. He was still kneeling, when his eyes, on a level with the lower panel of the door, caught a faint ray beneath it. Who could be stirring in that silent house? He heard a step on the stairs, and again, for an instant, the thought of Tramps tore through him. Then the door opened, and he saw his wife. Against the dark background of the kitchen she stood up tall and angular, one hand drawing a quilted counterpane to her flat breast, while the other held a lamp. The light, on a level with her chin, drew out of the darkness her puckered throat, and the projecting wrist of the hand that clutched the quilt, and deep in fantastically the hollows and prominences of her high-boned face under its ring of crimping pins. To Ethan, still in the rosy haze of his hour with Matty, the sight came with the intense precision of the last dream before waking. He felt as if he had never before known what his wife looked like. She drew aside without speaking, and Matty and Ethan passed into the kitchen, which had the deadly chill of a vault after the dry cold of the night. Guess he forgot about us, Sina! Ethan joked, stamping the snow from his boots. No. I just felt so mean I couldn't sleep. Matty came forward, unwinding her wraps, the colour of the cherry scarf and her fresh lips and cheeks. I'm so sorry, Sina! Isn't there anything I can do? No. There's nothing. Sina turned away from her. You might have shook off that snow outside, she said to her husband. She walked out of the kitchen ahead of them, and pausing in the hall raised the lamp at arm's length as if to light them up the stairs. Ethan paused also, affecting to fumble for the peg on which he hung his coat and cap. The doors of the two bedrooms faced each other across the narrow upper landing, and tonight it was peculiarly repugnant to him that Matty should see him follow, Sina. I guess I won't come up yet a while, he said, turning as if to go back to the kitchen. Sina stopped short and looked at him. For the land's sake, what's you got to do down here? I've got the mill accounts to go over. She continued to stare at him, the flame of the unshaded lamp bringing out with microscopic cruelty the fretful lines of her face. At this time of night you'll catch her death, the fires out long ago. Without answering he moved away toward the kitchen. As he did so his glance crossed Matty's, and he fancied that a fugitive warning gleamed through her lashes. The next moment they sank to her flushed cheeks, and she began to mount the stairs ahead of Sina. That's so. It is powerful cold down here. Ethan assented, and with lowered head he went up in his wife's wake, and followed her across the threshold of their room. CHAPTER III There was some hauling to be done at the lower end of the woodlot, and Ethan was out early the next day. The winter morning was as clear as crystal. The sunrise burned red in a pure sky, the shadows on the rim of the woodlot were darkly blue, and beyond the white and scintillating fields patches a far-off forest hung like smoke. It was in the early morning stillness, when his muscles were swinging to their familiar task, and his lungs expanding with long drafts of mountain air, that Ethan did his clearest thinking. He and Zina had not exchanged a word after the door of their room had closed on them. She had measured out some drops from a medicine bottle on a chair by the bed, and, after swallowing them, and wrapping her head in a piece of yellow flannel, had lain down with her face turned away. Ethan undressed hurriedly, and blew out the light so that he should not see her when he took his place at her side. As he lay there he could hear Matty moving about in her room, and her candle, sending its small ray across the landing, drew a scarcely perceptible line of light under his door. He kept his eyes fixed on the light, till it vanished. Then the room grew perfectly black, and not a sound was audible but Zina's asthmatic breathing. Ethan felt confusedly that there were many things he ought to think about, but through his tingling veins and tired brain only one sensation throbbed, the warmth of Matty's shoulder against his. Why had he not kissed her when he held her there? A few hours earlier he would not have asked himself the question. Even a few minutes earlier, when they had stood alone outside the house, he would not have dared to think of kissing her. But since he had seen her lips in the lamplight, he felt that they were his. Now in the bright morning air her face was still before him. It was part of the sun's red, and of the pure glitter on the snow. How the girl had changed since she had come to Starkfield. He remembered what a colourless slip of a thing she had looked the day he had met her at the station. And all the first winter, how she had shivered with cold when the northerly gales shook the thin clapboards, and the snow beat like hail against the loose-hung windows. He had been afraid that she would hate the hard life, the cold and loneliness, but not a sign of discontent escaped her. Zena took the view that Matty was bound to make the best of Starkfield, since she hadn't any other place to go to. But this did not strike Ethan as conclusive. Zena, at any rate, did not apply the principle in her own case. He felt all the more sorry for the girl because misfortune had, in a sense, indentured her to them. Matty Silver was the daughter of a cousin of Zenobia Fromes, who had inflamed his clan with mingled sentiments of envy and admiration by descending from the hills to Connecticut, where he had married a Stamford girl and succeeded to her father's thriving drug business. Unhappily, Orrin Silver, a man of far-reaching aims, had died too soon to prove that the end justifies the means. His accounts revealed merely what the means had been, and these were such that it was fortunate for his wife and daughter that his books were examined only after his impressive funeral. His wife died of the disclosure, and Matty, at twenty, was left alone to make her way on the fifty dollars obtained from the sale of her piano. For this purpose her equipment, though varied, was inadequate. She could trim a hat, make molasses-candy, recite, curfew shall not ring to-night, and play the lost chord and a potpourri from Carmen. When she tried to extend the field of her activities in the direction of stenography and bookkeeping, her health broke down, and six months on her feet behind the counter of a department store did not tend to restore it. Her nearest relations had been induced to place their savings in her father's hands, and though after his death they ungrudgingly acquitted themselves of the Christian duty of returning good for evil, by giving his daughter all the advice at their disposal, they could hardly be expected to supplement it by material aid. But when Zenobia's doctor recommended her looking about for someone to help her with the