The Wayfarers. Mary Stewart Cutting

meeting on the boat had brought a dear delight with it, a revivifying warmth which here, in this intimate stillness of the night, was lacking.

      When she spoke again it was to say: “When do you take the new place?”

      “Next month.”

      “I am so glad you will be your own master at last! Will you go in on a later train in the mornings, dear?”

      “I’ll take an earlier one.”

      “But then you’ll come out sooner in the afternoon?”

      “I’ll come out much later.”

      “Oh, oh!” she sighed, with the prevision of long hours of loneliness for herself.

      “At least, you can take more than that miserable two weeks’ holiday in the summer.”

      “My dear girl, I shall probably have no vacation at all. You don’t understand; I’ve got to work.”

      There was another pause. The fire was burning low, and the room had sunk into partial obscurity. She was the first to speak, as before, conquering anew the tremulousness in her voice:

      “Did you hear me say that Theodosia is coming next month?”

      “Yes. How long is she to stay?”

      “For all winter. She’s to study music, you remember?”

      “For all winter!” He sat up straight with the emphasis of his words. “Why, where will you put her?”

      “Oh, I’ll manage that. But I do wish we had a larger house; this is maddening sometimes.”

      “Perhaps we’ll be able to build some day.”

      “Oh, if we could really have our own house!”

      She paused, her imagination leaping forward to that future which is the summit of good to suburban dwellers, when the contracted space of a rented house can be changed for a roomy one honeycombed with impossible closets and lined with hard-wood floors throughout.

      “I know exactly how I should furnish it; I saw the loveliest things to-day in town.”

      Already the thought of brass and mahogany and Oriental rugs, rich in texture and delicious in coloring, filled her mind.

      To Lois, an intelligent and practical woman, the possession of money meant the opportunity to buy; the possession of yet more money would mean more opportunity to buy. To Justin, on the other hand, it meant the ability to pay; the comfort of being able to accede, with ease and promptness, to the demands upon him. Like most American husbands in his station, the sum spent upon house and family far exceeded in ratio his own personal expenses. There were a few luxuries which he casually looked forward to enjoying, but beyond this money represented to him pre-eminently further business possibilities, the power to play competently in the great game, with the result of a sufficient provision for his wife and children in case of his death. His heart leaped now at the thought of taking a front rank among the players. If in this next year——

      “Do you think I had better buy the new rug when I go to town Friday, or wait until next month?” asked Lois suddenly.

      “You had better wait,” said Justin, with decision. He rose, and added: “You must go to bed, Lois.”

      She rose also, in obedience, and he kissed her officially.

      “Good night.”

      “You are not going to sit up later!”

      “Just a minute. I want to light the candle and look for something in this paper I forgot to notice earlier.”

      He loved his wife, but felt, without owning it, that he must stay for a brief space beyond the sound of her voice.

      “Now, don’t wait another moment, or you’ll get cold.” He spoke authoritatively. “The fire’s almost out.”

      He had already turned from her, and was sitting down by the dim flicker of the newly lighted candle, absorbed once more in figures, with the newspaper before him. The midnight hour had failed of its inspiration; both experienced the spiritual dearth and fatigue which follows time-worn and trivial conversation.

      Lois’ pensive eyes were full of a wistful question as she left the room; but after a slight interval she returned with a gliding step and softly placed a fresh log upon the dull red embers of the dying fire, and fanned them noiselessly until a flame leaped out again, holding her white draperies to one side the while, with one long curl falling across her bosom. As her husband looked up, her beautiful self-forgetting smile shone out and became a part of the light around him before she vanished once more through the doorway.

CHAPTER THREE

       Table of Contents

      Theodosia Linden sat in the high-backed, plush-covered seat of the sleeping-car, with her hands folded in her lap, looking out of the window at the flat landscape as it sped past her. The long green rows of cotton-plants were interspersed with tracts of scrub-oak and pine, dotted here and there with gray cabins, around which negroes, little and big, in scanty garments were grouped to watch the train go by; occasionally it whizzed past a small station, a mere shed set on a wooden platform reached by a flight of steps, and graced by no name for the aid of the traveler, except the cabalistic legend, “Southern Express Company,” on a swinging board at one end. It was before these ultimate days when factories are springing up all over the new South, and she had not yet reached the scattered few that upraised their staring yellow frames by the side of the muddy streams; only the cotton-fields and the scrub-oaks ran along by the train, with the view of the blue mountains here and there, and a blue sky above all. Dosia thought that she had never seen anything so beautiful or inspiring; it was the world outside of her home.

      There is no discontent so deep, so wearying, so soul-embracing, as that of the girl who is supposed to be contented with the little rounds of household life. Dosia’s mother had died when she was a small child, but so much love and care had been given her by relatives and by her father, a professor in a small college and a gentle and good man, that she had never felt the loss. When she was twelve years old her father married again, and, on account of his failing health, they moved from their home in the West to the far South, where Mr. Linden hoped, with the small income which he already possessed, to engage in some industry suitable to his limited powers; but in the enervating climate he gradually lost all ambition and business habits. He became yellow in complexion and slouching as to appearance and walk; but he was even more gentle than before, and gave the benefit of much good advice to the loungers around the village store or the new people from the North who came to learn the methods pertaining to cotton-raising, for he always knew how everything should be done.

      He was a kind, affectionate husband and father, always placid and amiable, and only regretting, as he continually affirmed, that he could not provide for the family as he should. The children, of whom there were four by this second marriage, adored their father, as did his wife, who was a pretty woman, and as gentle, as incompetent, and almost as self-regretful as himself. The little stepmother had from the first attached herself to Dosia, whom she treated even at that early stage of life less as a child than as a friend, to be depended on in all emergencies.

      Dosia could not have told at just exactly what period in her existence the unthinking content of childhood had left her. It was natural to live in the small, poorly built house, surrounded by an unkempt yard with broken fences, with small children to dress and care for and a baby to be tended, and a dinner-table that was set at sixes and sevens, with a continual desultory striving after a refinement of dress and living that was never accomplished. It was a matter of course to be always “clearing up,” yet never in order, and to be always economizing temporarily in view of the stated remittance which never could be used for paying anything but back debts when it did come. Dosia was a sweet-natured child, affectionate and helpful, with