housework, the clan instantly saw the chance of exacting a compensation from Matty. Zenobia, though doubtful of the girl's efficiency, was tempted by the freedom to find fault without much risk of losing her, and so Matty came to Starkfield. Zenobia's fault-finding was of the silent kind, but not the less penetrating for that. During the first months Ethan alternately burned with the desire to see Matty defy her, and trembled with fear of the result. Then the situation grew less strained. The pure air and the long summer hours in the open gave back life and elasticity to Matty, and Zena, with more leisure to devote to her complex ailments, grew less watchful of the girl's omissions. So that Ethan, struggling on under the burden of his barren farm and failing sawmill, could at least imagine that peace reigned in his house. There was really even now no tangible evidence to the contrary, but since the previous night a vague dread had hung on his skyline, it was formed of Zena's obstinate silence, of Matty's sudden look of warning, of the memory of just such fleeting and perceptible signs as those which told him, on certain stainless mornings, that before night there would be rain. His dread was so strong that, manlike, he sought to postpone certainty. The hauling was not over till midday, and as the lumber was to be delivered to Andrew Hale, the Starkfield builder, it was really easier for Ethan to send Jotham Powell, the hired man, back to the farm on foot, and drive the load down to the village himself. He had scrambled up on the logs, and was sitting astride of them, close over his shaggy grays, when, coming between him and their streaming necks, he had a vision of the warning look that Matty had given him the night before. If there's going to be any trouble, I want to be there, was his vague reflection, and he threw to Jotham the unexpected order to unhitch the team and lead them back to the barn. It was a slow, trudged home through the heavy fields, and when the two men entered the kitchen, Matty was lifting the coffee from the stove, and Zena was already at the table. Her husband stopped short at sight of her. Instead of her usual calico wrapper and knitted shawl, she wore her best dress of brown merino, and above her thin strands of hair, which still preserved the tight undulations of the crimping pins, rose a hard, perpendicular bonnet, as to which Ethan's clearest notion was that he had to pay five dollars for it at the Bettsbridge Emporium. On the floor beside her stood his old valise, at a band box wrapped in newspapers. Why, where are you going, Zena? he exclaimed. I've got my shooting pains so bad that I'm going over to Bettsbridge to spend the night with Aunt Martha Pierce and see that new doctor. She answered, in a matter-of-fact tone, as if she had said she was going into the storeroom to take a look at the preserves, or up to the attic to go over the blankets. In spite of her sedentary habits such abrupt decisions were not without precedent in Zena's history. Twice or thrice before she had suddenly packed Ethan's valise and started off to Bettsbridge, or even Springfield, to seek the advice of some new doctor, and her husband had grown to dread these expeditions because of their cost. Zena always came back laden with expensive remedies, and her last visit to Springfield had been commemorated by her paying twenty dollars for an electric battery of which she had never been able to learn the use. But for the moment his sense of relief was so great as to preclude all other feelings. He had now no doubt that Zena had spoken the truth in saying, the night before, that she had sat up because she felt too mean to sleep. Her abrupt resolve to seek medical advice showed that, as usual, she was wholly absorbed in her health. As if expecting a protest, she continued plaintively, If you're too busy with the hauling, I presume you can let Jotham Powell drive me over with the sorel in time to catch the train at the flats. Her husband hardly heard what she was saying. During the winter months there was no stage between Starkfield and Bettsbridge, and the trains which stopped at Corbery Flats were slow and infrequent. A rapid calculation showed Ethan that Zena could not be back at the farm before the following evening. If I'd supposed you to made any objection to Jotham Powell's driving me over—she began again, as though his silence had implied refusal—on the brink of departure she was always seized with a flux of words. All I know is—she continued—I can't go on the way I am much longer. The pains are clear away down to my ankles now, or I'd have walked into Starkfield on my own feet, sooner and put you out, and asked Michael Edie to let me ride over on his wagon to the flats, when he sends to meet the train that brings his groceries. I'd had two hours to wait in the station, but I'd sooner had done it, even with this cold, than to have you say— Of course Jotham will drive you over! Ethan roused himself to answer. He became suddenly conscious that he was looking at Maddie while Zena talked to him, and with an effort he turned his eyes to his wife. She sat opposite the window, and the pale light reflected from the banks of snow made her face look more than usually drawn and bloodless. Sharpened the three parallel creases between ear and cheek, and drew quarrelous lines from her thin nose to the corners of her mouth. Though she was but seven years her husband's senior, and he was only twenty-eight, she was already an old woman. Ethan tried to say something befitting the occasion, but there was only one thought in his mind—the fact that, for the first time since Maddie had come to live with them, Zena was to be away for a night. He wondered if the girl were thinking of it too. He knew that Zena must be wondering why he did not offer to drive her to the flats, and let Jotham Powell take the lumber to Starkfield, and at first he could not think of a pretext for not doing so. Then he said, I'd take you over myself, only I've got to collect the cash for the lumber. As soon as the words were spoken, he regretted them, not only because they were untrue—there being no prospect of his receiving cash payment from Hale—but also because he knew from experience the imprudence of letting Zena think he was in funds, on the eve of one of her therapeutic excursions. At the moment, however, his one desire was to avoid the long drive with her behind the ancient sorrel, who never went out of a walk. Zena made no reply. She did not seem to hear what he had said. She had already pushed her plate aside, and was measuring out a draft from a large bottle at her elbow. It ain't done me a speck of good, but I guess I might as well use it up," she remarked, adding, as she pushed the empty bottle towards Maddie. If you can get the taste out, it'll do for pickles. When her wife had driven off, Ethan took his coat and cap from the peg. Maddie was washing up the dishes, humming one of the dance-tunes of the night before. He said, so long, Matt. And she answered gaily, so long, Ethan! And that was all. It was warm and bright in the kitchen. The sun slanted through the south window on the girl's moving figure, on the cat dozing in a chair, and on the geraniums brought in from the doorway, where Ethan had planted them in the summer to make a garden for Maddie. He would have liked to linger on, watching her tidy up and then settle down to her sewing, but he wanted still more to get the hauling done, and to be back at the farm before night. All the way down to the village he continued to think of his return to Maddie. The kitchen was a poor place, not spruce and shining as his mother had kept it in his boyhood, but it was surprising what a home-like look the mere fact of Zena's absence gave it, and he pictured what it would be like that evening, when he and Maddie were there after supper. For the first time they would be alone together in doors, and they would sit there, one on each side of the stove, like a married couple, he in his stalking feet and smoking his pipe, she laughing and talking in that funny way she had, which was always as new to him as if he had never heard her before. The sweetness of the picture, and the relief of knowing that his fears of trouble with Zena were unfounded, sent up his spirits with a rush, and he, who was usually so silent, whistled and sang aloud as he drove through the snowy fields. There was in him a slumbering spark of sociability, which the long, stark-field winters had not yet extinguished. By nature, grave and inarticulate, he admired recklessness and gaiety in others, and was warmed to the marrow by friendly human intercourse. At Worcester, though he had the name of keeping to himself and not being much of a hand at a good time, he had secretly gloried in being clapped on the back and hailed as Old Eath, or Old Stiff, and the cessation of such familiarities had increased the chill of his return to Starkfield. There the silence had deepened about him, year by year. Left alone, after his father's accident, to carry the burden of farm and mill, he had had no time for convivial loiterings in the village, and when his mother fell ill, the loneliness of the house grew more oppressive than that of the fields. His mother had been a talker in her day, but after her trouble the sound of her voice was seldom heard, though she had not lost the power of speech. Sometimes in the long winter evenings, when in desperation her son asked her why she didn't say something, she would lift a finger and answer, because I'm listening. And on stormy nights, when the loud wind was about the house, she would complain if he spoke to her. They're talking so out there that I can't hear you. It was only when she drew toward her last illness, and his cousin Zenobia Pierce came over from the next village to help him nurse her, that human speech was heard again in the house. After the mortal silence of his long imprisonment, Zena's volubility was music in his ears. He felt that he might have gone like his mother if the sound of a new voice had not come to steady him. Zena seemed to understand his case at a glance. She laughed at him for not knowing the simplest sick bed duties, and told him to, go right along out, and leave her to see to things. The mere fact of obeying her orders, of feeling free to go about his business again, and talk with other men, restored his shaken balance, and magnified his sense of what he owed her. Her efficiency shamed and dazzled him. She seemed to possess by instinct all the household wisdom that his long apprenticeship had not instilled in him. When the end came, it was she who had to tell him to hitch up and go for the undertaker, and she thought it funny that he had not settled beforehand who was to have his mother's clothes and the sewing machine. After the funeral, when he saw her preparing to go away, he was seized with an unreasoning dread of being left alone on the farm, and before he knew what he was doing, he had asked her to stay there with him. He had often thought since that it would not have happened if his mother had died in spring, instead of winter. When they married, it was agreed that, as soon as he could straighten out the difficulties resulting from Mrs. Froome's long illness, they would sell the farm and saw mill, and try their luck in a large town. Ethan's love of nature did not take the form of a taste for agriculture. He had always wanted to be an engineer, and to live in towns, where there were lectures and big libraries, and fellows doing things. A slight engineering job in Florida, put in his way during his period of study at Worcester, increased his faith in his ability as well as his eagerness to see the world, and he felt sure that, with a smart wife like Zena, it would not be long before he had made himself a place in it. Zena's native village was slightly larger and nearer to the railway than Starkfield, and she had let her husband see from the first that life on an isolated farm was not what she had expected when she married. But purchasers were slow in coming, and while he waited for them, Ethan learned the impossibility of transplanting her. She chose to look down on Starkfield, but she could not have lived in a place which looked down on her. Even Bettsbridge or Shad's Falls would not have been sufficiently aware of her, and in the greater cities which attracted Ethan, she would have suffered a complete loss of identity, and within a year of their marriage she developed the sickliness which had since made her notable even in a community rich in pathological instances. When she came to take care of his mother, she had seemed to Ethan like the very genius of health, but he soon saw that her skill as a nurse had been acquired by the absorbed observation of her own symptoms. Then she too fell silent. Perhaps it was the inevitable effect of life on the farm, or perhaps, as she sometimes said, it was because Ethan never listened. The charge was not wholly unfounded. When she spoke it was only to complain, and to complain of things not in his power to remedy, and to check a tendency to impatient retort, he had first formed the habit of not answering her, and finally, of thinking of other things while she talked. Of late, however, since he had reasons for observing her more closely, her silence had begun to trouble him. He recalled his mother's growing taciturnity, and wonder if Zena were also turning queer. Women did, he knew. Zena, who had at her finger's end the pathological chart of the whole region, had cited many cases of the kind while she was nursing his mother, and he himself knew of certain lonely farmhouses in the neighborhood where stricken creatures pined, and of others where sudden tragedy had come of their presence. At times, looking at Zena's shut face, he felt the chill of such forebodings. At other times, her silence seemed deliberately assumed to conceal far-reaching intentions, mysterious conclusions drawn from suspicions and resentment's impossible to guess. That supposition was even more disturbing than the other, and it was the one which had come to him the night before, when he had seen her standing in the kitchen door. Now her departure for Bettsbridge had once more eased his mind, and all his thoughts were on the prospect of his evening with Matty. Only one thing weighed on him, and that was his having told Zena that he was to receive cash for the lumber. He foresaw so clearly the consequences of this imprudence, that with considerable reluctance, he decided to ask Andrew Hale for a small advance on his load. When Ethan drove into Hale's yard, the builder was just getting out of his sleigh. Hello, Eith! he said. This comes handy. Andrew Hale was a ruddy man with a big grey mustache, and a stubbly double chin, unconstrained by a collar, but his scrupulously clean shirt was always fastened by a small diamond stud. This display of opulence was misleading, for though he did a fairly good business, it was known that his easygoing habits, and the demands of his large family, frequently kept him what Starkfield called, behind. He was an old friend of Ethan's family, and his house, one of the few to which Zena occasionally went, drawn there by the fact that Mrs. Hale, in her youth, had done more doctoring than any other woman in Starkfield, and was still a recognized authority on symptoms and treatment. Hale went up to the grays and patted their sweating flanks. Well, sir! he said. You keep them, too, as if they were pets. Ethan said about unloading the logs, and when he had finished his job he pushed open the glazed door of the shed, which the builder used as his office. Hale sat with his feet up on the stove, his back propped against a battered desk strewn with papers. The place, like the man, was warm, genial, and untidy. Sit right down and thaw out," he greeted Ethan. The latter did not know how to begin, but at length he managed to bring out his request for an advance of fifty dollars. The blood rushed to his thin skin under the sting of Hale's astonishment. It was the builder's custom to pay at the end of three months, and there was no precedent between the two men for a cash settlement. Ethan felt that if he had pleaded an urgent need Hale might have made shift to pay him, but pride, and an instinctive prudence, kept him from resorting to this argument. After his father's death it had taken time to get his head above water, and he did not want Andrew Hale, or anyone else in Starkfield, to think he was going under again. Besides, he hated lying, and if he wanted the money he wanted it, and it was nobody's business to ask why. He therefore made his demand with the awkwardness of a proud man who will not admit to himself that he is stooping, and he was not much surprised at Hale's refusal. The builder refused genially, as he did everything else. He treated the matter as something in the nature of a practical joke, and wanted to know if Ethan meditated buying a grand piano, or adding a cupolo to his house, offering in the latter case to give his services free of cost. Ethan's arts were soon exhausted, and after an embarrassed pause he wished Hale good day, and opened the door of the office. As he passed out the builder suddenly called after him, See here! You ain't in a tight place, are you? Not a bit, Ethan's pride retorted before his reason had time to intervene. Well, that's good. Because I am, a shade. Fact is, I was going to ask you to give me a little extra time on that payment. Business is pretty slack, to begin with, and then I'm fixing up a little house for Ned and Ruth when they're married. I'm glad to do it for them, but it costs. His look appealed to Ethan for sympathy. The young people like things nice. You know how it is yourself. It's not so long ago since you fixed up your own place for Xena. Ethan left the grays and Hale's stable and went about some other business in the village. As he walked away the builder's last phrase lingered in his ears, and he reflected grimly that his seven years with Xena seemed to Starkfield not so long. The afternoon was drawing to an end, and here and there a lighted pane spangled the cold grey dusk and made the snow look whiter. The bitter weather had driven everyone indoors, and Ethan had the long rural street to himself. Suddenly he heard the brisk play of sleigh bells and a cutter past him, drawn by a free-going horse. Ethan recognized Michael Eadie's ron cult, and young Dennis Eadie, in a handsome new fur cap, leaned forward and waved a greeting. Hello, Eadie! he shouted, and spun on. The cutter was going in the direction of the Frome Farm, and Ethan's heart contracted as he listened to the dwindling bells. What more likely than that Dennis Eadie had heard of Xena's departure for Bettsbridge, and was profiting by the opportunity to spend an hour with Matty? Ethan was ashamed of the storm of jealousy in his breast. It seemed unworthy of the girl that his thoughts of her should be so violent. He walked on to the church corner and entered the shade of the Varnum spruces, where he had stood with her the night before. As he passed into their gloom, he saw an indistinct outline just ahead of him. At his approach it melted for an instant into two separate shapes, and then conjoined again, and he heard a kiss, and a half laughing, Oh! provoked by the discovery of his presence. Again the outline hastily disunited, and the Varnum gate slammed on one half while the other hurried on ahead of him. Ethan smiled at the discomforture he had caused. What did it matter to Ned Hale and Ruth Varnum if they were caught kissing each other? Everybody in Starkfield knew they were engaged. It pleased Ethan to have surprised a pair of lovers on the spot where he and Matty had stood with such a thirst for each other, in their hearts, but he felt a pang at the thought that these two need not hide their happiness. He fetched the graze from Hale's stable and started on his long climb back to the farm. The cold was less sharp than earlier in the day, and a thick, fleecy sky threatened snow for the morrow. Here and there a star prickled through, showing behind it a deep well of blue. In an hour or two the moon would push over the ridge behind the farm, burn a gold-edged rent in the clouds, and then be swallowed by them. A mournful peace hung on the fields, as though they felt the relaxing grasp of the cold, and stretched themselves in their long winter sleep. Ethan's ears were alert for the jingle of sleigh bells, but not a sound broke the silence of the lonely road. As he drew near the farm he saw, through the thin screen of larches at the gate, a light twinkling in the house above him. She's up in her room, he said to himself, fixing herself up for supper. And he remembered Zena's sarcastic stare when Matty, on the evening of her arrival, had come down to supper with smooth tear and a ribbon at her neck. He passed by the graves on the knoll, and turned his head to glance at one of the older headstones, which had interested him deeply as a boy, because it bore his name. Sacred to the memory of Ethan From, and endurance his wife, who dwelled together in peace for fifty years. He used to think that fifty years sounded like a long time to live together, but now it seemed to him that they might pass in a flash. Then, with a sudden dart of irony, he wondered if, when their turn came, the same epitaph would be written over him and Zena. He opened the barn door, and craned his head into the obscurity, half fearing to discover Dennis Eadie's own colt in the stall beside the sorrel. But the old horse was there alone, mumbling his crib with toothless jaws, and Ethan whistled cheerfully while he bedded down the grays, and shook an extra measure of oats into their manger's. His was not a tuneful throat, but harsh melodies burst from it as he locked the barn and sprang up the hill to the house. He reached the kitchen porch and turned the door handle, but the door did not yield to his touch. Startled at finding it locked, he rattled the handle violently. Then he reflected that Matty was alone, and that it was natural she should barricade herself at nightfall. He stood in the darkness expecting to hear her step. It did not come. And after vainly straining his ears he called out in a voice that shook with joy, — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — But through her hair she had run a streak of crimson ribbon. This tribute to the unusual transformed and glorified her. She seemed to even taller, fuller, more womanly in shape and motion. She stood aside, smiling silently, while he entered, and then moved away from him with something soft and flowing in her gait. She set the lamp on the table, and he saw that it was carefully laid for supper. With fresh doughnuts, stewed blueberries, and his favorite pickles in a dish of gay-red glass, a bright fire glowed in the stove, and the cat lay stretched before it, watching the table with drowsy eyes. Ethan was suffocated with the sense of well-being. He went out into the passage to hang up his coat and pull off his wet boots. When he came back, Maddie had set the teapot on the table, and the cat was rubbing itself persuasively against her ankles. "'My puss! I nearly tripped over you,' she cried, the laughter sparkling through her lashes. Then Ethan felt a sudden twinge of jealousy. Could it be his coming that gave her such a kindled face? "'Well, Matt, any visitors?' he threw off, stooping down carelessly to examine the fastening of the stove. She nodded and laughed. "'Yes, one!' and he felt a blackness settling on his brows. "'Who was that?' he questioned, raising himself up to slant a glance at her beneath his scowl. Her eyes danced with malice. "'Why, Jotham Powell?' he came in after he got back, and asked for a drop of coffee before he went down home. The blackness lifted in light flooded Ethan's brain. "'That all?' "'Well, I hope you made out to let him have it.' And after a pause he felt it right to add, "'I suppose he got Zena over to the flat's all right.' "'Oh, yes, in plenty of time.' The name threw a chill between them, and they stood a moment looking sideways at each other, before Mattie said with a shy laugh. "'I guess it's about time for supper.' They drew their seats up to the table, and the cat, unbidden, jumped between them into Zena's empty chair. "'Oh, puss,' said Mattie, and they laughed again. Ethan, a moment earlier, had felt himself on the brink of eloquence, but the mention of Zena had paralyzed him. Mattie seemed to feel the contagion of his embarrassment, and sat with downcast lids, sipping her tea, while he feigned an insatiable appetite for donuts and sweet pickles. At last, after casting about for an effective opening, he took a long gulp of tea, cleared his throat, and said, "'Looks as if there'd be more snow.' She feigned great interest. Is that so? Do you suppose it'll interfere with Zena's getting back?' She flushed red as the question escaped her, and hastily set down the cup she was lifting. Ethan reached over for another helping of pickles. You never can tell, this time of year, it drift so bad on the flats. The name had benumbed him again, and once more he felt as if Zena were in the room between them. "'Oh, puss, you're too greedy,' Mattie cried. The cat, unnoticed, had crept up unmuffled paws from Zena's seat to the table, and was stealthily elongating its body in the direction of the milk-jug, which stood between Ethan and Mattie. The two leaned forward at the same moment, and their hands met on the handle of the jug. Mattie's hand was underneath, and Ethan kept his clasped on it a moment longer than was necessary. The cat, profiting by this unusual demonstration, tried to effect an unnoticed retreat, and in doing so backed into the pickle-dish, which fell to the floor with a crash. Mattie, in an instant, had sprung from her chair and was down on her knees by the fragments. "'Oh, Ethan, Ethan, it's all to pieces! What will Zena say?' But this time his courage was up. "'Well, she'll have to say it to the cat, anyway,' he rejoined with a laugh, kneeling down at Mattie's side to scrape up the swimming pickles. She lifted stricken eyes to him. "'Yes, but you see, she never meant it should be used, not even when there was company, and I had to get up on the step ladder to reach it down from the top shelf of the china-closet, where she keeps it with all her best things, and of course she'll want to know why I did it.' The case was so serious that it called forth all of Ethan's latent resolution. "'She needn't know anything about it, if you keep quiet. I'll get another just like it to-morrow. Where did it come from? I'll go to Sheds Falls for it, if I have to. "'Oh, you'll never get another one even there! It was a wedding present—don't you remember? It came all the way from Philadelphia, from Zena's aunt that married the minister. That's why she wouldn't ever use it. Oh, Ethan! Ethan, what in the world shall I do?' She began to cry, and he felt as if every one of her tears were pouring over him like burning lead. "'Don't, Matt! Don't! Oh, don't!' he implored her. She struggled to her feet, and he rose and followed her helplessly while she spread out the pieces of glass on the kitchen dresser. It seemed to him as if the shattered fragments of their evening lay there. "'Here! Give them to me,' he said, in a voice of sudden authority. She drew aside instinctively obeying his tone. "'Oh, Ethan! What are you going to do?' Without replying he gathered the pieces of glass into his broad palm, and walked out of the kitchen to the passage. There he lit a candle-end, opened the china-closet, and reaching his long arm up to the highest shelf, laid the pieces together with such accuracy of touch that a close inspection convinced him of the impossibility of detecting from below that the dish was broken. If he glued it together the next morning, months might elapse before his wife noticed what had happened, and meanwhile he might, after all, be able to match the dish at Shad's Falls, or in Bettsbridge. Having satisfied himself that there was no risk of immediate discovery, he went back to the kitchen with a lighter step, and found Mattie disconsolently removing the last scraps of pickle from the floor. It's all right, Matt. Come back and finish supper," he commanded her. Completely reassured, she shone on him through tear-hung lashes, and his soul swelled with pride as he saw how his tone subdued her. She did not even ask what he had done, except when he was steering a big log down the mountain to his mill, he had never known such a thrilling sense of mastery. CHAPTER V. They finished supper, and while Mattie cleared the table, Ethan went to look at the cows and then took a last turn about the house. The earth lay dark under a muffled sky, and the air was so still that now and then he heard a lump of snow come thumping down from a tree far off on the edge of the woodlot. When he returned to the kitchen, Mattie had pushed up his chair to the stove and seated herself near the lamp with a bit of sewing. The scene was just as he had dreamed of it that morning. He sat down, drew his pipe from his pocket, and stretched his feet to the glow. His hard day's work in the keen air made him feel at once lazy and light of mood, and he had a confused sense of being in another world, where all was warmth and harmony, and time could bring no change. The only drawback to his complete well-being was the fact that he could not see Mattie from where he sat, but he was too indolent to move, and after a moment he said, �Come over here, and sit by the stove.� Zena's empty rocking chair stood facing him. Mattie rose obediently and seated herself in it. As her young brown head detached itself against the patchwork cushion that habitually framed his wife's gaunt countenance, Ethan had a momentary shock. It was almost as if the other face, the face of the superseded woman, had obliterated that of the intruder. After a moment Mattie seemed to be affected by the same sense of constraint. She changed her position, leaning forward to bend her head above her work, so that he saw only the foreshortened tip of her nose and the streak of red in her hair. Then she slipped to her feet, saying, �I can't see to sow�, and went back to her chair by the lamp. Ethan made a pretext of getting up to replenish the stove, and when he returned to his seat he pushed it sideways that he might get a view of her profile and of the lamp light falling on her hands. The cat, who had been a puzzled observer of these unusual movements, jumped up into Zena's chair, rolled itself into a ball, and lay watching them with narrowed eyes. Deep quiet sank on the room. The clock ticked above the dresser, a piece of charred wood fell now and then in the stove, and the faint sharp scent of the geraniums mingled with the odor of Ethan's smoke, which began to throw a blue haze about the lamp, and to hang its grayish cobwebs in the shadowy corners of the room. All constraint had vanished between the two, and they began to talk easily and simply. They spoke of every day things, of the prospect of snow, of the next church sociable, of the loves and quarrels of Starkfield. The commonplace nature of what they said produced an Ethan and illusion of long-established intimacy, which no outburst of emotion could have given, and he said his imagination adrift on the fiction that they had always spent their evenings thus, and would always go on doing so. This is the night we were to have gone coasting, Matt. He said at length, with the rich sense, as he spoke, that they could go on any other night they chose, since they had all the time before them. She smiled back at him. I guess he forgot. No, I didn't forget. But it's as dark as Egypt outdoors. We might go to-morrow if there's a moon. She laughed with pleasure, her head tilted back, the lamp-light sparkling on her lips and teeth. That would be lovely, Ethan. He kept his eyes fixed on her, marvelling at the way her face changed with each turn of their talk, like a wheat field under a summer breeze. It was intoxicating to find such magic in his clumsy words, and he longed to try new ways of using it. Would you be scared to go down the Corbary Road with me on a night like this? He asked. Her cheeks burned redder. I ain't any more scared than you are. Well, I'd be scared, then. I wouldn't do it. That's an ugly corner down by the big elm. If a fellow didn't keep his eyes open, he'd go plum into it. He luxuriated in the sense of protection and authority which his words conveyed. To prolong and intensify the feeling he added, I guess we're well enough here. She let her lids sink slowly in the way he loved. Yes, we're well enough here," she sighed. Her tone was so sweet that he took the pipe from his mouth and drew his chair up to the table. Leaning forward, he touched the farther end of the strip of brown stuff that she was hemming. Say, Matt—he began with a smile—what do you think I saw under the varnum spruces coming along home just now? I saw a friend of yours getting kissed. The words had been on his tongue all the evening, but now that he had spoken them, they struck him as inexpressively vulgar and out of place. Mattie blushed to the roots of her hair and pulled her needle rapidly twice with rice through her work, insensibly drawing the end of it away from him. I suppose it was Ruth and Ned—she said in a low voice, as though he had suddenly touched on something grave. Ethan had imagined that his illusion might open the way to the accepted pleasantries, and these perhaps in turn to a harmless caress, if only a mere touch on her hand. But now he felt as if her blush had set a flaming guard about her. He supposed it was his natural awkwardness that made him feel so. He knew that most young men made nothing at all of giving a pretty girl a kiss, and he remembered that the night before when he had put his arm about Mattie she had not resisted. But that had been out of doors, under the open, irresponsible night. Now in the warm, lamplit room, with all its ancient implications of conformity and order, she seemed infinitely farther away from him, and more unapproachable. To ease his constraint, he said, I suppose they'll be setting a date before long. Yes, I shouldn't wonder if they got married some time along in the summer. She pronounced the word married, as if her voice caressed it. It seemed a rustling covert leading to enchanted glades. A pang shot through Ethan, and he said, twisting away from her in his chair. It'll be your turn next, I wouldn't wonder. She laughed a little, uncertainly. Why do you keep on saying that? He echoed her laugh. I guess I'd do it to get used to the idea. He drew up to the table again, and she sewed on in silence, with dropped lashes, while he sat in fascinated contemplation of the way in which her hands went up and down above the strip of stuff, just as he had seen a pair of birds make short, perpendicular flights over a nest they were building. At length, without turning her head or lifting her lids, she said in a low tone, It's not because you think Zena's got anything against me, is it? His former dread started up full-armed at the suggestion. Why? What do you mean? He stammered. She raised distressed eyes to his, her work dropping on the table between them. I don't know. I thought last night she seemed to have. I'd like to know what, he growled. Nobody can tell with Zena. It was the first time they had ever spoken so openly of her attitude toward Matty, and the repetition of the name seemed to carry it to the farthest corners of the room, and send it back to them in long wee percussions of sound. Matty waited, as if to give the echo time to drop, and then went on. She hasn't said anything to you. He shook his head. No, not a word. She tossed the hair back from her forehead with a laugh. I guess I'm just nervous, then. I'm not going to think about it any more. Oh no, don't let's think about it, Mat. The sudden heat of his tone made her color mount again, not with a rush, but gradually, delicately, like the reflection of a thought stealing slowly across her heart. She sat silent, her hands clasped on her work, and it seemed to him that a warm current flowed toward him on the strip of stuff that still lay unrolled between them. Cautiously he slit his hand palm downward along the table, till his fingertips touched the end of the stuff. A faint vibration of her lashes seemed to show that she was aware of his gesture, and that it had sent a counter-current back to her, and she let her hands lie motionless on the other end of the strip. As they sat thus, he heard a sound behind him, and turned his head. The cat had jumped from Zena's chair to dart at a mouse in the wane-scot, and as a result of the sudden movement the empty chair had set up a spectral rocking. She'll be rocking in it herself this time to-morrow, Ethan thought. I've been in a dream, and this is the only evening we'll ever have together. The return to reality was as painful as the return to consciousness after taking in anesthetic. His body and brain ached with indescribable weariness, and he could think of nothing to say or to do that should arrest the mad flight of the moments. His alteration of mood seemed to have communicated itself to Matty. She looked up at him languidly, as though her lids were weighted with sleep, and it cost her an effort to raise them. Her glance fell on his hand, which now completely covered the end of her work, and grasped it as if it were a part of herself. He saw a scarcely perceptible tremor across her face, and without knowing what he did, he stooped his head and kissed the bit of stuff in his hold. As his lips rested on it he felt it glide slowly from beneath them, and saw that Matty had risen and was silently rolling up her work. She fastened it with a pin, and then, finding her thimble and scissors, put them with the roll of stuff into the box covered with fancy paper, which he had once brought to her from Bettsbridge. He stood up also, looking vaguely about the room. The clock above the dresser struck eleven. "'Is the fire all right?' she asked in a low voice. He opened the door of the stove and poked aimlessly at the embers. When he raised himself again, he saw that she was dragging toward the stove the old soap-box lined with carpet, in which the cat made its bed. Then she recrossed the floor and lifted two of the geranium pots in her arms, moving them away from the cold window. He followed her and brought the other geraniums, the hyacinth bulbs in a cracked custard bowl, and the German ivy trailed over an old croquet hoop. When these nightly duties were performed, there was nothing left to do but to bring in the tin candlestick from the passage, light the candle, and blow out the lamp. Ethan put the candlestick in Matty's hand, and she went out of the kitchen ahead of him, the light that she carried before her making her dark hair look like a drift of mist on the moon. "'Good night, Mat,' he said, as she put her foot on the first step of the stairs. She turned and looked at him a moment. "'Good night, Ethan,' she answered, and went up. When the door of her room had closed on her, he remembered that he had not even touched her hand. End of Chapter 5 ETHAN FROME By Edith Wharton CHAPTER VI The next morning at breakfast Jotham Powell was between them, and Ethan tried to hide his joy under an air of exaggerated indifference, lounging back in his chair to throw scraps to the cat, growling at the weather, and not so much as offering to help Matty when she rose to clear away the dishes. He did not know why he was so irrationally happy, for nothing was changed in his life for hers. He had not even touched the tip of her fingers, or looked her full in the eyes. But their evening together had given him a vision of what life at her side might be, and he was glad now that he had done nothing to trouble the sweetness of the picture. He had a fancy that she knew what had restrained him. There was a last load of lumber to be hauled to the village, and Jotham Powell, who did not work regularly for Ethan in winter, had come round to help with the job. But a wet snow, melting to sleet, had fallen in the night and turned the roads to glass. There was more wet in the air, and it seemed likely to both men that the weather would milden toward afternoon, and to make the going safer. Ethan therefore proposed to his assistant that they should load the sledge at the wood-lot, as they had done on the previous morning, and put off the teeming to Starkfield till later in the day. This plan had the advantage of enabling him to send Jotham to the flats after dinner, to meet Synobia, while he himself took the lumber down to the village. He told Jotham to go out and harness up the grays, and for a moment he and Matty had the kitchen to themselves. She had plunged the breakfast dishes into a tin dish-pan, and was bending above it with her slim arms bare to the elbow, the steam from the hot water beating her forehead, and tightening her rough hair into little brown rings, like the tendrils on the traveller's joy. Ethan stood looking at her, his heart and his throat. He wanted to say, We shall never be alone again like this. Instead he reached down his tobacco pouch from a shelf of the dresser, put it into his pocket, and said, I guess I can make out to be home for dinner. She answered, All right, Ethan, and he heard her singing over the dishes as he went. As soon as the sledge was loaded he meant to send Jotham back to the farm and hurry on foot into the village to buy the glue for the pickle-dish. With ordinary luck he should have had time to carry out this plan. But everything went wrong from the start. On the way over to the wood-lot one of the grays slipped on a glare of ice and cut his knee, and when they got him up again, Jotham had to go back to the barn for a strip of rag to bind the cut. Then when the loading finally began, a sleety rain was coming down once more, and the tree trunks were so slippery that it took twice as long as usual to lift them and get them in place on the sledge. It was what Jotham called a sour morning for work, and the horses shivering and stamping under their wet blankets seemed to like it as little as the men. It was long past the dinner-hour when the job was done, and Ethan had to give up going to the village, because he wanted to lead the injured horse home and wash the cut himself. He thought that by starting out again with the lumber as soon as he had finished his dinner he might get back to the farm with the glue before Jotham and the old sorel had had time to fetch the nobia from the flats. But he knew the chance was a slight one. It turned on the state of the roads and on the possible lateness of the Bettsbridge train. He remembered afterward, with a grim flash of self-derision, what importance he had attached to the weighing of these probabilities. As soon as dinner was over he set out again for the wood-lot, not daring to linger till Jotham Powell left. The hired man was still drying his wet feet at the stove, and Ethan could only give Matty a quick look as he sat beneath his breath. I'll be back early. He fancied that she nodded her comprehension, and with that scant solace he had to trudge off through the rain. He had driven his load halfway to the village when Jotham Powell overtook him, urging the reluctant sorel toward the flats. I'll have to hurry up to do it, Ethan mused, as the sleigh dropped down ahead of him over the dip of the schoolhouse hill. He worked like ten at the unloading, and when it was over, hastened on to Michael Edie's for the glue. Edie and his assistant were both down-street, and young Dennis, who seldom dained to take their place, was lounging by the stove with a knot of the golden youth of Starkfield. They hailed Ethan with ironic compliment and offers of conviviality, but no one knew where to find the glue. Ethan consumed with the longing for a last moment alone with Matty, hung about impatiently while Dennis made an ineffectual search in the obscure corners of the store. Looks as if we were all sold out. But if you'll wait around till the old man comes along, maybe he could put his hand on it. I'm obliged to you. But I'll try if I can get it down at Mrs. Hohman's. Ethan answered, burning to be gone. Dennis's commercial instinct compelled him to avert an oath that what Edie's store could not produce would never be found at the widow Hohman's. But Ethan, heedless of this boast, had already climbed to the sled and was driving on to the rival establishment. Here, after considerable search and sympathetic questions as to what he wanted it for, and whether ordinary flower-paste wouldn't do as well if she couldn't find it, the widow Hohman finally hunted down her solitary bottle of glue to its hiding-place in a medley of cough lozenges and corset laces. I hope Zena ain't broken anything she set store by, she called after him, as he turned the grays toward home. The fitful bursts of sleet had changed into a steady rain, and the horses had heavy work even without a load behind them. Once or twice, hearing sleigh bells, Ethan turned his head, fancying that Zena and Jotham might overtake him. But the old sorrel was not in sight, and he sat his face against the rain and urged on his ponderous pair. The barn was empty when the horses turned into it, and after giving them the most perfunctory ministrations they had ever received from him, he strode up to the house and pushed open the kitchen door. Matty was there alone, as he had pictured her. She was bending over a pan on the stove, but at the sound of his step, she turned with a start and sprang to him. See here, Mat, I've got some stuff to mend the dish with. Let me get at it quick," he cried, waving the bottle in one hand while he put her lightly aside, but she did not seem to hear him. Oh, Ethan! Zena's come! she said in a whisper, clutching his sleeve. They stood and stared at each other, pale as culprits. But the sorrel's not in the barn, Ethan stammered. Jotham Powell brought some goods over from the flats for his wife, and he drove right on home with them, she explained. He gazed blankly about the kitchen, which looked cold and squalid in the rainy winter twilight. How is she? he asked, dropping his voice to Matty's whisper. She looked away from him uncertainly. I don't know. She went right up to her room. She didn't say anything. No. Ethan let out his doubts in a low whistle and thrust the bottle back into his pocket. Don't fret. I'll come down and mend it in the night, he said. He pulled on his wet coat again and went back to the barn to feed the grays. While he was there, Jotham Powell drove up with the sleigh, and when the horses had been attended to, Ethan said to him, you might as well come back up for a bite. He was not sorry to assure himself of Jotham's neutralizing presence at the supper table, for Zena was always nervous after a journey. But the hired man, though seldom loath to accept a meal not included in his wages, opened his stiff jaws to answer slowly, I'm obliged to you, but I guess I'll go along back. Ethan looked at him in surprise. Better come up and dry off. Looks as if there'd be something hot for supper. Jotham's facial muscles were unmoved by this appeal, and his vocabulary being limited, he merely repeated, I guess I'll go along back. To Ethan there was something vaguely ominous in this stolid rejection of free food and warmth, and he wondered what had happened on the drive to nerve Jotham to such stoicism. Perhaps Zena had failed to see the new doctor, or had not liked his counsels. Ethan knew that in such cases the first person she met was likely to be held responsible for her grievance. When he re-entered the kitchen the lamp lit up the same scene of shining comfort as on the previous evening. The table had been as carefully laid, a clear fire glowed in the stove, the cat dozed in its warmth, and Matty came forward carrying a plate of donuts. She and Ethan looked at each other in silence. And she said, as she had said the night before, I guess it's about time for supper.